XV Abram Antoine, Bad Indian

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Abram Antoine, a Cacique of the Stockbridge Tribe of Oneida Indians, had never before while in Pennsylvania been off the watershed of the Ohe-yu, or “The Beautiful River,” called by the white men “Allegheny,” until he accepted the position of interpreter to a group of chiefs from the New York and Pennsylvania Indians, to visit “The Great White Father,” General Washington, at Mount Vernon.

While the General had not been President for several years, and was living in retirement at his Virginia home, the red Chieftains felt that his influence would be such that he could secure redress for their wrongs. Cornplanter had been on many such missions, and come home elated by promises, few of which were ever fulfilled in any shape, and none in their entirety, consequently he declined to accompany the mission on what he termed a “fool’s errand.”

Abram Antoine, through life in New England, New York and Canada, had become much of a linguist, speaking English and French with tolerable fluencyfluency, besides being well versed in the Seneca and other Indian tongues. He was a tall, handsome type of redman, powerfully muscled, his career on “The Beautiful River,” where he rafted and boated between the Reservations and Pittsburg, and his service as a ranger for the Holland Land Company, had developed his naturally powerful form to that of a Hercules. Previously he had served in the American Navy, during the Revolutionary War, which had instilled in him a lifetime respect for the name of Washington. He was eager therefore to act as interpreter on an occasion which would bring him into personal contact with the Father of his Country.

The Indians took the usual overland route, coming down the Boone Road, to the West Branch of the Susquehanna at the mouth of Drury’s Run; from there they intended hiking across the mountains to Beech Creek, there to get on the main trail leading down the Bald Eagle Valley to Standing Stone (now Huntingdon), and from thence along the Juniata to Louisbourg, then just beginning to be called Harrisburg. It had been an “open winter” thus far.

At the West Branch they met an ark loaded with coal, bound for Baltimore, in charge of some Germans who had mined it in the vicinity of Mosquito Creek, Clearfield County, near the site of the later town of Karthaus. A friendly conversation was started between the party of Indians on shore and the boatmen, with the result that the pilot of the ark, Christian Arndt, invited the redmen to climb aboardaboard.

The invitation being accepted with alacrity, the ark was steered close to the bank, and the Indians, running out on an uprooted snag which hung over the water, all leaped on the deck in safety. It made a jolly party from that moment on. The time passed happily, and many were the adventures and experiences en route. No stops of any consequence were made except at the mouth of Mianquank (Young Woman’s Creek), and Utchowig (now Lock Haven), until the Isle of Que was reached, where other arks and flats and batteaux were moored, and there were so many persons of similar pursuits that a visit on dry land was in order.

There was much conviviality at the public houses of Selin’s Grove, and the Germans amused themselves trying to carry on conversations with the native Pennsylvania Dutchmen, dusky, dark-featured individuals, who saw little affinity between themselves and the fair, podgy “High Germans.” In wrestling and boxing matches, throwing the long ball, running races, and lifting heavy weights, the Germans were outclassed by the native mountaineers, but they took their defeats philosophically. A shooting match was held, at which all the Indians except Abram Antoine held aloof, but his marksmanship was so extraordinary that he managed to tie the score for the up-river team. This was a consolation for the Germans, and they left the Isle of Que well satisfied with their treatment.

Other arks left their moorings at the same time, mostly loaded with grain or manufactured lumber from the Christunn and the Karoondinha, and the fleet was augmented by a batteau loaded with buffalo hides, at the mouth of the West Mahantango. This was the last consignment of Pennsylvania bison hides ever taken to Harrisburg, the animals having been killed at their crossing over the Firestone or Shade Mountains, the spring previous.

It was a picturesque sight to see the fleet of arks and other boats coming down the noble river, the flood bank high, driving up flocks of water birds ahead of them, while aloft like aeroplanes guarding a convoy of transports, sailed several majestic American Eagles, ever circling, ever drifting, and then soaring heavenward.

Out from the Juniata came several more arks, consequently the idlers in front of the rivermen’s resorts at “The Ferry,” as some of the old-timers still called Harrisburg, declared that they had never seen a flood bring in a larger flotilla at one time. All, however, were anxious to get in before the river closed up for the winter.

When the up-river ark with its load of Teutons and redmen made its moorings for the night near the John Harris tree, they noticed that all the flags were at half-mast–there were many displayed in those days–and there was a Sunday calm among the crowds lolling along the banks in the wintry sunshine.

“Who’s dead?” inquired Abram Antoine, as he stepped on the dock; his naval training had made him alert to the language of the flag.

General Washington,” was the awed reply.

The big Stockbridge Indian’s jaw dropped, his lifetime ambition of conversing with the “first in the hearts of his countrymen,” and the purpose of the mission had been thwarted by a Higher Will.

Turning to the gaudy appareled chief behind him, he conveyed the unhappy message. The Indians shook their heads so hard that their silver earrings rattled, and were more genuinely sorry that Washington was no more than the failure of their quest. All ashore, they held a conclave under the old Mulberry tree, deciding that there was no use to go any further, but would spend a day or two in the thriving new town, Louisbourg or Harrisburg, whichever it was proper to call it, and then return home. There was no use going to Philadelphia again, and a new prophet sat in the chair of the Father of his Country at the Nation’s Capitol.

The party then separated for the present, most of them hurrying to the nearest tavern stands to refresh thirsts made deeper by the sharp, fine air on the river. Abram Antoine stood undecided, one hand resting on the trunk of the historic Mulberry, a crowd of small boys watching him open-mouthed and wide-eyed, at a respectful distance.

Pretty soon he was accosted by a very old, white-bearded Dutchman, with a strip of soiled gray silk on the lapel of his coat, which indicated that he was a veteran of the Royal American Regiment of Riflemen that had figured at Fort Duquesne in 1758. Abram Antoine had seen many such veterans in and about Pittsburg, and held out his hand to the aged military man. The old soldier signalled with his cane that the Indian come and sit with him on a nearby bench, which he did, and they passed an hour pleasantly together.

The conversation turned principally to soldiering, and then to firearms, and all the ancient makes of rifles were discussed, and their merits and demerits compared. The veteran allowed that the best rifle he had ever owned was of Spanish make, the kind carried by the Highlanders in the campaigns of 1758 and 1763; it was of slim barrel, light and easily handled, and unerring if used by a person of tolerable accuracy.

There was one gunsmith in the alley over yonder, a veteran of the Revolution, named Adam Dunwicke, who made a rifle close to the early Spanish pattern. It was the best firearm being turned out in the State of Pennsylvania. The gunsmith, anyhow, was a man worth knowing, as his shop was filled with arms of many makes and periods, and he liked to talk with any one who was an enthusiast on guns.

Abram Antoine was fired by what the veteran told him, and as it was still early in the afternoon, asked if he would escort him thither. It would be fine if he could get an extra good rifle as a souvenir of his ill-starred trip to Mount Vernon. The old man had too much time on his hands as it was, and was only too glad to pilot the redman to the workshop. They made a unique looking pair together, the old soldier, bent and hobbling along on his staff, the Indian, tall, erect, and in the prime of life. Their high, aquiline noses, with piercing, deep-set eyes, were their sole points of physical similarity.

When they reached the gunshop, in the dark, narrow alley that ran out from Front Street, the veteran banged the grimy knocker, and it was almost instantly opened by Dunwicke himself, a sturdy man of medium height, who wore great mustaches, had on a leather apron and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the brawny biceps of a smith.

Standing by the gunmaker, in the shadowy, narrow entry, was a very pretty girl in a dark blue dress. She was as tall as the smith, but very trim and slight, and her chestnut brown hair was worn low over her ears, throwing into relief her pallid face, and the rather haunted, tired look in her fine grey eyes, the marvelous smooth lines of her chin and throat.

A third figure now emerged from the gloom, a small Negro boy, to whom the girl was handing a letter, with her trembling white hands. As the Indian, the veteran and the gunsmith withdrew into the workroom, Abram could hear her saying to the lad, as she closed the door by way of added emphasis: “Tell him to be sure and come.”

He could hear the footsteps of the girl as she went upstairs, and henceforth he lost most of his interest in the question of obtaining a rifle of the Spanish design. All his designs were elsewhere, and he was glad when the smith suggested they visit another room on the opposite side of the entry, to look at several sets of extra large horns of the grey moose or elk, which had recently come down on an ark from somewhere up Tiadaghton.

As they crossed the hallway, Abram Antoine looked up the flight of stairs–there were three that he could make out–wondering on which floor the fair apparition retired to; he presumed pretty near the roof, as he had not heard her on the loose laid floor above the workshop.

When they returned to the gun shop, the Indian, knowing the smith well enough by then, inquired who the lady was whom they had seen in the entry.

“Oh, I don’t quite know what she is,” he replied. “She stays upstairs, under the roof; you know that the upper floors of this building are let for lodgers.”

Instantly a life’s story, tragic or unusual, grouped itself about his image of the girl, and his heart was filled with yearning. He was hoping against hope that she would come down again. He had no excuse to go up, but several times while the smith was chatting with the veteran of the Royal Americans, he managed to wander across the hall, looking up the well towards the grimy skylight, and then took another perfunctory glance at the huge antlers standing against the wall. He prolonged his stay as long as he could, saying that he liked to watch gunmakers at work, and having ordered and paid for a costly rifle, he felt that his presence was justified.

It was well into the gloaming when “knock, knock, knock” on the front door resounded through the hollow old building. Abram Antoine’s blood ran cold; he could have shot the visitor if he was the slender girl’s recalcitrant lover, but fervently hoped that, whoever it was, would have the effect of bringing her downstairs.

True enough, before he could get to the door at the smith’s heel, he heard the light, familiar footsteps, and the girl, trying to look unconcerned, was the first to turn the lock.

It was only Simon Harper, a big, lean hunter from Linglestown, over by the Blue Mountain, who had come to take delivery of a rifle made to order.

“Oh, I am so disappointed,” said the girl, as she turned to run upstairs.

The smith was escorting his swarthy customer into the shop. Abram Antoine’s opportunity had come, if ever.

“Do you have the letting of the rooms upstairs?” he said, politely, hat in hand.

The girl looked at him; it was probably the first time during the afternoon that she had noticed his presence, so pre-occupied she had been.

“No,” she said, softly; “the lady lives on the next landing, but I saw her going out.”

Abraham was well aware how closely she had been watching that doorway! “Are there any vacancies?”

The girl dropped her head as if in doubt about carrying on the conversation further, then replied: “I think there are.” “said the Indian.

Whether it was loneliness or desperation at the non-arrival of the person to whom she had sent the letter, or the tall redman’s superlative good looks and genteel demeanor–for a handsome man can attempt what a plain one dare never aspire–at any rate without another word, she turned and led the way up the long, steep stairs.

It was with no sense of surprise that she brought him to the top of the house, into her own garret, with its two small dormer windows which gave a view in the direction of the Narrows at Fort Hunter, and the broad, majestic river. There was a narrow bed with a soiled coverlet, a portmanteau, a brass candlestick, and two rush-bottomed chairs, and nothing else in it. In those days lodgers washed at the well in the back yard.

Both sat down as if they had known each other all their lives; the frigid barrier of reserve of a few minutes earlier had broken down. They were scarcely seated when the ominous “Clank, clank, clank,” that the girl had been listening for so intently all afternoon, resounded up the dismal vault of the stairway.

Casting a frightened look at the big Indian, as much as to say, “What will he say if he finds you here?” she bounded out of the room, descending the steps two or three at a time.

Abram Antoine did not take the hint to retire, if such was meant, and sat stolidly in the high-backed, rush-bottomed chair, in the unlighted room. It was only a few minutes until she returned, her face red, all out of breath, carrying the same letter which he had seen her hand to the colored boy earlier in the afternoon.

OLD SCHELLSBURG CHURCH, LINCOLN HIGHWAY

“Not in town, don’t know when he will return,” she was chanting to herself, as she came through the open door. She started back, as if surprised to find her new champion still there. Without speaking, she dropped down on the bed, facing him, fanning her flushed cheeks with the envelope, although the little room was quite cold.

“I am sorry that your letter was undelivered,” said Abram Antoine, after a considerable silence. There was another pause, and then the girl, still clutching the fated letter, revealed her story of embarrassment.

“It isn’t a long story,” she began. "My name is Ernestine de Kneuse. My father is the well-known miller and land-owner at New Berlinville, in Berks County–Solomon de Kneuse. About a year ago a young stranger, Carl Nitschman, I think a High German, came to the town, stopping at the ‘Three Friends’ Inn, which it was rumored he was to purchase. While negotiating, he naturally met many of the leading people. He was handsome and engaging, and all the girls went wild over him. It gave me a fiendish pleasure to think that he favored me above the rest, and one afternoon I cut my classes at the Select Academy, where I was in my third year, and went walking with him.

"My father, who belonged to the old school, had a hatred for any one who might even consider going into the liquor business, saw us together and told mother. On reaching home, although I was eighteen and had not had even a spanking for several years, and thought I had outgrown it, my mother took me to my room and administered a good, sound ‘scotching’ with the rod.

"Previously they had forbidden the young man the house, and when I informed him how I was treated, he told me if I was disciplined again, to run away.

"Not long afterwards I was kept in at school, and mother accused me of meeting my lover. I told her to go to the school and find out for herself, which she did, but nevertheless that evening my mother visited me in my room with the strap, and walloped me until I was black and blue from shoulders to ankles.

"Meanwhile Carl’s negotiations for the purchase of the tavern had fallen through, and he was preparing to leave for Reading. Through one of my girl friends who was not so strictly raised, I communicated to him the story of this latest indignity, begging him to take me with him. He replied that he would be traveling about for some time before settling down there, but as soon as he was located, he would send me his address, and to come.

"I recall the morning of his departure, how I crawled out of bed before dawn, and pressed my tear-stained face against the window lights as he climbed on the coach at the inn, which was across the street from where we lived, and settling down among his goodly store of bags and boxes, was driven away.

"Weeks passed, and I eventually got a letter through one of my girl friends whose parents were less strict, that he had gone to Harrisburg, and I should join him there. By exercising a great amount of ingenuity, I got out of the house, and on the night stage for Reading, during one of the terrible Equinoctial rains, making close connections with another stage for Harrisburg, and I came to my present abode a month before, but have never once seen Nitschman in the interval.

“I’ve now learned that my parents are on my track, and will reach town tonight; I have spent my last cent, and my letters to Nitschman receive no satisfactory answers. I am now penniless, and cannot pay my lodging, have eaten nothing all day, and have no place to go. I would not return for all the world and subject myself to an irate mother.”

The Indian was much interested by the recital, and told her that he had loved her the minute he laid eyes on her, and would marry her if she would return with him to his home, which adjoined the Cornplanter Reservation, in Warren County. “I will marry you right away if you will accept.”

Pressed and harassed on all sides, and hungry as well, Ernestine, looking up into the handsome face of the redman, capitulated. Closing up her scanty belongings in the shabby portmanteau, she went down to the landlady and settled her bill in full out of a “Double Eagle” which Abram gave her, and then the pair quickly left the building. The gunshop was locked, and dark, the veteran of the Royal Americans and the smith had forgotten all about their Indian friend and gone their ways regardless.

They soon found the leading hotel stand, where they enjoyed a good supper and learned of a preacher who would marry them.

Just as they were about to leave the tavern the stage from Reading and Stitestown pulled in, horses and running gear all spattered with mud and slush. Among the first to clamber out was old Solomon de Kneuse and his wife, but they gave them the slip in the darkness and confusion.

At the manse, after the ceremony, the clergyman mentioned that his brother was to be a juryman the next day at the trial of Nitschman, the highwayman, who had held up and robbed the aristocratic McAfee family on the road to York Springs. “May he pay dearly for interfering with quality,” he added, seriously.

Ernestine hung her head; she understood now why it was she had been unable to see her lover since she came to the town; he had been in jail, and perhaps she was stung with some tiny feelings of remorse to have renounced him so quickly. However, necessity knows no law, but she thought she knew her man.

Before daybreak the newly married couple were ensconced in the stage bound for Northumberland and Williamsport, and in due course of time reached their future home, just across the river from Corydon.

None of the other Indians returned for several weeks. When they did, they were miserable looking objects from drink, and Abram half blamed himself for not looking after them, but love had blinded him to everything else. He provided a comfortable home for his bride, and as an agent for the Holland Land Company, mingled with respectable people, who were considerate to his wife. Among these were the family of Philip Tome, that indomitable Indian-looking Nimrod, author of “Thirty Years a Hunter,” whose prowess in the forests of Northern Pennsylvania will never be forgotten while memory of the big game days lasts.

Ernestine was really happy, and did not aspire to any different lot. Though she was fearless, she hated to be left alone when her husband was absent on inspection trips, and he generally managed to have an Indian boy or girl–one of the O’Bails or Logans–remain with her when he was away.

In due time his handsome Spanish-type rifle, with its stock inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver, like the gun of some Moorish Sheik, reached him, and of it he was justly proud, partly because it was the instrument of his meeting Ernestine.

On the first anniversary of their wedding he killed a fine stag with it on the Kinzua, while hunting with Philip Tome. It was in the fall of the second year of their marriage that Abram Antoine was called awayaway during a heavy flood in the Ohe-yu, which flowed in front of their house. Old Shem, the one-eyed, half-breed ferryman, had difficulty in getting him across in the batteau, so swift was the angry current. He was to be gone, as usual, several days.

On the night when she was expecting him home, Ernestine heard a loud knocking at the kitchen door. Opening it she beheld Old Shem standing outside, the rain dripping from his hat and clothing.

“Missus Antoine,” he wheezed, “Abram is over to the public house at Corydon, a very sick man, and wants you to come to him at once.”

Ernestine was horrified, but, jerking down her cloak from the nail on which it hung, ran out into the storm, and followed the aged ferryman down the steep bank to the landing. The wind was bellowing terribly among the almost bear hickories and butternuts along the shore, the current was deep, dark and eddying.

When one-third the way over, Old Shem looked up, saying: “Missus, it hain’t Abram that’s sick; it’s your other man, Mister Nitschman, what wants you.” “shouted Ernestine. “I never had any other man. Take me back home at once, you treacherous old snake in the grass.”

Just then a pile of buffalo robes in one end of the deep batteau stirred, and the form of a man arose–Carl Nitschman, back from jail.

“Talk sensibly, Ernestine,” he said. “I have come for you, and will forgive everything. You know you belong to me; your going off with that Indian was all a hasty mistake.”

Ernestine glared at him and again ordered the ferryman to take her home. Instead he seemed to be trying to reach the Corydon shore the faster. Just then Nitschman stepped forward, with arms outstretched, as if to seize her.

The slight and supple Ernestine sprang up on the gunwale, the boat tipped; she either fell or jumped into the dark, swirling current. She was gone before an effort could be made to save her, and the two frightened men, white as ghosts, pulled for the light which gleamed through the storm, in the tavern window at Corydon, with redoubled energy. With a thud the prow hit the muddy bank and slid on shore.

To their surprise Abram Antoine was standing on the bank. The one-eyed ferryman began to cry, a strange thing for any one of Indian blood. “I was fetching your wife across to meet you and she fell in the river.”

Just then Nitschman, who had climbed out of the boat, was passing by Antoine, who seized him by the collar. “Who is this son of –--?” demanded the six-foot Indian.

It was then that the ferryman broke down completely and confessed all.

Antoine shook his captive like a rat, and slapped his face many times, eventually tumbling him into the mud and kicking him like a sack of flour. Then, picking up an oar, he beat the ferryman over the head until he yelled for mercy. The noise roused the habitues of the hotel, and as the victims were shouting “murder,” the local Constable, who ran the hotel, placed Abram Antoine under arrest, beginning his fatal brand as “Bad Indian.”

Nitschman did not appear to press the charge next day, and the ferryman apologized for his part in the affair, so Abram was free, minus his beautiful wife and his reputation.

It was beginning with that terrible tragedy that he began to find solace at the tap room of the public house at Corydon. Philip Tome and even old Cornplanter himself tried his best to save him, but he became an Indian sot, losing his position with the land company, his home and his self-respect. All that he held on to, and that because being an Indian he was sentimental, was his Spanish rifle with the inlaid stock. He spent more and more of his time in the forests, shunning white people and fraternizing only with his own kind. He made a protege out of young Jim Jacobs, a Seneca hunter of unusual ability, and they spent many weeks at a time in the forests.

To him he confided that before he died he would literally have Nitschman’s scalp, have the blood atonement against the destroyer of his happiness.

A score of years had to pass before he met the ex-highwayman face to face. He had heard of the early exploits of this modern Claude Du Val, who was supposed to have reformed, and his blood boiled that such a villainous wretch could wander about scot free.

It was in the fall of the year, about 1822 or thereabouts, when the great county fair was in progress at Morris Hills, one of the leading towns above the New York State line, adjacent to the Indian reservations. All manner of persons were attracted by the horse races, displays of cattle, Indian foot races and lacrosse games, as well as the more questionable side shows and gambling performances.

Abram Antoine’s Indian friends had been sobering him up for weeks, and he presented a pretty good appearance for a man of over sixty, when he appeared to challenge all comers in tests of marksmanship with the rifle. Never had “The Chief,” as everybody called him, done better than the afternoon of the first day of the fair. The wild pigeons were flying high overhead in the clear, blue atmosphere of that fine crisp autumn day, but whenever he turned his rifle upwards he brought one down for the edification and applause of the crowd.

Just as he had shot a pigeon, his keen eye noticed a medium-sized, fair-haired man, loudly dressed, edging hurriedly through the throng, as if trying to get away. Antoine had never seen Nitschman except that night when he had trampled him into the mud, but this fellow’s size and general demeanor Corresponded with his mental conception of the one that he had ever afterwards regretted that he had not slain.

Moving with rapid strides through the crowd, pigmies beside his giant stature, he blocked his little enemy’s further progress. “Nitschman, I believe you are,” he said.

“No, no; that hain’t my name,” spluttered the short man, coloring to the roots of his faded yellow hair.

“Yes, it is, Chief,” yelled a young Indian who was standing close by.

That confirmation was all that Abram Antoine, bad Indian, wanted. Swinging his rifle above the crowd, he brought it down with terrific force on the head of his foe, crashing right through his high, flat brimmed beaver hat and shattering the lock.

To use the language of Jim Jacobs, Nitschman fell to the turf like a “white steer,” and laid there, weltering in blood, for he was dead.

All the latent hate and jealousy in the crowd against Indians immediately found vent, and an angry mob literally drove Abram Antoine, bad Indian, out of the fair grounds to the town lockup. It was some time during 1823 that he expiated his crime on the gallows.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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