Rolf In The Woods

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Not twice did they need warning. Like hunted wolves they flashed
from view in the nearest cover. A harmless volley from the
baffled ambush rattled amongst them, and leaping from his stump
Rolf ran for life.

Furious at their failure, a score of red-coats, reloading as they
ran, came hot-footed after him. Down into cover of an alder swamp
he plunged, and confident of his speed, ran on, dashing through
thickets and mudholes. He knew that the red- coats would not
follow far in such a place, and his comrades were near. But the
alder thicket ended at a field. He heard the bushes crashing
close at hand, and dashed down a little ravine at whose lower
edge the friendly forest recommenced. That was his fatal mistake.
The moment he took to the open there was a rattle of rifles from
the hill above, and Rolf fell on his face as dead.

It was after noontide when he fell; he must have lain unconscious
for an hour; when he came to himself he was lying still in that
hollow, absolutely alone. The red-coats doubtless had continued
their flight with the Yankee boys behind them. His face was
covered with blood. His coat was torn and bloody; his trousers
showed a ragged rent that was reddened and sopping. His head was
aching, and in his leg was the pain of a cripplement. He knew it
as soon as he tried to move; his right leg was shattered below
the knee. The other shots had grazed his arm and head; the latter
had stunned him for a time, but did no deeper damage.

He lay still for a long time, in hopes that some of his friends
might come. He tried to raise his voice, but had no strength.
Then he remembered the smoke signal that had saved him when he
was lost in the woods. In spite of his wounded arm, he got out
his flint and steel, and prepared to make a fire. But all the
small wood he could reach was wet with recent rains. An old pine
stump was on the bank not far away; he might cut kindling-wood
from that to start his fire, and he reached for his knife. Alas!
its case was empty. Had Rolf been four years younger, he might
have broken down and wept at this. It did seem such an
unnecessary accumulation of disasters. Without gun or knife, how
was he to call his friends?

He straightened his mangled limb in the position of least pain
and lay for a while. The September sun fell on his back and
warmed him. He was parched with thirst, but only thirty yards
away was a little rill. With a long and fearful crawling on his
breast, he dragged himself to the stream and drank till he could
drink no more, then rested, washed his head and hands, 'and tried
to crawl again to the warm place. But the sun had dropped behind
the river bank, the little ravine was in shadow, and the chill of
the grave was on the young man's pain-racked frame.

Shadows crossed his brain, among them Si Sylvanne with his quaint
sayings, and one above all was clear:

"Trouble is only sent to make ye do yer best. When ye hev done
yer best, keep calm and wait. Things is comin' all right." Yes,
that was what he said, and the mockery of it hurt him now.

The sunset slowly ended; the night wind blew; the dragging hours
brought gloom that entered in. This seemed indeed the direst
strait of his lot. Crippled, dying of cold, helpless, nothing to
do but wait and die, and from his groaning lips there came the
half-forgotten prayer his mother taught him long ago, "O God,
have mercy on me!" and then he forgot.

When he awoke, the stars were shining; he was numb with cold, but
his mind was clear.

"This is war," he thought, "and God knows we never sought it."
And again the thought: "When I offered to serve my country, I
offered my life. I am willing to die, but this is not a way of my
choosing," and a blessed, forgetfulness came upon him again.

But his was a stubborn-fibred race; his spark of life was not so
quickly quenched; its blazing torch might waver, wane, and wax
again. In the chill, dark hour when the life- lamp flickers most,
he wakened to hear the sweet, sweet music of a dog's loud bark;
in a minute he heard it nearer, and yet again at hand, and
Skookum, erratic, unruly, faithful Skookum, was bounding around
and barking madly at the calm, unblinking stars.

A human "halloo" rang not far away; then others, and Skookum
barked and barked.

Now the bushes rustled near, a man came out, kneeled down, laid
hand on the dying soldier's brow, and his heart. He opened his
eyes, the man bent over him and softly said, "Nibowaka! it's Quonab."

That night when the victorious rangers had returned to
Plattsburg it was a town of glad, thankful hearts, and human love
ran strong. The thrilling stories of the day were told, the
crucial moment, the providential way in which at every hopeless
pass, some easy, natural miracle took place to fight their battle
and back their country's cause. The harrying of the flying
rear-guard, the ambuscade over the hill, the appearance of an
American scout at the nick of time to warn them -- the shooting,
and his disappearance -- all were discussed.

Then rollicking Seymour and silent Fiske told of their scouting
on the trail of the beaten foe; and all asked, "Where is
Kittering?" So talk was rife, and there was one who showed a
knife he had picked up near the ambuscade with R. K. on the
shaft.

Now a dark-faced scout rose up, stared at the knife, and quickly
left the room. In three minutes he stood before General Macomb,
his words were few, but from his heart:

"It is my boy, Nibowaka; it is Rolf; my heart tells me. Let me go.
I feel him praying for me to come. Let me go, general. I must go."

It takes a great man to gauge the heart of a man who seldom speaks.
"You may go, but how can you find him tonight?"

"Ugh, I find him," and the Indian pointed to a little,
prick-eared, yellow cur that sneaked at his heels.

"Success to you; he was one of the best we had," said the
general, as the Indian left, then added: "Take a couple of men
along, and, here, take this," and he held out a flask.

Thus it was that the dawning saw Rolf on a stretcher carried by
his three scouting partners, while Skookum trotted ahead, looking
this way and that -- they should surely not be ambushed this time.

And thus the crowning misfortune, the culminating apes of
disaster -- the loss of his knife -- the thing of all others that
roused in Rolf the spirit of rebellion, was the way of life,
his dungeon's key, the golden chain that haled him from the pit.

The Hospital, the Prisoners, and Home

There were wagons and buckboards to be had, but the road was
rough, so the three changed off as litter-bearers and brought him
to the lake where the swift and smooth canoe was ready, and two
hours later they carried him into the hospital at Plattsburg.

The leg was set at once, his wounds were dressed, he was warmed,
cleaned, and fed; and when the morning sun shone in the room, it
was a room of calm and peace.

The general came and sat beside him for a time, and the words he
spoke were ample, joyful compensation for his wounds. MacDonough,
too, passed through the ward, and the warm vibrations of his
presence drove death from many a bed whose inmate's force ebbed
low, whose soul was walking on the brink, was near surrender.

Rolf did not fully realize it then, but long afterward it was
clear that this was the meaning of the well-worn words, "He
filled them with a new spirit."

There was not a man in the town but believed the war was over;
there was not a man in the town who doubted that his country's
cause was won.

Three weeks is a long time to a youth near manhood, but there was
much of joy to while away the hours. The mothers of the town came
and read and talked. There was news from the front. There were
victories on the high seas. His comrades came to sit beside him;
Seymour, the sprinter, as merry a soul as ever hankered for the
stage and the red cups of life; Fiske, the silent, and McGlassin,
too, with his dry, humorous talk; these were the bright and funny
hours. There were others. There came a bright-checked Vermont
mother whose three sons had died in service at MacDonough's guns;
and she told of it in a calm voice, as one who speaks of her
proudest honour. Yes, she rejoiced that God had given her three
such sons, and had taken again His gifts in such a day of glory.
Had England's rulers only known, that this was the spirit of the
land that spoke, how well they might have asked: "What boots it
if we win a few battles, and burn a few towns; it is a little
gain and passing; for there is one thing that no armies, ships,
or laws, or power on earth, or hell itself can down or crush --
that alone is the thing that counts or endures -- the thing that
permeates these men, that finds its focal centre in such souls as
that of the Vermont mother, steadfast, proud, and rejoicing in
her bereavement.

But these were forms that came and went; there were two that
seldom were away -- the tall and supple one of the dark face and
the easy tread, and his yellow shadow -- the ever unpopular,
snappish, prick-eared cur, that held by force of arms all
territories at floor level contiguous to, under, comprised, and
bounded by, the four square legs and corners of the bed.

Quonab's nightly couch was a blanket not far away, and his daily,
self-given task to watch the wounded and try by devious ways and
plots to trick him into eating ever larger meals.

Garrison duty was light now, so Quonab sought the woods where the
flocks of partridge swarmed, with Skookum as his aid. It was the
latter's joyful duty to find and tree the birds, and "yap" below,
till Quonab came up quietly with bow and blunt arrows, to fill
his game-bag; and thus the best of fare was ever by the invalid's
bed.

Rolf's was easily a winning fight from the first, and in a week
he was eating well, sleeping well, and growing visibly daily
stronger.

Then on a fleckless dawn that heralded a sun triumphant, the
Indian borrowed a drum from the bandsman, and, standing on the
highest breastwork, he gazed across the dark waters to the
whitening hills. There on a tiny fire he laid tobacco and
kinnikinnik, as Gisiss the Shining One burnt the rugged world rim
at Vermont, and, tapping softly with one stick, he gazed upward,
after the sacrificial thread of smoke, and sang in his own tongue:

"Father, I burn tobacco, I smoke to Thee. I sing for my heart is singing."

Pleasant chatter of the East was current by Rolf's bedside.
Stories of homes in the hills he heard, tales of hearths by far
away lakes and streams, memories of golden haired children
waiting for father's or brother's return from the wars. Wives
came to claim their husbands, mothers to bring away their boys,
to gain again their strength at home. And his own heart went
back, and ever back, to the rugged farm on the shores of the
noble George.

In two weeks he was able to sit up. In three he could hobble, and
he moved about the town when the days were warm.

And now he made the acquaintance of the prisoners. They were
closely guarded and numbered over a hundred. It gave him a
peculiar sensation to see them there. It seemed un- American to
hold a human captive; but he realized that it was necessary to
keep them for use as hostages and exchanges.

Some of them he found to be sullen brutes, but many were kind and
friendly, and proved to be jolly good fellows.

On the occasion of his second visit, a familiar voice saluted him
with, "Well, Rolf! Comment ca va?" and he had the painful joy of
greeting Francois la Colle.

"You'll help me get away, Rolf, won't you?" and the little
Frenchman whispered and winked. "I have seven little ones now on
La Riviere, dat have no flour, and tinks dere pa is dead."

"I'll do all I can, Francois," and the picture of the desolate
home, brought a husk in his voice and a choke in his throat. He
remembered too the musket ball that by intent had whistled
harmless overhead. "But," he added in a shaky voice, "I cannot
help my country's enemy to escape."

Then Rolf took counsel with McGlassin, told him all about the
affair at the mill, and McGlassin with a heart worthy of his
mighty shoulders, entered into the spirit of the situation, went
to General Macomb presenting such a tale and petition that six
hours later Francis bearing a passport through the lines was
trudging away to Canada, paroled for the rest of the war.

There was another face that Rolf recognized -- hollow- cheeked,
flabby-jowled and purplish-gray. The man was one of the oldest of
the prisoners. He wore a white beard end moustache. He did not
recognize Rolf, but Rolf knew him, for this was Micky Kittering.
How he escaped from jail and joined the enemy was an episode of
the war's first year. Rolf was shocked to see what a miserable
wreck his uncle was. He could not do him any good. To identify
him would have resulted in his being treated as a renegade, so on
the plea that he was an old man, Rolf saw that the prisoner had
extra accommodation and out of his own pocket kept him abundantly
supplied with tobacco. Then in his heart he forgave him, and kept
away. They never met again.

The bulk of the militia had been disbanded after the great
battle. A few of the scouts and enough men to garrison the fort
and guard the prisoners were retained. Each day there were joyful
partings -- the men with homes, going home. And the thought that
ever waxed in Rolf came on in strength. He hobbled to headquarters.
"General, can I get leave -- to go -- he hesitated -- "home?"

"Why, Kittering, I didn't know you had a home. But, certainly,
I'll give you a month's leave and pay to date."

Champlain is the lake of the two winds; the north wind blows for
six months with a few variations, and the south wind for the
other six months with trifling.

Next morning a bark canoe was seen skimming southward before as
much north wind as it could stand, with Rolf reclining in the
middle, Quonab at the stern, and Skookum in the bow.

In two days they were at Ticonderoga. Here help was easily got at
the portage and on the evening of the third day, Quonab put a
rope on Skookum's neck and they landed at Hendrik's farm.

The hickory logs were blazing bright, and the evening pot was
reeking as they opened the door and found the family gathered for
the meal.

"I didn't know you had a home," the general had said. He should
have been present now to see the wanderer's welcome. If war
breeds such a spirit in the land, it is as much a blessing as a
curse. The air was full of it, and the Van Trumpers, when they
saw their hero hobble in, were melted. Love, pity, pride, and
tenderness were surging in storms through every heart that knew.
"Their brother, their son come back, wounded, but proven and
glorious." Yes, Rolf had a home, and in that intoxicating
realization he kissed them all, even Annette of the glowing
cheeks and eyes; though in truth he paid for it, for it conjured
up in her a shy aloofness that lasted many days.

Old Hendrik sputtered around. "Och, I am smile; dis is goood,
yah. Vere is that tam dog? Yah! tie him not, he shall dis time
von chicken have for joy."

"Marta," said Rolf, "you told me to come here if I got hurt.
Well, I've come, and I've brought a boat-load of stuff in case I
cannot do my share in the fields."

"Press you, my poy you didn't oughter brung dot stuff; you know
we loff you here, and effery time it is you coom I get gladsomer,
and dot Annette she just cried ven you vent to de war."

"Oh, mother, I did not; it was you and little Hendrick!" and
Annette turned her scarlet cheeks away.

October, with its trees of flame and gold, was on the hills;
purple and orange, the oaks and the birches; blue blocked with
white was the sky above, and the blue, bright lake was limpid.

"Oh, God of my fathers," Quonab used to pray, "when I reach the
Happy Hunting, let it be ever the Leaf-falling Moon, for that is
the only perfect time." And in that unmarred month of sunny sky
and woodlands purged of every plague, there is but one menace in
the vales. For who can bring the glowing coal to the dry-leafed
woods without these two begetting the dread red fury that
devastates the hills?

Who can bring the fire in touch with tow and wonder at the blaze?
Who, indeed? And would any but a dreamer expect young manhood in
its growing strength, and girlhood just across the blush-line, to
meet in daily meals and talk and still keep up the brother and
sister play? It needs only a Virginia on the sea-girt island to
turn the comrade into Paul.

"Marta, I tink dot Rolf an Annette don't quarrel bad, ain't it? "

"Hendrik, you vas von blind old bat-mole," said Marta, "I fink
dat farm next ours purty good, but Rolf he say 'No Lake George no
good.' Better he like all his folk move over on dat Hudson."

Memory's Harp and the Indian Drum

In early morning, or in dew time, before using
his tom-tom, Quonab would tune it by warming
it over the fire. On wet days it was so relaxed
that he would tighten the back thongs. One day, after a
thong tightening and warming, it sang so shrilly that Rolf
turned to inquire, when crack! and the skin split open.

"It was old; I make a new one," was all its owner said.
That morning Rolf saw how it was made. A six-foot
length of a four-inch hickory sapling was split and trimmed
down to a long strip three inches wide and an inch thick
in the middle, thin at the edges, rounded on one side,
flat on the other. Then, flat side in, it was bent into a
large hoop, and after treatment with hot water and
steam to keep it from breaking, the hoop was reduced to
fifteen inches across, and the ends, when thinned down.
were lashed in place with some thongs cut from a rawhide
and soaked in water till soft.

Raw buckskin is best for a tom-tom head, but having
none, Quonab took an old calfskin from his storehouse
under the rock. After this was softened by soaking over
night in the pond, he covered the hairy side with a cream
of quicklime and water. Next morning the hair was
easily scraped off; then, after all fat and loose ends were
removed from the hide, the hoop was set on it, and a circle
cut out about five inches larger on all sides; a strong
thong of rawhide was laced through the edge of this, and
used as a puckering string when the looseflap was brought
together on the upper side of the hoop. Now thongs were
passed tightly across the back in four different places, so
that they crossed in the centre, making eight rows of
spokes. A final thong passed over and under these, in the
centre, round and round, stretched the skin as much as
desired. As soon as it dried out, the tension became very
marked, and the sound of the ever-hardening rawhide
took on almost a metallic character.

As the Indian tummed it Rolf felt strangely influenced.
What was it in his nature that responded? He did not
know, any more than the soldier knows, or the Salvationist
knows, what power to sway the soul there is in the rhythmic,
vibrant "tum-ta-tum-ta" of the big drum. But
the power is there, and the wise halt not to seek the
reason, but accept its help to make good their sway --
the king who rules the army, the preacher who leads the
Salvationists, and the medicine-man who would shape
the red man's life.

Quonab sang at length his song of the long ago when his
people, the Wabanaki, the Men of the Day-dawn, came
westward, fighting their way, till they possessed all the
country to the great Shatemuk, which white men call the
Hudson. And, singing, he stirred his memory, till it
opened up his heart. The silent Indian, like King William
the Silent, got his reputation because of his behaviour at
certain times. To strangers Indians are silent, reserved,
and shy. Among themselves they are very human, some
of them very talkative; and Rolf found that silent Quonab
could, in the intimacy of camp life, become very outspoken
when the right cord was touched in the very right way.

The song of the Wabanaki led Rolf to ask, "Did your
people always live right here?" And then, in fragments,
he got a history.

Long before the white man came, the Sinawa won and
held this land from Quinnuhtekut to Shatemuk; then came
the white men, Dutchmen from Manhattan and Englishmen
from Massachusetts. First they made treaties;
then, in time of peace, they gathered an army, and taking
advantage of the truce and of the mid-winter festival
that gathered all the tribe in the walled town of
Petuquapen, the soldiers surrounded the place, and when the
flames of their burning homes drove out the folk, they
were slaughtered like deer in the snow-drifts.

"There stood the great village of my fathers," and the
Indian pointed a quarter mile away to the level place next
the rock ridge that lies along the west of Strickland's Plain.

"There stood the house of the mighty Amogerone, who was
so honest that he thought all men were to be trusted, so
trusted even the whites. That road away from the north
was the moccasin trail, and where it forks to go to Cos Cob
and Myanos, it ran ankle deep in blood that night; from
that low mount to this the snow was black with bodies.

"How many perished? A thousand, mostly women and children.
How many of the attack were killed? None, not one.
Why should they? It was a time of peace. Our people
were unprepared - were without guns. The enemy was in ambush.

"Only the brave Mayn Mayano escaped; he who bitterly
opposed the Chief when the treaty was made --
the 'Fighting Sagamore,' the English called him. Now
all was open war for him. Many and many a scalp he
took. He never feared to face double odds, and won and
won, till he grew reckless. 'One Indian Sagamore is
better than three white men,' he boldly proclaimed, and
proved it again and again. But on an evil day, when armed
only with a tomahawk, he attacked three soldiers wearing
armour and bearing guns and pistols. The first he killed,
the second disabled, but the third, a captain in a steel
helmet that turned the tomahawk, had little ado to
stand ten feet aside and shoot the brave Mayn Mayano
through the heart. Yonder by that hill, on the highway
to Stamford where he fell, his widow buried him. On
the river that bears his name the remnant of his people
lived, till all were gone but my father's lodge.

"Here Cos Cob, my father, brought me when a child,
even as his grandfather once brought him, and showed me
the place of our Royal Petuquapen. There along the
plain it stretched, and there is the trail that ran so deep
in blood. Here in the little swampy woods, where the
ground was soft, the butchers piled our dead; close under
that rocky hill beside the Asamuk, lie the murdered
tribe. Our children used to come in the Wild Goose
Moon to the top of that hill, because there, first of all,
the little blue-eyes of spring used to show. I often come
to find them, and as I sit I seem to hear the cry that rang
in the night from the burning town, of mothers, of babies,
killed like rabbits.

"But I remember, too, the brave Mayn Mayano. His
spirit comes to help me as I sit and sing the songs of my
people -- not the war songs, but the songs of another
land. I alone am left. A little while, and I shall be
with them. Here have I dwelt, and here I would die."
The Indian ceased and again became the silent one.

Late that day he took his new song-drum from its peg,
went quietly to the top of the great rock, where he prayed,
and the words of the song that he sang were:

"Father, we walk in darkness;
Father we do not understand;
Walking darkly, we bow the head."

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