The Boys of Old Monmouth Part 8

As the lad had walked on over the sand, he had been surprised to see the figure of a man in the distance, standing motionless, and evidently watching the tumult of the angry waters. He had not changed from his position as Tom approached, and the lad did not know that his presence was even recognized by the Indian, who seemed to be absorbed in his reflections as he looked out over the tossing waves.

Tom had gone on and at last touched the Indian upon the shoulder. Indian John had then slowly turned his head, and Tom knew that his presence had been perceived, but for a moment neither had spoken.

Then the aged warrior, with a gesture toward the ocean, had said, "Boy no home. Warrior no home. Brothers."

It was the first time Tom had known that Indian John was aware of his own early history, and his heart had been deeply touched by the sympathy of the red man.

"Boy no home. Warrior no home. Both like waves. Driven here. Driven there. No rest. No home. Storm there. Storm here," said the Indian laying his hand upon his bosom as he spoke.

From that time, although Indian John never referred to his loneliness again, a strong bond of sympathy had existed between the two, and every time Tom had seen the old man, he thought of his quiet eloquence in the presence of that storm which they both had witnessed from the sh.o.r.e.

And Indian John had been kind and thoughtful to all the white children of 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 it had not been as demonstrative, as that of the youthful warriors themselves. He had taught them how to make and set their traps for the foxes and the rabbits, and how to catch the eels in the river.

Apparently his happiest hours had been those which he pa.s.sed with his young companions.

Highly as the boys had prized the lessons he had given them, still more did they prize the marvelous tales which Indian John could tell. To them he told what the waves were saying when they came rolling in upon the sandy sh.o.r.e. He knew what the tall trees were whispering when the wind swept through their branches and brought the leaves into contact with one another. The hoa.r.s.e calls of the wild geese, when they pa.s.sed high overhead on their long journeys in the spring and autumn, were all known to Indian John, and the screams of the eagles and the fish-hawks were all in a language which he clearly understood.

He knew, also, all the tales his fathers had told him of the first appearance of the Woapsiel Lennape in Old Monmouth, when, in the spring of 1524, John de Verrazano, in his good ship The Dolphin, had entered Sandy Hook, and had soon after written a long letter to King Francis the First of France, and had given a full account of the marvelous adventures which had befallen him, and the no less marvelous country he had 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 of his crew had fallen as the first victim of the rage of the Indians at the invasion of their lands.

The tale which Tom had always enjoyed most, however, was that of the origin of the troublesome little pests which, in the warm days of the summer, were the torment of the people, for Jersey mosquitoes were not unknown in those far-off times of the Revolution.

It seemed that ages before this time, indeed away back in the days before John de Verrazano or Henry Hudson had come, or even the memory of the oldest warriors could run, the Great Spirit had permitted two huge monsters to appear and prey upon the red men of Monmouth as a penalty for some crime they had committed, a crime the nature of which Indian John did not know, or, if he knew, he never explained.

In size these monsters were larger than any house. They had long slender legs which held their huge bodies higher in the air than the tallest trees could have done. They also had immense wings, which, although they were as fine in texture as the finest silk, were so large and strong that when the huge monsters used them they created such a breeze that even 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 and delicate in its point as that of the smallest needle. With this they wrought incalculable destruction and suffering among the helpless people. The largest man served only as a single "bite," and the bodies of little children seemed only to whet the appet.i.te of these savage monsters.

The helpless warriors knew not what to do. They sacrificed, and prayed, and besought the Great Spirit to free them from their tormentors, but all was without avail. Their prayers were unanswered, and the Great Spirit was not appeased.

No man could describe the destruction wrought by the huge tormentors.

Whole tribes disappeared before them, and it soon came to pa.s.s that the warriors dared not venture forth in search of food for their starving little 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 the low-pa.s.sing clouds on a summer day, and long before they appeared in the sky the cry of the watchman sent all within the sound of his voice to their places of refuge under the ground. Not even then were they always safe, for the monsters could bore into the ground with their bills, and often brought to the surface the body of a man, who struggled and kicked much after the fashion of a frog impaled on the beak of some long-legged heron. The torments of the people increased. The women neglected their fields, and the warriors remained in their hiding-places, while the frightened children cried for food.

At last, rendered desperate by their sufferings, the warriors of the entire region banded themselves together, and one day fell upon the monsters as they were lying asleep in a valley which their immense bodies almost filled.

The carnage was frightful to behold. All day long the contest was waged, and the mult.i.tudes of men that fell could not be counted up for numbers.

But at last the red men were victorious, and when the few remaining warriors left the field of battle, their enemies lay stretched upon the valley, dead.

Great was the rejoicing among the people. They came forth from their hiding-places, and their feastings and songs of victory were continued for two entire days. The land was freed from its tormentors, and peace and 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 mammoth mosquitoes, little particles became loosened, and as they were lifted into the air by the summer wind, each tiny and separate atom became endowed with life and received a body in shape exactly like that of the huge monsters themselves, only they were exceedingly small in size. Day after day clouds of these tiny torments were borne away by the breezes from the valley of the dead, and, filled with a burning desire to avenge the death of their parents, they fell upon the unprotected people.

From these there had been no relief. The camp-fires of the warriors did not avail, and although the men went valiantly forth to give them battle, their efforts were all futile, and from that day until the present time the Jersey mosquito has remained a foe to the red man and the white, and ever consumed by the one purpose, to avenge the death of the parents, who had fallen years ago in their battle with the red-skinned warriors of Old Monmouth.

To Indian John this story of the origin of the pests of New Jersey had been eminently satisfactory, and never by word or deed had he shown that he had the slightest doubt of the accuracy of the tradition which had come down to him through many generations. Tom at first had received the account with all the implicit faith of an ardent admirer of Indian John, and his first rude shock had come when Benzeor had laughed aloud upon his relating the story with all seriousness one morning at the breakfast-table. With the pa.s.sing of the years other doubts as to the entire reliability of some of Indian John's stories had crept into his mind. Alas that it should be so with us all! But his strong regard for the old warrior had never ceased, and Tom's heart was glad that morning when 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 the expression upon his face that he was aware of some but not of all the recent events in Peter's home.

As he related the story which Sarah had told him, Indian John made no reply, 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 departed on the preceding night, to intercept Big Peter on the road and give to him the warning which his wife had bidden him to carry. But Peter must have returned by a different route from that which he had been expected to use, and as a natural result Indian John had not seen him, the warning word had not been given, and Big Peter had returned to learn of the sad death of his wife and to be carried away a prisoner by Fenton and his brutal band.

"I don't know just what to do now, John," said Tom. "I want to go and join the army. You have been there, and perhaps you would like to go back with me."

Indian John had been with the soldiers in Washington's army, but he made no reply to Tom's words, and indeed the lad was not certain that he had heard, for he stood looking upon the ground and evidently was thinking deeply.

"Where Little Peter now?" said the Indian abruptly, looking up at Tom as he spoke.

"I don't know. Fenton didn't take him with him, though I don't know why he 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 to express his sympathy but also to learn what his plans were to be, for he knew that Little Peter would not remain in his home now. Indeed, he could not, if he would, after such a scene as that which he had witnessed there. But Tom's mind was filled with thoughts of Benzeor, and a meeting with him certainly was not very desirable at that time.

"Go see Little Peter," said the Indian again, starting on up the road as he 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 time in going there. It was almost night now, and if his friend should be at home they might be able to devise some plan by which they could act together. Besides all that, Tom was more than glad to have an opportunity to express his sympathy for his friend in his sorrow.

They soon came within sight of the house, and both stopped when they saw a little group of people near the garden. Tom knew at once what their presence meant, for they were near the spot where two of the members of the family had been buried. He had seen the rude wooden headstones which marked their graves many times before this.

The few neighbors who had a.s.sembled to perform the last rites for Little Peter's mother had just returned to the house as Tom and Indian John approached. Tom at once went to his friend, and the warm grasp of the hand was all he could give. Not one of the children save Little Peter was 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 Tom said 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 very kind, or rather Sarah has, Tom. And then I'm going to start for Refugee Town; 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, had a.s.sembled. A few huts and tents served as their dwelling-places, and the men were supposed to be in league with the men on board the boats which the British had stationed near by, for a part of Howe's fleet was already anch.o.r.ed there, waiting for the coming of Clinton's men.

Clinton's original plan had been to march across Jersey to New Brunswick, there embark his men on the Raritan, and sail away for New York; but the rapid march of Washington had caused him to abandon the project, and word had been sent for the fleet to be ready for him when he 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. If he'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 after them, won't you?"

"I've left Benzeor's."