Part 5

"Louder! Louder! Louder!" The boys did not know whether they had heard or had imagined the command. They were playing "Susy, dear Susy," and playing it like a jig. As though its sprightliness steadied them, arms grew stronger, breath more even. The gunners heard, the infantry heard, the women and children shivering in the hold heard, and best of all the evil men on the pirate ship heard. The hands of the gunners trembled a little less, the hands which held the pistols and sabers grasped them more firmly, the women and children looked with a tiny bit of hope into one another's eyes, and the pirates looked at one another with astonishment.

It may have been that the captain of the pirate ship did not care to try conclusions with a force which could spare men to play the drum and flute; it may have been that he could observe that the firing of the second shot was the matter of only a second or two; or it may have been that merely the lively defiance of "Susy, dear Susy," discouraged him. At any rate, he altered the course of his vessel. When the second shot sailed after him, he had darted out of range.

At first the passengers of the Lyon stared as though a spell had been put upon them. A moment ago they had been in danger of their lives; now they were safe while the enemy sailed away. Some laughed aloud, others wiped their eyes, and a sailor flung open the hatchway and shouted the good news to the anxious hearts below.

Though the distance between the Lyon and her enemy grew wider and wider until presently the stranger had vanished over the horizon's edge, the sailors kept watch until nightfall.

But the passengers gave no thought now to an enemy. They saw, late in the afternoon, a sailor lowering the sounding-line over the ship's side. They had watched this process many times. But the earnestness of the sailor and the eager watching of his companions gave it a new significance. Into the group at the ship's edge young Conrad forced his way.

"How much?" said he.

The sailors paid no attention and Conrad concluded to wait. Presently the line was drawn in and the sailor announced to the captain in a loud voice,--

"Thirty-five fathoms, sir."

"That is shallow," said Conrad. "Is there any danger?"

The sailors laughed.

"There is danger of seeing land to-morrow," said one.

To this no one made any reply for a long moment. Then another shout arose like the one which had greeted the arrival of water and food. In one moment the news had spread: in another, though the captain laughed, the women were descending to pack boxes and to tie up the bundles in the hold.

But no one stayed long below the deck. Margareta and Magdalena with one bundle packed climbed back to look toward the west. John Conrad's expectation was being realized; there was now a young man by the side of Magdalena also. The captain laughed at them for watching for land as he laughed at them for packing.

"To-morrow, my children, not to-day. You may look your eyes out to-day and you will see nothing, and there will be plenty of time after we see land for you to pack your clothes."

Nevertheless, the Germans looked and looked, though, as the captain prophesied, they saw nothing. But they would not leave their place in the bow. Sitting together, they reviewed the journey and the more distant past. They spoke of the Fatherland, of those left behind who might some day follow them, like George Reimer, of those, like the magistrate of Oberdorf, whom they should never see again, and of those already on the way in other ships. They spoke also in quiet voices of those who slept, like the mother of the Weisers, in quiet graveyards. They spoke of bondage and liberty and of war and peace and of a strange new freedom, of which there was in the hearts of a few a dim conception, like the tiny seed of a mighty tree. They spoke with gratitude of the good Queen and offered a prayer for her, and for other friends, like the good helmsman on the river boat. They spoke of the strange red people, and Conrad must find his little book and read once more of their skill as hunters, of their devotion in friendship and of their ferocity in war and in revenge. Longest of all they talked of the King of Rivers and his companions.

"It is my object to find them first of all," said Conrad. "I am sure they are looking for us to come to the country which they gave us."

Once again must Conrad and Peter and the rest of the band play their old tunes, grave and gay, mournful and lively; once again must all join in song. Twilight came and then the starry, summer night, and still the pilgrims sat gazing toward the west. All night a few kept vigil.

At daylight every one was on deck. The morning dawned in splendor, but no one turned to watch the rising sun. At last, when the bright rays illuminated the whole of earth and heaven, they saw through tears the low shores of the promised land.

But now that land was in sight, the Lyon was not able to get into the harbor. Already as the passengers watched the shore a storm was rising. It was not so severe as those which had gone before nor so long continued, but it was far more alarming since the ship was now in danger of being cast upon the reefs. It seemed for many days that the passengers had endured all for naught. It was like being sent back into mid-ocean to suffer once more all the fearful trials through which they had lived. Again the captain grew wan and hollow-eyed, again the travelers lived for days in the hold of the ship, again there was sickness and death. Some of those who had seen the promised land saw it no more, nor any earthly land. There was no concealing the fact that those who were ill had ship fever, which was almost certain, in the conditions in which the patients had to live, to be fatal. Little John Frederick, the youngest of the Weisers, about whose health they had long felt anxiety, grew worse, so that his brothers and sisters could not look at him without tears. Still the pilgrims were patient and kind, still they tried not to murmur at this new dispensation of Providence.

"Courage!" said John Conrad a dozen times a day, to himself, as well as to his companions. "Many a good enterprise has failed because those who undertook it could not endure quite to the end."

The pilgrims were to have, alas, need for all the courage and patience which they could summon. When a long swell succeeded the fierce beating of the waves and the skies cleared, they sought the deck once more, and hurried to the prow. There they stared at one another in amazement and terror. The promised land at which they had looked with such longing eyes had vanished.

"What has become of it?" asked a bewildered company.

"It is still exactly where it was," answered the captain. "It is we who have changed our place."

"When shall we see it again?"

The captain reassured them with a cheerfulness which he did not feel. The ship had been driven far out of its course; it would take many days to win again a view of the low-lying shores.

It was now June. Unless conditions in the new world were very different from those in the old, the season for planting was almost passed: and John Conrad's eagerness to be settled grew to anxiety. Whatever young Conrad's book might say about the strength of the sun in America, it was certain that the pilgrims must have a house and some stores of food and fuel with which to meet the winter. Again they gazed toward the west until, between the blinding glare of the sun on the smooth sea and their own tears, they could see no more.

But like all evils in the world the long journey came to an end. The travelers had given up rising before dawn to watch the first beams of the sun strike on the western shores, when one bright morning a shout awoke them.

"Land! Land! Land!" Though it needed but one call to rouse the sleepers, the sailor called a dozen times, as though the joyful news could not be too often proclaimed.

The travelers crowded on deck; they saw the shore much nearer at hand than it had been before, and green instead of a dull, indeterminate color; they were surrounded by fluttering birds; they sniffed upon the air a different odor, an odor of land and growing things. Then with one accord their eyes sought the sky to see if once more a cloud threatened them.

But there was no cloud even so large as a man's hand, and the dangerous reefs were passed safely.

"But we are not moving!" cried young Conrad. "What is the matter?"

The captain pointed ahead, and Conrad saw a long rowboat cutting the water.

"We can't go into the harbor without a pilot," said the captain. "Here he comes."

Indifferent to the fact that their belongings were, after all their planning, not ready to be carried to the shore, the passengers hung over the side of the ship. There was a loud hail from the little boat, and an answering shout from the captain of the Lyon.

Suddenly Conrad cried out and seized his father by the arm.

"Look! Look!"

"What is it, lad?"

Then John Conrad saw for himself. The rowers were dark-skinned, black-haired creatures whose great bare bodies gleamed in the sun. The King of Rivers and his friends had been blanketed, but there was no mistaking these for any but men of their race.

"They are Indians," said Conrad, in awe.

Now a rope ladder was flung over the side of the ship and the pilot came aboard. He shook hands with the captain and the mate, and then lifted from the hands of an Indian who had followed him a roughly woven basket.

"I always bring something for the birds," said he in a loud voice as he uncovered it.

For a moment both children and adults could only stare at him dumbly. He was real, he came from America, and America had begun to seem like the figment of a dream: his was a new face, and they had seen no new faces for months.

But when the children looked into his basket, they ran forward. Here were cherries for mouths which had forgotten the taste of fruit; here were strawberries for lips which had never touched strawberries. An old woman began to weep.

"Cherries like those in the gardens of W├╝rttemberg, God be thanked!"

John Conrad looked at the pilot a little uneasily.

"We cannot pay," said he.

The pilot popped a strawberry into the mouth of John Frederick.

"Tut, tut," said he, "you are in a land of plenty. To-morrow when I come to take you in I will bring more."

"To-morrow!" echoed a dozen voices. "Oh, sir, can we not go in to-day?"

The pilot shook his head.

"Not till to-morrow."

"But the storm came before and drove us far away."

"No storm will drive you away now."

With sinking hearts the pilgrims saw the pilot descend again over the side of the ship and enter his boat and row away.

"I do not believe he will return," said one despairing soul.

But in a few minutes the speaker and every one else on board had begun to pack. Pots and dishes, pans and kettles, clothes, a few spinning-wheels, the few treasured books--all were boxed or wrapped or corded together. The Weisers, remembering gayly that they had once made nine bundles for eight persons, made careful division of their belongings.

"The spinning-wheel is not here and dear Wolf is not here, but we have everything else," said Margareta.

"Including a tame bear," ventured Conrad, knowing that there would be no boxing of ears to-day.

To the laughing astonishment of the travelers, the pilot was on the deck in the morning when they came up to greet the sun. He rallied them upon their laziness and passed out another gift of fruit, and then took command of the ship. To the keen disappointment of the boys the Indians did not come on board, but were towed in their rowboat.

Past the low shores of Long Island, nearer and nearer to the village of New York moved the Lyon, more and more excited grew the pilgrims.

"I can see houses!"

"And smoke rising from chimneys!"

"And men walking about!"

"There is a wharf with people on it!"

"We are here at last, at last!"

Some one started a hymn and a single stanza was sung. Then voices failed.

John Conrad stood silently, his older children close to him and little John Frederick in his arms. With them was Peter Zenger, his arm round Conrad's neck. John Conrad saw the house and the people and the strange shore, and the certainty of impending change swept over him. These--his boys and girls--what would befall them? They were his now, but the new land must divide them from him. Each must do his work. Already the sound of voices drifted to him from this alien shore. He longed to put into one sentence all his love and hope. With brimming eyes he looked at his little flock for whom he had made the long journey, for whom he had forgotten sadness and heartache.

"Children," he said. "Margareta and Magdalena and Sabina and Conrad--" John Conrad's voice faltered. In a moment he began once more with a new message. "Children,--George and Christopher and Barbara and little John and dear Peter,--here is now your Fatherland."

VII

THE HOME ASSIGNED

Close together the Weisers stepped from the gangplank of the Lyon. Their question as to what they were to do was soon solved by their prompt shepherding from the wharf into small boats by the officers of the port.

"Where do we go?" asked John Conrad in astonishment.

"There has been ship fever on the Lyon," answered some one. "You go to Nuttall's Island."

Like millions to follow them, the Germans soon gazed from Nuttall's Island across the bay. They were given little houses to live in, and as the magistrate of Oberdorf had greeted them on Blackheath, they greeted presently their friends from the other ships. There were happy reunions, there were stories of death and danger by sea, there was the common hope of better things.

When the cool winds of September began to blow and they were still waiting to be released from what seemed like captivity, the Germans became impatient and then frightened. They wished to set to work so that they might the sooner finish their task of tar-making and begin to labor on their own account. During the long journey boys and girls had grown up; like Conrad, other boys longed for adventure, and like Margareta, other young women wished to begin the establishment of a home. Among the Germans there was suddenly a new spirit of independence. Here was not the goal for which they had striven.

"The Governor has not completed his arrangements," said John Conrad to his impatient countrymen.

"Then let us go to that Schoharie which the Indians gave us." Conrad spoke for all the younger Germans.

"We are bound to make tar," reminded John Conrad, who looked at his son in amazement.

Presently came Governor Hunter, who had crossed the ocean in one of the last ships of the fleet. His visit, so eagerly expected, had a sorrowful outcome. From one end of the settlement to the other he walked and at the cabin of John Conrad he paused.

"You are to go soon to Livingston Manor to begin your work. You are the man who was in the Queen's audience room. I depend upon you to be a good influence among your fellows." His bright gaze traveled from child to child. "You have a large family."

Before John Conrad could answer, young Conrad stepped from the doorway, disregarding his father's frown.

"Oh, sir, I wish we might go to Schoharie!"

Governor Hunter looked at him coldly.

"You will go where I send you."

When the Governor had gone, his agent announced a startling command which he had left. Among the Germans were too many children. In New York and on Long Island were farmers and merchants who needed help. To them the orphans and some other young lads must be apprenticed.

"Not our children!" cried Magdalena.

John Conrad shook his head ominously. He had counted his children over before he left the ship,--was separation to come so soon? That evening he admonished gentle Christopher and grave George Frederick tenderly and solemnly.

"We must submit to the Governor's will," said he. "My little lads know what is right. To do right is all that is required of them."

The next day boats anchored at Nuttall's Island and from them stepped English and Dutch farmers and their wives. Upon the heads of Christopher and George Frederick were laid a pair of plump hands.

"These I would like," said a kind voice.

The eager eyes of the Weiser family gazed through tears.

"Both together?" asked John Conrad thickly.

"Both together," answered the farmer's wife. "We have a good farm and no children." When she saw that little Christopher cried, she put her hand into the deep pocket in the skirt of her husband's coat and drew out a bar of maple sugar, the only candy of the colonies. "I put something in my pocket for my new children." Then she sat down on the rough bench before the little door. "The boats will not go back for a long time to come. In the mean time we will talk."

Now more tears were shed, but they were not bitter tears. The English of the Weisers was broken, but it sufficed to relate the sad history of Gross Anspach, the kindness of George Reimer, the cruel cold on Blackheath, and the dangers of the sea. When the time for parting came, the Weisers trooped to the boats. Peter Zenger was to go also, with a brisk printer, Bradford by name. Hands were waved until they could wave no longer; then the Weisers turned back to their little hut.

"Two are gone," said John Conrad, bewildered. "My dear children! My dear children!" Then poor John Conrad burst once more into tears.

When in November twelve hundred of the four thousand Germans who had left Blackheath ascended the Hudson River, there was another grievous parting. Margareta's young man had found work in New York, but until he earned a little he and Margareta could not marry. One of the Weisers, at least, looked back instead of forward as the heavily laden boats made their slow way up the stream. Conrad wished to stay also and find work, but neither the Governor's agent nor his father would give him permission. The agent, Cast by name, was sharp of tongue, and with him the young men had begun to dispute. Others like Conrad were strong of will and hot of temper. In the long period of waiting, gratitude to the English had somewhat faded.

The arrival at the new home was dreary. Upon the stretch of forest in which the settlement was to be made there was only the agent's comfortable log house. It was late afternoon when the pilgrims were put ashore. At sight of the unimproved and repellent spot they looked at one another in dismay.

"Is it for this that we have come so far?"

John Conrad began again his old work of encouragement.

"At last we have work to do. By night we must have some sort of shelter."

The next day substantial houses of logs began to rise among the tall pine trees. John Conrad's suspicions about his second daughter proved to be true. Quiet Magdalena and the young man upon whom she had smiled announced that they, too, would build a house.

Then, when houses were built and logs were burning in the great chimneys, the Germans waited idly. Tar-making was not to begin, it seemed, until spring. Again John Conrad counseled patience.

"We are here, we cannot get away and, moreover, we have given our word. We are fed and clothed. In the spring things will be better. We cannot expect everything at once."

Young Conrad answered sharply.

"The men say that this land will never be good farming land, father. After the pine trees are cut, we shall have nothing. I would find that Schoharie which the Indians gave us. There is our home."

John Conrad shook his head.

"We must have patience," said he.

Slowly the winter passed. In the cold of January little John Frederick, so loved and cherished, died, and was the first of the colony to be buried in the new land.

"Now," said John Conrad, "it is our land, indeed."

In April Magdalena was married by a clergyman who came from the older German settlement across the river. The wedding was merry: even Margareta, who had heard but once from her lover, put anxiety away and smiled and danced the old-fashioned dances of Gross Anspach weddings. When Magdalena had gone to the little log house with her husband, John Conrad sat before his door.

"She has done well. Now of nine, only four are left me."

Once during the winter Conrad saw an Indian. The tall figure crossed the end of a little glade and as fast as he could Conrad pursued it. But the Indian had vanished; there was neither sound nor motion in the still forest. Gradually, their lands taken from them, themselves often ill-treated, the Indians were withdrawing from the neighborhood of the settlements.

In great excitement Conrad hurried to his father.

"Father, I have seen an Indian. Let us ask him to guide us to Schoharie!"

"We are not permitted to go."

"Let us go without permission. I can fight, father."

Again John Conrad regarded his son with astonishment.

"We have come for peace, not for war. God knows we have suffered enough from war! Let me hear no more of such madness, Conrad, and sit no more with the young men, but with your sisters."

In the early spring tools were given out for the cutting of the pine trees and slashes were made in the tough bark so that the sap might gather. In two years the trees would be felled and burned in kilns.

In the early summer came a new command. Over the great continent evil forces were astir. Like the bent bow, the line of the French and their allied Indians stretched from Montreal to New Orleans, its curve including the Mississippi; like the string within stretched the English line. There was conflict at Montreal where the Five Nations were true to their English alliance, and thither the Germans were to go in three companies. At once they forgot their wrongs and willingly they started, John Conrad in command of a company.

The Germans gave the Queen little help, not because they were not willing and able, but because the short campaign was almost over. They marched back as they had come, congratulating themselves upon the pay they would receive for military service. At last they could buy a few spinning-wheels and perhaps a horse and cow.

But the Governor's agent laughed.

"Does a man pay extra to his servants?"

"You did not give us our due food while they were away!" cried young Conrad.

The agent shook his fist.

"Return your arms and get back to your work!"

When the arms were returned, a dozen guns were lacking. The older Germans were clearly puzzled, but the guns could not be found.

In a week the Governor came again to visit his colony. His shoulders were bent and his countenance had changed. The good Queen was dead and the support promised for his cherished enterprise of tar-making came slowly from her successor. To the Governor appealed now the leading men of the settlement. Perhaps it was the cruel contrast between his magnificence and their rags which made him at first willing to listen and to conciliate.

As John Conrad had talked bravely and simply to the Queen, so he spoke to the Governor. The oldest of the settlers shared by this time the discontent of the young men.

"It is almost a year since we came and we have done nothing for ourselves. Even if we can make tar, we are not advanced because this land is not farming land. We beg to be allowed to go to that country which the Indians gave us, where we can have permanent homes. Is there no pine there?"

The Governor made no answer.

"And we would have pay for our service as soldiers. We are very poor, as you can see, and soldiering was not in our bargain."

The Governor smiled as his agent had smiled.

"You will serve yourself and your friends best by counseling obedience," said he. "You cannot go away."

When the Governor had gone, his agent walked down the street of the settlement. In his path stood young Conrad, who forgot once more his father's admonitions.

"The Germans have guns, sir," said Conrad.