El
sttrrt (t)'alt.
From liousehold Words.
THE CHILD SEER
A Story of Pioneer Lifein-wtotern N. V
The little story I Pun going to tell is a true
story of pioneer lite in America. It is known
to many de•eendants of the early settlers
among whom it happened, and I write it in
that country.
One of the darkest pages in American his
tory is that relating to the sufferings of the
inhabitants of Tyron comity, New York, du
ring the war of. the Revolution from the at
tacks of the Indians and Royalists under the
Mohawk chief', Brant, and the m ore s avage
Captain Walter Butler. Early in the war,
Cherry Valley was selected as a place of ref.
age and defence roe the inhabitants of the
smaller and more exposed settlements, Nook
houses were built, fortifications were thr.wn
up, and titinlly a fort MIS erected, under the
direction of General Lafayette, The label)
itants of the surrounding settlements came in
and lived for several months as in garris,n,
submitting to strict military regulations.
Among the fainilies lvhich took temporary
refuge in this fort, WAS that of Captain liob•
ert Lindsay formerly a British brave
and•adventurous who, only at the entreaty of
his wire, had lett his farm vslUch stood in a
lonely unprotected situnti..n, several miles
from any settlement. Nils l'aptain Lindsay
was a reserved, nteirtneholy man, about win In
the simple and honest pionvel'A wondered and
speculated not a little. Ills language and
manner bespoke at once the wan of education
and breeding. his wire. though 11, 1 16(1, be-
role wvinati, Was evidently a ;tidy by nature
R) association
t. Lindsay had a native love of solitude
end hifventure—the first requisites for a pion
eer; and fur several years no other reason
was known for seeking the wilds, and ex
pusing his tenderfamily to all the perils and
privations of a frontier li,e. But at length an
emigrant coming from his native place, in the
Highlands of Scotland, brought the story of
his exile, which was briefly this : Capt. Lind
say, when a somewhat dissipated young man,
proud and passionate had quarrelled with a
brother officer, an old friend, at,a mess (Ha
mer. Both officers had drunk freely, and their
difference was aggravated by hot brafued,
half-drunken partisans. IMsulting words were
exchanged and a° duel on the spot was the
conseqUence. Lindsay escaped with a slight
wound, but his sword pierced the heart of his
friend. He was hurried away to a secure
hiding place, but not before he had fe - nrunil
that iu the first matter of the dispute he bad
Leen in the wrong.
Lindsay made all the reparation in his
power by transferring Lis paternal estate, for
the term of his own lifetime, to the homeless
widow and young daughter of his friend.—
Then, with his wife's small property, and the
price of his commission, he secretly emigrated
to America. lie left his family in New York
while he went up the Hudson, purchased a
small farm, and built a.house for their recep
tion. He was accompanied in this expedition
by en old family servitor, who, with true
H ghlund fidelity, clung to his unfortunate
master with exemplary devotion.
Mrs. Lindsay's heart sunk within her when
she found that Ler new home was so far from
any settlement-Lliterally in the wilderness ;I ,
but she understood her husband's tnisantropie
.gloom, almost amounting to melancholy mad
ness, uud did not murmur. Yet her Wrest
howe was very beautiful—a small valley farm
surrounded by densely wooded hills, durk
gorges and mussy dells. The house was a
rough, primitive-looking structure, containing: .
but three small apartments and a low chamber
or rat h er loft. But it was comfortable and
securely built and overhung by noble trees
and overrun by wild' vines, was not unpictur
esque. Under the tasteful care of Mrs. Lind
say, a little garden 8001.1 sprung up.around it,
where among many strange plants, bloomed
a few familiar flowers, whose fragrance seem
ed to breathe of home like the sighs of au
exile's heart.
The Family at the period of their taking
refuge in the fort at Cherry Valley, consisted
of three - sons, au infant daughter (the lust
born in America) the man Davie Ond a maid
servant. Douglas, the elder son, a lad of
. tselve or thirteen, was a brave highspirited,
somewhat self-willed boy, tall and handsome
and the especial' pride of his mother—not
alone bemuse he was her first-born, but be
cause he moat vividly recalled to her heart
her husband in his happy days. Angus, the
second eon, was a slight, delicate, fair-haired
boy, possessing a highly sensitive and poetic
nature. Unconeiously displaying at times
singular and startling intuitions—dreaming
unbunprehended dreams, whicb, were some
times strangiy verified, and uttering invol
sntUry prophesies, which time often fulfiled—
he was always spoken of 'as a strange child,'
•and, for all his tender years and sweet pensive
face, was regarded with a secret, shrinking
awe, even by those nearest him. In truth,
the child seemed gifted with that weird, mys
terious faculty known as second-sight.
Archie, the youngest son, his father's own
darling, was a sturdy, rosy-cheeked, curly
headed boy of five. Effie was at the mother's
breast, a little rosy bud of beauty—a fair
promise of infinite joy and comfort to her
mother's saddened heart.
As I have stated, this family took ref re in
the fort, in the spring of seventeen hundred
and seventy eight, somewhat against the will
of Capt. Lindsay—s' ho, as he remained neu
tral, had little fear of the Indians—and also of
his eldest son, who fancied there was some
thing cowardly in flying from their forest
home before it had been attacked. The latter
however, was
,soon reconciled by the oppor
tunity afforded him, f,r the first time for se
veral years, of associating with lads of his own
age, of whom there were a goodly number at
the fort and settlement. The spirts and ex
eises of the men and k oath were entirely of
a military character; andlMtiglas, who had
inherited martial tastes from a long line of
warlike ancestors, and who had been instruct
ed by his father in militiar rules' and evolu-
bons, soon became the captain of a sompany
of boys armed with formidable wooden guns,
and fully omipped as mimic soldiers. Angus
was made his lieutenant ; but this was a piece
of favoriteism, the child having little taste or
talent for the profession of arms.
One bright Maymorning, as these young
amateur fighters - were parading on the green
before the lett, they hail spectators whine they
little suspected. Up on a bill, about a mile
away, Joseph _Brant had posted a large party
his braves, where, concealed by the iliek
wood, they were hulking down en the twnie
limit. It hail horn his intention to attack the
fort thaf night ; but this grand parade of light
infantry deceived bum At the distance he
mistook the boys ti.t men, and decided to de
fer the attack till they cold ascertain by tbi it
scouts the exact strenglith of the place. In
the meantime, he. moved his party northward
few miles, to a point on the tied leading
trom Cherry Valley to the Mohawk rivet,
where he concealed them behind rocks l and,
trees. At this spot the road passed through
a thick Broth of evergreens, forming a perpet
unl twilight, and wound along a precipice a
hundred and fifty feet high, over which plung
ed a small stream in a cascade, called by the
Indians Tekaharawa.
Brant had doubtless received information
that nu AmeTican officer had ridden down
from Fort Plain, oit the Mohawk river, in ihe
morning, to visit the. fort, and might be x
piloted to return before night. This officer
had come to inform the garrison that a regi
ment of militia would arive the next day, and
take up their quarters at Cherry Valley. Ills
name was Lieutenant IVoAville : he was a
young man of trtune—gay, gallant, handsome
and daring. Ile was dressed in a rich suit of
velvet, wore a plumed hat and a jewel hilted
swim), and let his dark waving hair grow to
cavalirish length. Ile rode a full-blooded
English horse, which be managed, with ease
This Liutemint Woodville lingered so long at
the settlement that his friends tried to per
suade him to remain all night; but he laugh.
ed, and, as ho mounted, flung down his port
manteau to one of them, saying •I will call for
that tomorrow.' When it was nearly sunset
the little garrison came into the court yard to --
watch his departure. Among the spectators
were the boy soldiers whose parade of the
morning had daunted even the terrible Brant.'
Foremost stood the doughty Douglas, and by
his side the timid Angus, gazing with childish . ,
curiosity on the dashing young officer, mark-
lug with wondering delight his smiling !pastry
over his steed.
Suddenly the boy passed his hand 'over his
eyes, grew marble white and !rigid for an in
stant, then shuddered and burst into tears.—
Before he could be questioned, he had quitted
his brother, rushed forward and clinging to
the Lieutenant's knee, cried in a tone of the
most passionate entreaty.
'Oh, sir, ye moon stay here to-night—here,
where a' is safe! Diuna gang ; they'l kill ye!
Uh dinnii:gang !'
..Who my little lad:who'll kill me!' gently
asked the officer, looking down in the delicate
ace of the boYil,struck by Ids agonized ex
pression. , a
'The Indians. They're waitin' for you in yon
dark, awfu' place by the falls,' replied Angus
in a tone of solemnity.
And him do you know all this my little man,
asked the officer smiling.
`I hae Been them,' said 'Angus, in a low,
hoarse tone, casting down his eyes and tremb
ling visibly.
'Seen them ! When V
'Just noo. I saw them Was wool as I see
you and the lave. Its the guid God, may be,
that sends the vision to save you &ae death
So, yo maun hood the warning, and not put
your life in peril by riding up there, where
they're watin for ye in the gloaming.'
'What le the matter with this child?' ex
claimed Lieutenant 'Woodville, 'turning to a
friend in the little crowd. The man for an
ewer merely touched hie forehead 'significant
ly. %Weed I So Young replied the officer.
ginliZU Qtarlis\ V .
Then, laying his hand gently on the heed of
the boy, and smiling pityingly into his wild
beseeching eyes, ho said, 'But indeed 'I must
go prophet of evil. Indians or ritqudians
soldier must obey orders, you Itnotir'. Cate dry
your tears, and I will bring you a pretty plume
for your soldier cap when I return. Adieu
friends, - Itntid tomorrow.'
Saying this, he bent to loosen Arigus'sliands
from the stirrup ; but the child clung convul
shrieking out his waenings and entreat
ies, until his father brolte-through the crowd,
and b'ore him lorcibly away.
Lieut. 1106dvillegalloped etT with gay words
of farewell ; but as some noticed, with all un
usual shadow on his handsome face.
Nlrs. Limlsay took Angus in her arms, and
strove to soothe him in her quiet loving way
Yet the child would nit he comforted. He
hid his face in her bosom, sobbing and shud
dering, hut saying nothing fin• several min
utes. ' Then he shrieked out, 'There! 'l•here!
Oh, wither they line killed him ? I line seen
him fa' fra his horse. I see hint n to, lying a
mong the briars, wi the red bluid runnin !rat•
his bend, down on his braw soldier coat• Oh,
wither 1 conld nn help it ; he would naehelieve
the vision '
After this the repose of a sad certainty
seemed to come upon the child, and, sobbing,
more and more softly he fell asleep: but not
until the return of Lieut. Woodville's horse,
with an empty saddle stained with blood, had
brought terrible confirmation of the vision.--
\eXt therniog the hotly of the tinf.rtunatt
young ~tlieer wit.; found in the dark pi s. ne•ii
the Inns of Velinbatio‘a. ile had been shot
in l : , C•dreti by I;ra lib bituse:f
\s I , e -n1,1, ,, 5r,1 • this tt - ,••ic vuritictition
“f
1111,1 :11.1 ca'used the be
egarthrd with n stt^Wigs inicre,t, which thiitigh
not unfriendly, had in it too umch of surer-
drv,ld, to I u tllt , getl•er kindly
Tlic boy Instinci;yely s: rat:l: from it, ni.tl
grew mere :Ind more rest rued dny by day
S4mie rt g:lnlet! the pre.F:etion ns naturnly n
from ' the oninii•re-ent f, r of ravages
--colitoion to st.ttlt•rs' childt•etl—
vivi , l 1..1111 in 60 imn iiintion of n ittvo,is nn,l
,ioldy boy, etta the fete of Lit eteentit Wood
Mlle ns merely a 11'111:1H:4111C em‘eidenee. Rut
noire ,hook their heads with solemn meaning,
declaring the lad a young trizar4l:- and went
so far as to intimate that the real wizard was
the hors tallier, whose haughty and melancholy
reserve was little understood by the honest
e.ettlers, and that poor little Angus was his
victim : the one post-esstd.
The expression of this feeling—not in words.
but in a sort of distrustful avoidance—made
Mrs. Lindsay consent to the proposition of
her husband to return me for harvest --
Several families were venturing on this haz
zardous step, encouragq.l by the temporary
tranquility of the country, and thinking thy t
their eav,.ge enemies had quenched their blood
thirst a t Wyoming—thus ra flier taking courage
than warning at that fearful mas acre,
The Lindsays found their home as they had
left it three months before ; nothing had been
molested ; they all speedily tell into their old
in-door and out dour amusements. And so
passed a few weeks of quiet happiness,--Cap
tain Lindsay and his Man always took their
arms with theta to the harvest fields, which
were in sight of the house. The two elder
sons usually worked, with their father. Ou
the last day of harvest when little remained to
be done, the boys asked permission to go to n
stream, about two miles away to angle for
trout.
In his moody abstraction of fearlessness,
Captain Lindsay consented, and the boys set
out in high glee. Little Archie, who was oleo
with his father for that day, begged to be ta
ken with them ; but the lads did not wish to
be encumbered, and hurried away. Just as
thew were passing from the clearing into the
little cow-path leading through the woods to
the creek, Angus looked back and saw the
child standing by his father, in tears, gazing
wistfully after his older brother.
'All, Douglass,' exelt;inied lie, 'let us tak'
Archie wi' us. See how the pair bairn is
greeting.'
'No, no; ho'll only fright tho trout, and we
canna wait. Como awa.'
The lads reached the creek in safety, crept
stealthily along its shaded bank selected their
places in silence, and flung their bait upon the
water. Douglass seemed to enjoy the sport
keenly, but Angus was remorseful for having
said nay to his little brother's entreaty..
'Oh, Douglas!' he exchtimed, at last, can
na forget Archie's tearfu' face. rme sae sor
ry we left him !,
'Diana lash your bead about Archie but
mind yer fish !' replied Douglas impatiently.
Angus was silent foe: another half hour.—
Then he suddenly gave a short„ Oiek cry,
'made a start forward, and peered anxiously
down into the water.
'What noo said Douglass, patulantly,,for
tho ory and movemon z t had seared a fine trout
that seemed just about to take his hook.
'Oh, brother,' answered Angus trembling
ha' been Archie's bonio hied holm burn, and
it had eio a pale, frightened look. I doubt
something awful', has happened. Lotus gang
home.'
, Douglas laughed ns he replied, 'lt's yer own
race ye saw,in the burn, and no Arehie's.—
how could it be his, when he's maist two miles
LES
'I dinna ken, Douglas,' replied Angus, burn
•hut I mann believe it was Archie's face
There it conies main! And father's and Da
vie's ? Oh, ' , rather, the Indians'
Shrieking ou. these words, the boy stagger
ed backward and fainted. Douglas, though
good deal alarmed, had sufficient presence of
timid to apply nature's remedy, fortunately
near at hand; and under a copious sprinkling
of cold water, Angus speedily revived. Doug
las no longer resisted his entreaties, but
silently gathering up their fishing; tackle,mnd
taking up tlqll siring of trout, set out for
home, walkiress why, and supporting the
trembling steps ,f his brother. As they ,
neared the borders of 'the clenrii.g \awe they?
were to cone in sight of the harvest fields
and their home, Angus absolutely shook, and
even the cheek of the bold Douglas grew
white
The first sight which met their eyes, on
their emerging from the wood, was their house
in flames, with a party of fiendish savages
dancing and howling around- it. The boys
shrank hack into the wood; awl, crouching
dow n together beneath a thick growth of
nn ler •hush, lay sobbing aryl shuddering in
their grief' and terror
1t length .111;2:us gave a start and whispered
)h, I've seen wither, wee Effie and
I )p1,11 3
h nn}
thet've tt.' safe—hide nwnv in the
bur6eS, uq.'
But d, vou see Luber, nnd Archie, nnd
nnLl I),r k i e ?' rtsl,e.llierin.z, aF
las:. in the seeen , l !...ight of his
i i other
\O, nu, • rUb!le , l A ligll9, tnournfnlly, I can
na .ee them only mair They maani be a
•
don I, Douglas.'
nu believe that: said the elder brother,
prumlly; .father and Davy limb had their
arm, wi' them. Davie is no' n. had lighter.
and ye ken a braver qublier could T1:1 he found
in :L' the world than father.'
lal.ing tnnre
They lay thus talking. in fearful whispers,
and weeping silently, until the shouts of the
savages died away and rilence fell with the
twilight-over the little valley. Then, slowly
and cautiously, they crept front their hiding
place, and stole through th‘e harvest fields to
the :-pot where they had left their father and
little breillee, and Davie.
And they we, e all there dead. They ap
peare•d to havis filled toget her—fa ViOttl old
Davis lay access his master's knees, which he
seemed embracing in death. Little Archie
had evidently lingered longest alive: his flesh
was yet soft and warm, nod ha had crept to
his father's alms, and lay partly across his
breast.
All, even to the sinless baby, had been tom
altawked. Yet, bathed in blood as they were,
the poor boys could not believe them dead, but
clasped their stiffened hands, and- kissed their
lips, felt,for their heart-beats, and called them
by their names in every accent of love and
sorrow. At last, fluding all their frenzied
efforts vain, they abandoned themselves utterly
to grief.
The moon rose upon them thus--weeping
wildly over their murdered father and brother
—stained with their blood, anti shuddering
with their death chill. Never did the moon
look on a more desolate group. Captain Lind•
say's brow seemed more awfully stern in its
light, and his unclosed eyes shone with an icy
gleam. Archie's still tearful face showed most
piteously sad; while the agonized face of the
two young mourners, now bent over their
dead, now lifted despairingly towards heaven,
seemed to have grown strangely old in that
timo of terror and horror, and bitter grieving.
Thus the hours wore on; and, 1, last, from
utter: exhaustion, they slept—tho living and
the dead.
They were awakened by the.warm sunlight
and the birds who sang--bow strange it seem
-6.1!---as gaily as over, in the neighboring wood.
The boys raised their heads and looked each
into the other's sad face, and then on the dead,
in the blank, speechless anguish of renewed
grief. Douglas was the first to speak—. Come
brother,' hesaid,.in a calm tone, ,wo maun be
men, noo—let ,us gang back to the fdrt; may
be we shall find tiddler there, wi' Jenny and
the bairnie, 'gin you're sure ye saw them a'
in your vision.'
'But we canna' leave these hero to their
lano,'.said Angus.
'We mann leave them; we are no' big enough
to bury them; but we'll cover them over wi'
leaves and branches o' the pines, and when we
get to the fort we'll ask the soldiers to come
and make graves for them. Come wl' mo.—
Angus, dear.'
Angus took Douglas's hand, and rose; but
soon staggered , and fell, Murmuring. 'Oh,
brother; I'me sair faint and ill. I think lam
dying. Stay wi' me a little while, and then
ye may cover us a' up togither and gaag
awa'.'
'Dinna say sic sorrow' fu' things, Angus; yer
no dying, puir laddie; yer but fainting Ili'
hunger, and I the same,' said Douglas, in a
tcor of hopelesi despondency. Just'at?thEt
moment, his eyes fell on a small hand-basket,
in which the laborers were accustomedia,talia
their luncheon to the harvest field. It was
now lying where the dead bad left it, against
a pile of wheat sheaves, and was Mound to
contain some fragments of bread and meat, of
which they partook.
gomewhat refreshed, the boys set about
their melancholy duty. They did Ma attemi.t
to move the bodies from the positions in
which they hail found them; they left little
Archie on his father's breast, and faithful
old Davie with his face hid against his master's
knees.
Douglas touli out his pocket-knife to sever
a lock of hair front his father's and his !kilo
brother's heads for Mementoes •0h! MITA
tak' that lock, Douglas,' said Anius,'with a
shudder, •did ye on see bluid on it.' •
Alas! it was difficult to find a lock on the
head of either father or child not darkuud and
stilined with gore.
IS hen they had taken the last , look, the last
kiss, awl bail completed their mound of boughs
and leaves, the two children knelt beside it
:Liu! prayed. Surely the God of the fatherless
was near theM. Better in Ills sight, theit•
pious care of the dead, than the most pain.
palls funeral ,obsequies; sweeter to lliin 'the
simple prayer they subbed into „his ear, than
the grandest requiem.
It was nearly noon ivhen the boys left the
little valley, and took their way towards the
fort. 'flue had fir:4 visited the ruinl of their
hon,e, and searched around them and the
gaid,n but vainly, for tiny trace.of
their lo,,ther, and nurSe, and sister. From a
tree in th... little orchard they filled their bas
ket, wit , 14/1 ides, and set forth.
Tinybal u.lv:ucelbuta mile or trfb on the
+irk, winding, Blest Nvhen they heard
hiGnc thew the 50Und of footsteps and c , p4 c. 9
In (he'll' Suil leg Lirror, thinking only of suy-
:Iges, they lied into the thiekilst recesses of
the t,un 1. 11 Len their alarm had passed, DTI
they sought to rugaiti the path, they found to"
their grief an I dismay that thcy r had lost it.—
Still they kept on—apparently at random —but
angelsuided, it seemed in the direction of the
fort. Yet night came upon them in the dense,
gloo s tny wand, and, itt last, very weary and
sorrowful, they :rank down: murmured their
broken prayers, and clasped in each other's
rms, fell into a chill and troubled sleep.
Douglas was awakened in the early morn
ing, by a touch on the shoulder. Ile sprang
to his feet, and confronted—Br:ant! Behind
the chief stood a small band of' bnvAge attend
ants, eagerly eyeing the young' `pale faces,' as
though their fingers itched to be among their
curls.
.Who are - you?' asked the warrior sternly.
.1 am .Douglas Lindsay; and this ,is my
brother, Angus Lindsay.'
.1s Captain Lindsay your father?'
lie was our father,' replied Douglas with
passionate burst of tears; •but ye ken wee
enough we hae no father noo, sin' ye'N,,e 'mu
ttered him. Ay, and puir au id Davie, and
wee bairn Archie, ye divils!'
•No,oy ' replied Brant, in not nn lingual°
tone, (weqid not murder your father. lam
sorry he has been killed. lie was a brave
man, never took putt with the rebels. lem
sorry he has been killed He was a brave
man, and never took part with the rebels. I
promised bite my protection. It must have
been some of Captain Butler's Men; they are
about now. I would have risked My life to
have saved his. I will protect his children.
Where are you going?'
•To the fort,' put in little Angus eagerly.—
•\lay be we shall find mither, and Effie, and
Jenny a' the r re. .0h! Nlisther Thayendenage,
tak' us to the fort, if it's no' too far, for we
hae lost our way.'
Brant—who was an educated man, and bad,
little of the ludiau In his appearance or speech',
--smiled to hear himself „addressed by his
pompous Indian •name, (a stroke of policy on
the lad's part,) and replied: 'that is easy to
do. Cherry Valley is just over the hill; only
a little way off. Lot us go.'
Saying this, and briefly commanding his;
warriors to remain where they were, until Ito'
should return—an order received in sullen
silence by the savages, who glared ferociously
upon their lost prey—the chief strode forward
through the forest, followed by the two hos e.
When they reached the brow of the hill over
looking the settlement, he paused and said, 'I
had better nOY go any further. I will wait
here till I see you safe. Good bye! Tell your
mother that Brant did not kill her brave Im o "
band. Say he's sorry about it—gp/
The children sought to express their than! a,
but ho waved them away, and stood with fbid•
ed arms under the shade of a gigantic oak
watching them us they descended the hill.
Mrs. Lindsay's part in tho story is alai
told. On the day of the massacre she heard
the firing in the 'harvest field, and, from the
windows of the house, witnessed the .brlef
struggle of her husband and Davie with their
foes. The fearful sight at first benumbed
every faoulty—but ono cry from her baby
roused her from her stupor of gripf and terror.
Sho snatched the infant from the cradle, and ,
rushed with it into the woods, followed by