III.--THE SQUATTERS.

He scarce had finished, when a rush, Like partridge through the stubble, broke, And armed men trod down the brush; A harsh voice, trembling in the hush, As it must either stab or choke, Imperiously spoke:

"Ye conquered men of Achter Kill, Whose farms by loyal toil ye got, True Dutchmen! give this traitor will-- And he is yours to loose or kill-- All that ye have he will allot Anew--field, cradle, cot.

"Years past, beyond our Southern bounds, On States' commission sent by me, He mapped the English papists' grounds, And like a Judas, o'er our wounds, Our raiment parted openly: This is the man ye see!

"Yet followed by my sleepless age, Fast as he rode my pigeons sped-- Straight as the ravens from their cage, Straight as the arrows of my rage, Straight as the meteor overhead That strikes a traitor dead."

They bound Lord Herman fast as hate, And bore him o'er to Staten Isle; Behind him closed the postern gate, And round him pitiless as fate, Closed moat and palisade and pile: "Thou diest at morn," they smile.

IV.--STUYVESANT.

Morn broke on lofty Staten's height, O'er low Amboy and Arthur Kill; And ocean dallying with the light, Between the beaches leprous white, And silent hook and headland hill, And Stuyvesant had his will;

One-legged he stood, his sharp mustache Stiff as the sword he slashed in ire; His bald crown, like a calabash, Fringed round with ringlets white as ash, And features scorched with inner fire; Age wore him like a briar.

"Bring the Bohemian forth!" he cried; "Old man, thy moments are but few."

"So much the better, Dutchman! bide Thy little time of aged pride, Thy poor revenges to pursue-- Thy date is hastening, too.

"No crime is mine, save that I sought A refuge past thy jealous ken, And peaceful arts to strangers taught, And mine own t.i.tle hither brought, Before the laws of Englishmen, A banished denizen.

"Yet that thy churlish soul may plead A favor to a dying foe, I'll ask thee, Stuyvesant, ere I bleed, Let me once more on my gray steed Thrice round the timbered _enceinte_ go: Fire, when I tell thee so!"

"What freak is this?" quoth Stuyvesant grim.

Quoth Herman, "'Twas a charger brave-- Like my first bride in eye and limb-- A wedding-gift; indulge the whim!

And from his back to plunge, I crave, A bridegroom, in her grave."

Then muttered the uneasy guard: "We rob an old man of his lands, And slay him. Sure his fate is hard, His dying plea to disregard!"

"Ride then to death!" Stuyvesant commands; "Unbind his horse, his hands!"

V.--THE LEAP.

The old steed darted in the fort, And neighed and shook his long gray mane; Then, seeing soldiery, his port Grew savage. With a charger's snort, Upright he reared, as young again And scenting a campaign.

Hard on his nostrils Herman laid An iron hand and drew him down, Then, mounting in the esplanade, The rude Dutch rustics stared afraid: "By Santa Claus! he needs no crown, To look more proud renown!"

Lame Stuyvesant, also, envious saw How straight he sat in courteous power, Like boldness sanctified by law, And age gave magisterial awe; Though in his last and bitter hour, Of knightliness the flower.

His gray hairs o'er his ca.s.sock blew, And in his peak'd hat waved a plume; A horn swung loose and shining through High boots of buckskin, as he drew The rein, a jewel burst to bloom: The signet ring of doom.

'Thrice round the fort! Then as I raise This hand, aim all and murder well!'

His head bends low; the steed's eyes blaze, But not less bright do Herman's gaze, As circling round the citadel, He peers for hope in h.e.l.l.

Fast were the gates; no crevice showed.

The ramparts, spiked with palisades, Grew higher as once round he rode; The arquebusiers prime the load, And drop to aim from ambuscades; No latch, no loophole aids.

But one small hut its chimney thrust Between the timbers, close as they; Twice round and with a desperate trust Lord Herman muttered: "die I must: _There_, CHARGE!" and spurred through beam and clay-- "By heaven! he is away!"

VI.--THE KILLS.

In clouds of dust the muskets fire, And volleying oaths old Stuyvesant from: "Turn out! In yonder Kills he'll mire, Or drown, unless the fiends conspire.

Mount! Follow! Still he must succ.u.mb-- That tide was never swum."

Through hut and chimney, down the ditch And up the bank, plunge horse and man; And down the Kills of bramble pitch, Oft-stumbling, those old gray knees which, Hunting the racc.o.o.n, led the van; Now, limp yet game he ran.

But cool and supple, Herman sat, His mind at work, his frame the horse's, And knew with each pulsation, that Past foe and fen, past crag, and flat, And marsh, the steed he nearer forces To the broad sea's recourses.

"Old friend," he thought, "thou art too weak To try the Kills and drown, or falter, The while from sh.o.r.e their marksmen seek My heart. (Once o'er the Chesapeake I paddled oarless.) Lest the halter Be mine, I must not palter--

"Thou diest, though my marriage-gift: I still can swim. Poor Joost, adieu!"

Ere ceased the heartfelt sigh he lift, The prospect widened: all adrift, The salty sluice burst into view, Where grappling tides fought through,

And sucked to doom the venturous bear, And from his ferry swept the rower-- How wide, how terrible, how fair!

Yet how inspiriting the air-- How tempts the long salt gra.s.s the mower!

How treacherous the sh.o.r.e!

Far up the right spread Newark Bay, To lone Secaucus wooded rock; Nor could the Kill von Kull convey Pa.s.saic's mountain flood away: In Arthur Kill the surges choke, The wild tides interlock.

O'er Arthur Kill the Holland farms Their gambril roofs, red painted, show; Beyond the newer Yankee swarms-- His cider-presses spread their arms.

Before, the squatter; back, the foe; And the dark waters flow.

As that salt air the stallion felt, He whimpers gayly, as if still is Upon his sight his native Scheldt, Or Skagger Rack, or Little Belt,-- Their waving gra.s.s and silver lilies, Where browsed the amorous fillies.

And o'er the tide some lady nags Blew back his challenge. Scarce could Herman Hold in his seat. "By John of Prague's True faith!" he thought, "thy spirit lags Not, Joost! Thy course thyself determine!"

And plunges like a merman.

Leander's spirit in the steed Inspired his stroke, not Herman's fear; And fast the island sh.o.r.es recede, Fast rise the rider's spirits freed, The golden mainland draws more near-- "O gallant horse! 'tis here!"

VII.--ELUSION.

Across the Kills the muskets crack-- "Ha! ha!" Lord Herman waves his beaver: "Die of thy spleen ere I come back, Old Stuyvesant!" With a noise of wrack The fort blew up of his aggriever!-- But not without retriever.

For from the smoke two pigeons fly, One south, one westward, separating, And straight as arrows crossed the sky, With silent orders ("_He must die_ _Who comes hereafter. Lie in waiting!_") Their snowy pinions freighting.

They warn the men of Minisink; They warn the Dutchmen of Zuydt River.

Now speed to Jersey's farther brink, Old horse, old master, ere ye shrink!-- Or ambushed fall ere moonrise quiver, On paths where ye shall shiver.

On went the twain till past the ford That red-walled Raritan led over, And lonely woodland shades explored.

Unarmed with firelock or with sword, Free-hearted rode the forest rover, Of all wild kind the drover:

Fled deer and bear before his coming, The wild-cat glared, the viper hissed; And died the long day's insect-drumming.

Where things of night began their humming, And witchly phantoms went to tryst, Was Herman exorcist.

"No land so tangled but my eye Can map its confines and its courses; Yet on life's map who can espy Where hides his foe--where he shall die?"

So Herman said, and his resources Resigned unto his horse's.

All night the steed instinctive travelled-- His weary rider wept for him-- Through unseen gulfs the whirlwind ravelled, Up moonlit beds of streamlets gravelled, Till halting every bleeding limb, He stands by something dim,