CHAPTER VIII
INDIAN JOHN
INDIAN JOHN had for years been a frequent visitor in the home ofBenzeor, as he had in many of the other homes of the region. He was anold man now,--how old no one knew, perhaps not even Indian Johnhimself,--but he had lingered about old Monmouth long after theSchwonnack had taken possession of the lands and his own tribe hadgradually relinquished their homes and mostly withdrawn from the region.
For months together he would disappear, and no one would know whither hehad gone, although it was thought that he was on a visit to some of hiskindred, who had withdrawn farther into the interior of the country; buthe would soon return and resume his wandering life. At such times,Indian John would be restless and uneasy. Perhaps then he realized morefully the loss of the homes of his ancestors, and his heart would befilled with thoughts he never uttered. He continued to be friendly withthe settlers, and though he never refused to accept the food whichalmost every housewife was willing to give him, he had never beenwilling to pass a night under a roof. It was commonly reported that heused a cave in the woods not far away as his abode, but he never hadwelcomed any one there, nor had any one ever seen the aged Indian in theplace. Still the report was believed, and "Indian John's cave" was awell-known name among the boys of Old Monmouth.
Between Tom and the lonely warrior there had been a very strong feelingof sympathy, although not even Tom himself was able to explain it. Ithad come about, however, as the result of an accidental meeting betweenthem a few years previous to this time. Tom had gone down to the shoreone day when a storm had been raging, and the great breakers had beenrolling in upon the beach.
As the lad had walked on over the sand, he had been surprised to see thefigure of a man in the distance, standing motionless, and evidentlywatching the tumult of the angry waters. He had not changed from hisposition as Tom approached, and the lad did not know that his presencewas even recognized by the Indian, who seemed to be absorbed in hisreflections as he looked out over the tossing waves.
Tom had gone on and at last touched the Indian upon the shoulder. IndianJohn had then slowly turned his head, and Tom knew that his presence hadbeen perceived, but for a moment neither had spoken.
Then the aged warrior, with a gesture toward the ocean, had said, "Boyno home. Warrior no home. Brothers."
It was the first time Tom had known that Indian John was aware of hisown early history, and his heart had been deeply touched by the sympathyof the red man.
"Boy no home. Warrior no home. Both like waves. Driven here. Driventhere. No rest. No home. Storm there. Storm here," said the Indianlaying his hand upon his bosom as he spoke.
From that time, although Indian John never referred to his lonelinessagain, a strong bond of sympathy had existed between the two, and everytime Tom had seen the old man, he thought of his quiet eloquence in thepresence of that storm which they both had witnessed from the shore.
And Indian John had been kind and thoughtful to all the white childrenof the region. He had made bows for the boys, and taught them their use,and as their skill had increased, his pride was as marked, although ithad not been as demonstrative, as that of the youthful warriorsthemselves. He had taught them how to make and set their traps for thefoxes and the rabbits, and how to catch the eels in the river.Apparently his happiest hours had been those which he passed with hisyoung companions.
Highly as the boys had prized the lessons he had given them, still moredid they prize the marvelous tales which Indian John could tell. To themhe told what the waves were saying when they came rolling in upon thesandy shore. He knew what the tall trees were whispering when the windswept through their branches and brought the leaves into contact withone another. The hoarse calls of the wild geese, when they passed highoverhead on their long journeys in the spring and autumn, were all knownto Indian John, and the screams of the eagles and the fish-hawks wereall in a language which he clearly understood.
He knew, also, all the tales his fathers had told him of the firstappearance of the Woapsiel Lennape in Old Monmouth, when, in the springof 1524, John de Verrazano, in his good ship The Dolphin, had enteredSandy Hook, and had soon after written a long letter to King Francis theFirst of France, and had given a full account of the marvelousadventures which had befallen him, and the no less marvelous country hehad discovered. He had heard, also, of the visit, in the summer of 1609,which Sir Henry Hudson had made in The Half Moon, and how that one ofhis crew had fallen as the first victim of the rage of the Indians atthe invasion of their lands.
The tale which Tom had always enjoyed most, however, was that of theorigin of the troublesome little pests which, in the warm days of thesummer, were the torment of the people, for Jersey mosquitoes were notunknown in those far-off times of the Revolution.
It seemed that ages before this time, indeed away back in the daysbefore John de Verrazano or Henry Hudson had come, or even the memory ofthe oldest warriors could run, the Great Spirit had permitted two hugemonsters to appear and prey upon the red men of Monmouth as a penaltyfor some crime they had committed, a crime the nature of which IndianJohn did not know, or, if he knew, he never explained.
In size these monsters were larger than any house. They had long slenderlegs which held their huge bodies higher in the air than the tallesttrees could have done. They also had immense wings, which, although theywere as fine in texture as the finest silk, were so large and strongthat when the huge monsters used them they created such a breeze thateven the strongest trees of the forest fell before them.
Their most distinguishing characteristic, however, was an immense"bill," which was as long as the tallest pine-tree and as sharp anddelicate in its point as that of the smallest needle. With this theywrought incalculable destruction and suffering among the helplesspeople. The largest man served only as a single "bite," and the bodiesof little children seemed only to whet the appetite of these savagemonsters.
The helpless warriors knew not what to do. They sacrificed, and prayed,and besought the Great Spirit to free them from their tormentors, butall was without avail. Their prayers were unanswered, and the GreatSpirit was not appeased.
No man could describe the destruction wrought by the huge tormentors.Whole tribes disappeared before them, and it soon came to pass that thewarriors dared not venture forth in search of food for their starvinglittle ones, who were kept concealed in dens and caves of the earth.Watchers were stationed to give warning of the approach of the monsters,for their great bodies cast shadows upon the earth like those of thelow-passing clouds on a summer day, and long before they appeared in thesky the cry of the watchman sent all within the sound of his voice totheir places of refuge under the ground. Not even then were they alwayssafe, for the monsters could bore into the ground with their bills, andoften brought to the surface the body of a man, who struggled and kickedmuch after the fashion of a frog impaled on the beak of some long-leggedheron. The torments of the people increased. The women neglected theirfields, and the warriors remained in their hiding-places, while thefrightened children cried for food.
At last, rendered desperate by their sufferings, the warriors of theentire region banded themselves together, and one day fell upon themonsters as they were lying asleep in a valley which their immensebodies almost filled.
The carnage was frightful to behold. All day long the contest was waged,and the multitudes of men that fell could not be counted up for numbers.But at last the red men were victorious, and when the few remainingwarriors left the field of battle, their enemies lay stretched upon thevalley, dead.
Great was the rejoicing among the people. They came forth from theirhiding-places, and their feastings and songs of victory were continuedfor two entire days. The land was freed from its tormentors, and peaceand prosperity would now return, or so at least they thought.
Great was the astonishment and sorrow of Indian John's forefathers when,upon the third day, they discovered that their troubles were not ended.As decay had begun to work upon the dead bodies of the mammothmosquit
oes, little particles became loosened, and as they were liftedinto the air by the summer wind, each tiny and separate atom becameendowed with life and received a body in shape exactly like that of thehuge monsters themselves, only they were exceedingly small in size. Dayafter day clouds of these tiny torments were borne away by the breezesfrom the valley of the dead, and, filled with a burning desire to avengethe death of their parents, they fell upon the unprotected people.
From these there had been no relief. The camp-fires of the warriors didnot avail, and although the men went valiantly forth to give thembattle, their efforts were all futile, and from that day until thepresent time the Jersey mosquito has remained a foe to the red man andthe white, and ever consumed by the one purpose, to avenge the death ofthe parents, who had fallen years ago in their battle with thered-skinned warriors of Old Monmouth.
To Indian John this story of the origin of the pests of New Jersey hadbeen eminently satisfactory, and never by word or deed had he shown thathe had the slightest doubt of the accuracy of the tradition which hadcome down to him through many generations. Tom at first had received theaccount with all the implicit faith of an ardent admirer of Indian John,and his first rude shock had come when Benzeor had laughed aloud uponhis relating the story with all seriousness one morning at thebreakfast-table. With the passing of the years other doubts as to theentire reliability of some of Indian John's stories had crept into hismind. Alas that it should be so with us all! But his strong regard forthe old warrior had never ceased, and Tom's heart was glad that morningwhen he recognized the new-comer as his long-time friend.
"Where have you been, John?" he said, as the Indian approached.
"See Peter."
"Have you seen him?" said Tom eagerly. "Where is he? Has he got away?"
"How?" replied the Indian quickly; and Tom at once perceived from theexpression upon his face that he was aware of some but not of all therecent events in Peter's home.
As he related the story which Sarah had told him, Indian John made noreply, although his eyes seemed to blaze as he listened to Tom's words.He then explained that he had left the house soon after Tom had departedon the preceding night, to intercept Big Peter on the road and give tohim the warning which his wife had bidden him to carry. But Peter musthave returned by a different route from that which he had been expectedto use, and as a natural result Indian John had not seen him, thewarning word had not been given, and Big Peter had returned to learn ofthe sad death of his wife and to be carried away a prisoner by Fentonand his brutal band.
"I don't know just what to do now, John," said Tom. "I want to go andjoin the army. You have been there, and perhaps you would like to goback with me."
Indian John had been with the soldiers in Washington's army, but he madeno reply to Tom's words, and indeed the lad was not certain that he hadheard, for he stood looking upon the ground and evidently was thinkingdeeply.
"Where Little Peter now?" said the Indian abruptly, looking up at Tom ashe spoke.
"I don't know. Fenton didn't take him with him, though I don't know whyhe didn't."
"Little Peter home," said the Indian decidedly. "Go see Little Peter."
Tom hesitated. He, too, had longed to go to his friend, not only toexpress his sympathy but also to learn what his plans were to be, for heknew that Little Peter would not remain in his home now. Indeed, hecould not, if he would, after such a scene as that which he hadwitnessed there. But Tom's mind was filled with thoughts of Benzeor, anda meeting with him certainly was not very desirable at that time.
"Go see Little Peter," said the Indian again, starting on up the road ashe spoke.
"All right, I'll go with you," replied Tom, as he joined his companion.
Little Peter's house was not far away, and he would not lose much timein going there. It was almost night now, and if his friend should be athome they might be able to devise some plan by which they could acttogether. Besides all that, Tom was more than glad to have anopportunity to express his sympathy for his friend in his sorrow.
They soon came within sight of the house, and both stopped when they sawa little group of people near the garden. Tom knew at once what theirpresence meant, for they were near the spot where two of the members ofthe family had been buried. He had seen the rude wooden headstones whichmarked their graves many times before this.
The few neighbors who had assembled to perform the last rites for LittlePeter's mother had just returned to the house as Tom and Indian Johnapproached. Tom at once went to his friend, and the warm grasp of thehand was all he could give. Not one of the children save Little Peterwas there, and the hurried duties had been hastily performed by kind,though rough hands.
The two boys withdrew from the house, and after an awkward silence Tomsaid in a low voice, "What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going to leave the children at Benzeor's house. He has been verykind, or rather Sarah has, Tom. And then I'm going to start for RefugeeTown; I think father may be there."
"Refugee Town?" said Tom in surprise. "Do you think that will be safe?"
Tom well knew the place. It was a spot on the outer beach of the Hook,where some of the more desperate refugees, tories and negroes, hadassembled. A few huts and tents served as their dwelling-places, and themen were supposed to be in league with the men on board the boats whichthe British had stationed near by, for a part of Howe's fleet wasalready anchored there, waiting for the coming of Clinton's men.Clinton's original plan had been to march across Jersey to NewBrunswick, there embark his men on the Raritan, and sail away for NewYork; but the rapid march of Washington had caused him to abandon theproject, and word had been sent for the fleet to be ready for him whenhe should arrive at the Highlands.
Refugee Town had become a familiar name within the past few weeks.
"No, it isn't safe exactly, but I've got to do something for father. Ifhe's taken to New York and shut up in the sugar-house I'll go with him;and if he's still there at the Town I may be able to do something,though I don't know what," said Little Peter sadly.
"But there are the children," protested Tom. "What'll become of them?"
"They're at Benzeor's, and they'll be all right. You'll help look afterthem, won't you?"
"I've left Benzeor's."
"Left Benzeor's? What for?"
"I'm going to join the army. It's time I was doing my share."
Tom gave no other reason. He knew the children would be safe atBenzeor's, and with what Little Peter then had it in his mind to do itwould perhaps be unwise to tell him all he knew. However, he intendedto tell him all, and that soon.
"Going to join the army?" repeated Little Peter, as if he did notcomprehend the words.
"Yes; you know I've been thinking of it a long time, and now thatthey're on the march, and coming this way, I've made up my mind that myturn has come. I didn't know but you would want to go, too, now."
"I'd like to, but I can't. I've got this other matter on hand. Come intothe house, Tom, and spend the night with me. You can start in themorning as well as now, and besides it's almost dark. You can't go inthe night."
Tom hesitated, but finally consented, and with his friend went into thehouse which so recently had been the scene of the greatest sorrow whichhad ever entered Little Peter's life.
Indian John followed them, but after his custom refused to remain,although he promised to return early in the morning. One of the women ofthe neighborhood had stayed to look after Little Peter's immediatewants, but as soon as her duties were done she departed for her own homewith an eagerness she could not entirely conceal. And Tom did not blameher, for he himself was not without fear when at last Little Peterclosed the doors for the night, and, after having slipped the heavy barsinto their places, the two boys sought their bed in the low room overthe kitchen.
Boys of Old Monmouth: A Story of Washington's Campaign in New Jersey in 1778 Page 8
