The Hidden Children

"So you are Boyd!" he said menacingly.

"Yes, I am Boyd. What next?"

"What next?" repeated Walter Butler. "Well, really I don't know, my impudent friend, but I strongly suspect the Seneca stake will come next."

Boyd laughed: "We gave Brant a sign that you also should recognize. We are now under his protection."

"What sign?" demanded Butler, his eyes becoming yellow and fixed. And, as Boyd carelessly repeated the rapid and mystical appeal, "Oh!" he said coolly. "So that is what you count on, is it?"

"Naturally."

"With me also?"

"You are a Mason."

"Also," snarled Butler, "I am an officer in his British Majesty's service. Now, answer the questions I put to you. How many cannon did your Yankee General send back to Tioga after Catharines-town was burnt, and how many has he with him?"

"Do you suppose that I am going to answer your questions?" said Boyd, amused.

"I think you will, Come, sir; what artillery is he bringing north with him?"

And as Boyd merely looked at him with contempt, he stepped nearer, bent suddenly, and jerked Boyd to his feet.

"You Yankee dog!" he said; "Stand up when your betters stand!"

Boyd reddened to his temples.

"Murderer!" he said. "Does a gentleman stand in the presence of the Cherry Valley butcher?" And he seated himself again on his log.

Butler's visage became deathly, and for a full minute he stood there in silence. Suddenly he turned, nodded to Hiokatoo, pointed at Boyd, then at Parker. Both prisoners rose as a yell of ferocious joy split the air from the Senecas. Then, wheeling on Boyd:

"Will you answer my questions?"

"No!"

"Do you refuse to answer the military questions put to you by an officer?"

"No prisoner of war is compelled to do that!"

"You are mistaken; I compel you to answer on pain of death!"

"I refuse."

Both men were deadly pale. Parker also had risen and was now standing beside Boyd.

"I claim the civilized treatment due to an officer," said Boyd quietly.

"Refused unless you answer!"

"I shall not answer. I am under Brant's protection!"

"Brant!" exclaimed Butler, his pallid visage contorted. "What do I care for Brant? Who is Brant to offer you immunity? By God, sir, I tell you that you shall answer my questions—any I think fit to ask you—every one of them—or I turn you over to my Senecas!"

"You dare not!"

"Answer me, or you shall soon learn what I dare and dare not do!"

Boyd, pale as a sheet, said slowly:

"I do believe you capable of every infamy, Mr. Butler. I do believe, now, that the murderer of little children will sacrifice me to these Senecas if I do not answer his dishonorable questions. And so, believing this, and always holding your person in the utmost loathing and contempt, I refuse to reveal to you one single item concerning the army in which I have the honour and privilege to serve."

"Take him!" said Butler to the crowding Senecas.

I have never been able to bring myself to write down how my comrade died. Many have written something of his death, judging the manner of it from the condition in which his poor body was discovered the next day by our advance. Yet, even these have shrunk from writing any but the most general details, because the horror of the truth is indescribable, and not even the most callous mind could endure it all.

God knows how I myself survived the swimming horror of that hellish scene—for the stake was hewn and planted full within my view.... And it took him many hours to die—all the long September afternoon.... And they never left him for one moment.

No, I can not write it, nor could I even tell my comrades when they came up next day, how in detail died Thomas Boyd, lieutenant in my regiment of rifles. Only from what was left of him could they draw their horrible and unthinkable conclusions.

I do not know whether I have more or less of courage than the usual man and soldier, but this I do know, that had I possessed a rifle where I lay concealed, long before they wrenched the first groan from his tortured body I would have fired at my comrade's heart and trusted to my Maker and my legs.

No torture that I ever heard of or could ever have conceived—no punishment, no agony, no Calvary ever has matched the hellish hideousness of the endless execution of this young man.... He was only twenty-two years old; only a lieutenant among the thousands who served their common motherland. No man who ever lived has died more bravely; none, perhaps, as horribly and as slowly. And it seemed as though in that powerful, symmetrical, magnificent body, even after it became scarcely recognizable as human, that the spark of life could not be extinguished even though it were cut into a million shreds and scattered to the winds like the fair body of Osiris.

And this is all I care to say how it was that my comrade died, save that he endured bravely; and that while consciousness remained, not one secret would he reveal; not one plea for mercy escaped his lips.

Parker died more swiftly and mercifully.

It was after sunset when the Senecas left the place, but the sky above was still rosy. And as they slowly marched past the corpses of the two men whom they had slain, every Seneca drew his hatchet and shouted:

"Salute! O Roya-neh!" fiercely honoring the dead bodies of the bravest men who had ever died in the Long House.

On the following afternoon I ventured from my concealment, and was striving to dig a grave for my two comrades, using my knife to do it, when the riflemen of our advance discovered me across the river.

A moment later I looked up, my eyes blinded by tears, as the arm of the Sagamore was flung round my shoulders, and the hands of the Grey-Feather and Tahoontowhee timidly sought mine.

"Brother!" they said gently.

[24 - "I weep, O Sagamore! Yonder are lying bodies, yea, and of chiefs!"]"Tekasenthos, O Sagamore!" I whispered, dropping my head on his broad shoulder. "Issi tye-y-ad-akeron, akwah de-ya-kon-akor-on-don!"

CHAPTER XXII

MES ADIEUX

For my acquaintances in and outside of the army, and for my friends and relatives, this narrative has been written; and if in these pages I have seemed to present myself, my thoughts, and behaviour as matters of undue importance, it is not done so purposely or willingly, but because I knew no better method of making from my daily journal the story of the times and of the events witnessed by me, and of which I was a small and modest part.

It is very true that no two people, even when standing shoulder to shoulder, ever see the same episode in the same manner, or draw similar conclusions concerning any event so witnessed. Yet, except from hearsay, how is an individual to describe his times except in the light of personal experience and of the emotions of the moment so derived?

In active events, self looms large, even in the crisis of supreme self-sacrifice. In the passive part, which even the most active among us play for the greater portion of our lives, self is merged in the detached and impersonal interest which we take in what passes before our eyes. Yet must we describe these things only as they are designed and coloured by our proper eyes, and therefore, with no greater hope of accuracy than to approximate to the general and composite truth.