The Scouts of the Valley by Joseph A. Altsheler (books for 7th graders TXT) 📖

his birthplace, but America was his nation. He was short and extremely fat, but he had an agility that amazed the five when they first saw it displayed. He talked much, and his words sounded like grumbles, but the unctuous tone and the smile that accompanied them indicated to the contrary. He formed for Shif'less Sol an inexhaustible and entertaining study in character.

“I ain't quite seen his like afore,” said the shiftless one to Paul. “First time I run acrost him I thought he would tumble down among the first bushes he met. 'Stead o' that, he sailed right through 'em, makin' never a trip an' no noise at all, same ez Long Jim's teeth sinkin' into a juicy venison steak.”

“I've heard tell,” said Long Jim, who also contemplated the prodigy, “that big, chunky, awkward-lookin' things are sometimes ez spry ez you. They say that the Hipperpotamus kin outrun the giraffe across the sands uv Afriky, an' I know from pussonal experience that the bigger an' clumsier a b'ar is the faster he kin make you scoot fur your life. But he's the real Dutch, ain't he, Paul, one uv them fellers that licked the Spanish under the Duke uv Alivy an' Belisarry?”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Paul, who did not consider it necessary to correct Long Jim's history, “and I'm willing to predict to you, Jim Hart, that Heemskerk will be a mighty good man in any fight that we may have.”

Heemskerk rolled up to them. He seemed to have a sort of circular motion like that of a revolving tube, but he kept pace with the others, nevertheless, and he showed no signs of exertion.

“Don't you think it a funny thing that I, Cornelius Heemskerk, am here?” he said to Paul.

“Why so, Mr. Heemskerk?” replied Paul politely. “Because I am a Dutchman. I have the soul of an artist and the gentleness of a baby. I, Cornelius Heemskerk, should be in the goot leetle country of Holland in a goot leetle house, by the side of a goot leetle canal, painting beautiful blue china, dishes, plates, cups, saucers, all most beautiful, and here I am running through the woods of this vast America, carrying on my shoulder a rifle that is longer than I am, hunting the red Indian and hunted by him. Is it not most rediculous, Mynheer Paul?”

“I think you are here because you are a brave man, Mr. Heemskerk,” replied Paul, “and wish to see punishment inflicted upon those who have committed great crimes.”

“Not so! Not so!” replied the Dutchman with energy. “It is because I am one big fool. I am not really a big enough man to be as big a fool as I am, but so it is! so it is!” Shif'less Sol regarded him critically, and then spoke gravely and with deliberation: “It ain't that, Mr. Heemskerk, an' Paul ain't told quite all the truth, either. I've heard that the Dutch was the most powerfullest fightin' leetle nation on the globe; that all you had to do wuz to step on the toe uv a Dutchman's wooden shoe, an' all the men, women, an' children in Holland would jump right on top o' you all at once. Lookin' you up an' lookin' you down, an' sizin' you up, an' sizin you down, all purty careful, an' examinin' the corners O' your eyes oncommon close, an' also lookin' at the way you set your feet when you walk, I'm concludin' that you just natcherally love a fight, an' that you are lookin' fur one.”

But Cornelius Heemskerk sighed, and shook his head.

“It is flattery that you give me, and you are trying to make me brave when I am not,” he said. “I only say once more that I ought to be in Holland painting blue plates, and not here in the great woods holding on to my scalp, first with one hand and then with the other.”

He sighed deeply, but Solomon Hyde, reader of the hearts of men, only laughed.

Colonel Butler's force stopped about three o'clock for food and a little rest, and the five, who had not slept since the night before, caught a few winks. But in less than an hour they were up and away again. The five riflemen were once more well in advance, and with them were Taylor and Heemskerk, the Dutchman, grumbling over their speed, but revolving along, nevertheless, with astonishing ease and without any sign of fatigue. They discovered no indications of Indian scouts or trails, and as the village now was not many miles away, it confirmed Henry in his belief that the Iroquois, with their friends, the Wyandots, would not stay to give battle. If Thayendanegea and Timmendiquas were prepared for a strong resistance, the bullets of the skirmishers would already be whistling through the woods.

The waning evening grew colder, twilight came, and the autumn leaves fell fast before the rising wind. The promise of the night was dark, which was not bad for their design, and once more the five-now the seven approached Oghwaga. From the crest of the very same hill they looked down once more upon the Indian houses.

“It is a great base for the Iroquois,” said Henry to Heemskerk, “and whether the Indians have laid an ambush or not, Colonel Butler must attack.”

“Ah,” said Heemskerk, silently moving his round body to a little higher point for a better view, “now I feel in all its fullness the truth that I should be back in Holland, painting blue plates.”

Nevertheless, Cornelius Heemskerk made a very accurate survey of the Iroquois village, considering the distance and the brevity of the time, and when the party went back to Colonel Butler to tell him the way was open, he revolved along as swiftly as any of them. There were also many serious thoughts in the back of his head.

At nine o'clock the little colonial force was within half a mile of Oghwaga, and nothing had yet occurred to disclose whether the Iroquois knew of their advance. Henry and his comrades, well in front, looked down upon the town, but saw nothing. No light came from an Indian chimney, nor did any dog howl. Just behind them were the troops in loose order, Colonel Butler impatiently striking his booted leg with a switch, and William Gray seeking to restrain his ardor, that he might set a good example to the men.

“What do you think, Mr. Ware?” asked Colonel Butler.

“I think we ought to rush the town at once.”

“It is so!” exclaimed Heemskerk, forgetting all about painting blue plates.

“The signal is the trumpet; you blow it, Captain Gray, and then we'll charge.”

William Gray took the trumpet from one of the men and blew a long, thrilling note. Before its last echo was ended, the little army rushed upon the town. Three or four shots came from the houses, and the soldiers fired a few at random in return, but that was all. Indian scouts had brought warning of the white advance, and the great chiefs, gathering up all the people who were in the village, had fled. A retreating warrior or two had fired the shots, but when the white men entered this important Iroquois stronghold they did not find a single human being. Timmendiquas, the White Lightning of the Wyandots, was gone; Thayendanegea, the real head of the Six Nations, had slipped away; and with them had vanished the renegades. But they had gone in haste. All