3stalwarts

by Unknown

  “No I don’t,” Herkimer said. He flushed slowly. “But I’ve got to listen. There’s nobody else could get our own militia out. You know that.”

  But the doctor, whose passion was still up, refused to see sense.

  “All right, general,” he said. “Go your own way. Be a general if you like. If you want to hang a man to be one. But if you get hurt with your damn war, don’t come to me to get your arm fixed.” He snorted. “By God, though, I’d like to do one operation on you.”

  He stamped down the steps, snatched the old horse’s reins from the hand of the negro, and humped himself goutily up into the saddle.

  “Bill,” called Herkimer, “you write to General Schuyler.”

  “I’ll do what I like,” roared the doctor. He kicked the old horse’s side and headed him for the river. Herkimer sat down on the steps. He grinned a little. Bill Petry had forgotten that you had to ferry over the river there. He waited until the doctor had turned back from the bank.

  “Hello, Bill,” he said. “What is it?”

  The doctor cursed.

  Herkimer turned to the negro.

  “Trip,” he said, “take the doctor over.”

  “Yassah, Cunnel,” said the negro, and rushed to the scow.

  Herkimer got up and went into his house.

  “Frailty,” he shouted. “Bring some beer in the blue mug.”

  He went into his office and sat down at his desk. A slim negress, with high shoulder bones showing through her print dress, brought in the beer. Then his wife entered.

  “Hon,” she said quietly, using his old name, “there’s another Indian out there.”

  “Bring him in.”

  His wife ushered in a young Indian buck. He was without blanket or shirt. Sweat made beads on his greased, yellowish-brown hide. His kilt twitched over his knees to his deep breathing. He handed Herkimer a letter tied to a stick.

  Herkimer opened it.

  The Reverend Mr. Kirkland was writing from the Oneida town. He had had word from Spencer that a party had set out from Oswego towards the east. They had not touched Oneida Lake, therefore they must be going through the woods to the north.

  The little man’s big head nodded. Hazenclever’s and the upper part of the West Canada Kill should be watched. Up above Schell’s blockhouse. He forgot about Bill and John Wolff.

  “Frailty,” he shouted. She came in on her broad feet.

  “The men are busy,” Herkimer said, over his shoulder, as he wrote in his crabbed laborious way: “Tell George to send oud ten men nord of Schell’s to find a party of eight peeble. Pass the word to Demuth to look out at Deerfield also.”

  He said to the negress, “You can run pretty fast?”

  “Yassah, pretty good, Cunnel.”

  “You run like the devil to Mr. Dygert’s and give him this.”

  “Yassah, Cunnel.”

  He looked at her sharply.

  “Frailty, you feeling all right?”

  “Yassah, Cunnel. Good enough.”

  “Has Mrs. Herkimer spoke to you?”

  “Yassah. She say I can have de baby in de house again dis time ef’n I pass my promise not to have no more on her.”

  “Whose is it this time?”

  “I guess hit’s from dat Hans of Mr. Grebb’s, Cunnel. He de pesteringest nigger. I jus’ couldn’ think of no other way to get rid of him. Dat’s de truth, Cunnel.”

  “You run,” he said.

  As she went out, his eyes came back to the Indian, who had been standing immovably through this conversation, with his brown eyes seeing everything, but showing nothing.

  “Come on,” said Herkimer, “I’ll get you one drink.”

  The Indian nodded intelligently.

  Dr. Petry had been framing in his mind the letter he was going to write to General Schuyler. But at the turn-off he recollected that Mrs. Small was expecting and that he had promised to attend her. He thought he would look in and see how she was coming on with it.

  He stopped off at the blockhouse the settlement was erecting, and found that the stockade had been completed. Jacob Small was not there, but one of the Helmer boys was putting the spy loft roof on. He called down, “Yes, Doc, Cap’n got word from his house to go down there. He ain’t come out since. I know. I can see pretty near everything in the country from up here.”

  The doctor grunted. He could foretell what he would find. The woman, after going through ten years of married life as barren as a bedpost, had now started labor two weeks ahead of time. She was thirty-one years old and Jake was sixty-five, and he had told the red-haired hussy at the time that she had no business marrying a man that old. He didn’t like this way of men of fifty taking girls to bed. Better look around for a widow their own age. It irritated him; and the girl had laughed in his face.

  She was a sharp-spoken girl, officious, pushing, pert, and he had a feeling she must have known he might drop in and have planned the labor just to catch him when he had other things to do. It would take a long time. She was built like a trout, with no pelvic bone worth the name, and she was old enough anyway to have a bad time. The business was going to be hell for everybody, and especially for her. Well, it might be a good experience for her to go through. A good lesson.

  That thought eased him as he swung himself grumpily off the horse and took the saddlebags off his withers. He knocked on the door and found himself effusively welcomed by Captain Small.

  “By God, Doc, the Lord must have brought you. I sent Joe Casler after you two hours ago. How’d you get here so soon?”

  Doc explained. “How long’s Betsey been at it?”

  “Commenced just after breakfast. She let herself go at some griddle cakes and they seemed to settle right down in her.”

  “Five hours,” grunted the doctor. “Where’d you bed her?”

  “She’s back in the bedroom. We didn’t have time to carry the bed in here. Jake, she says, Jake, just let me get right down on a bed. And don’t you touch me, Jake. My God, Doc, it’s a hell of a thing for a man my age to come up against.”

  “Pains bad?”

  “Terrible. You ought to hear the way she takes on.”

  “She always made a lot of noise,” said the doctor. “She’s a fresh girl. You needn’t act like a run sheep, Jake. I bet you hurt your Ma just as bad. That’s the only sensible way to look at it.”

  “You think so, Doc? Crimus, once or twice I felt like laying down dead myself.”

  “Have a drink. Got anything in the house?”

  “I got some distilled apple juice.”

  “Get some, but bring it to me first. Who’s with her?”

  “She wouldn’t let me send for anybody. Said she didn’t want them muss-ing up her house.”

  The doctor glanced round the immaculate kitchen, with its shining brass pans and the copper kettle and the dishes in the dresser. Somehow it made him think of Betsey herself, pert, and spicy. She’d told him off before. Now she’d have to eat pie. People never thought of that when they spoke their piece to the doctor.

  “You go and get in a woman.”

  “There ain’t nobody handy but Mrs. Helmer. Betsey can’t stand her.”

  “Good,” said the doctor. “She’s just the person. Fetch her right off. But bring me that apple juice first.”

  He walked into the bedroom with a heavy tread. It was a nice bedroom, with a good, solid, four-post bed. The white curtains drawn over the window moved gently with a stir of air and took the curse off the smell of pigs from the yard out back. The floor had a crocheted round rug on it and there was a good chest under the window.

  “Well,” said the doctor, “you’re damn well married at last, ain’t you, Betsey?”

  He carried along a stool with his foot and sat down beside the bed. The woman lying on the bleached sheet seemed younger than her age. Her wav-ing red hair was a tangled wet mop on the pillow. The pins had fallen out and lay all over the bed. Her face was thin, quite white, especially about the mouth. The eyes staring at him were
blue and looked feverish. Her body under the rumpled coverlet was shaped like a sixteen-year-old’s.

  She didn’t answer. She was holding onto the coverlet with clenched, thin, and slightly freckled fists, and the doctor said nothing as he watched the progress of a pain. But he pulled out his watch and laid it on the bed and then put his hands in hers and let her have something to clinch on.

  When the pain was over, she raised her eyes to his and drew a tremendous long breath.

  “Hello, Doc,” she said. “You’ve been a long time getting here.”

  “So have you, Betsey.”

  Her lips drew back over her teeth. They were uneven, but strong and white. They and her natural smile were, for him, her saving grace.

  “Where you been?” she asked.

  He told her. “And now you’ve got to start this when I’m trying to get John Wolff out of trouble. You always were a contrary devil of a girl.”

  She closed her eyes and said, “God damn,” under her breath, and the doctor glanced at his watch. The husband came in carrying a jug and two glasses. He poured one sloppily for the doctor and set it down. “I just can’t drink, Doc,” he said. “I got to run.”

  He bolted out of the house after Mrs. Helmer.

  “Where’s Jake gone?”

  “After Mrs. Helmer.”

  “I don’t want her.”

  “I’ve got to have a woman. Jake’s no good. And you’re down now, and you can’t do anything. Nobody can help you but the Lord, unless it’s me. You’ll just have to lay down and take what’s coming. See?”

  “Damn you, Doc,” she said. She grinned. “It’s a hell of a business.”

  “Swearing won’t help,” the doctor said with gravity.

  She laughed in his face, and he felt better.

  “I’m going to take your clothes off,” he said.

  “Why can’t you wait for Mrs. Helmer?”

  “You’ll feel better. And I’ll have to take a look at you anyway.”

  “All right,” she said.

  She sighed, after he had undressed her and tightened the sheet. He went out into the kitchen, built up the fire, and put on a couple of kettles. When he came back, he sat down beside her.

  He said, “When you married Jake you thought he was too old to corner you like this, didn’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Well,” he said, “it serves you right.”

  She said, “My mother died when I was born.”

  “Yes, I remember. I did the best I could.”

  “It’s just a curse with us, I expect.”

  “You ain’t built right.”

  “I know.” She turned her eyes to his and said, “There’s one thing, Doc. You won’t believe it, but I’ll tell you anyway. I loved Jake and I still do. We had a lot of fun.”

  “I’ll bet,” said the doctor dryly.

  “You troubled about John Wolff?”

  “He’s a mean sort of cuss,” said the doctor. “I never liked him. But he’s Kate’s Pa. I’ve got to do something.”

  She nodded.

  “It’s all a mess,” she said brightly, and then caught hold.

  When Jake returned with Mrs. Helmer, both breathing hard, the doctor drank his apple juice and let the woman attend Betsey. Mrs. Helmer was a stout German Frau. She had had twelve children of her own and she probably knew as much about it as he did. She looked at Mrs. Small’s bare body with a critical eye and then went out to see how the water was coming.

  Jake Small gulped at his glass and looked away from his naked wife. He felt that the world had turned immodest. He couldn’t control it; but it didn’t seem right for a human being to be handled that way. It was his doing, too; and to think that he had been quite delighted at first! It was one of those surprises that happen to a man after a long life. It just went to show.

  “It’s a terrible thing for a man my age, Doc.”

  “Now, Jake. Don’t say that again.”

  “All right, Doc.” He paused and fumbled the glass with his hands. He was looking for a nice outside topic. “You think they’re going to shoot Wolff?” he inquired.

  “I don’t know,” said the doctor. “I can’t get help from Herkimer. And Colonel Dayton won’t see me. He’s all twittered on account of not being able to get teams to haul stuff out to Stanwix. Schuyler wants the fort finished before spring. He’s got some crazy notion of the British coming down on sleds or something.”

  “My God!” said Small. “You don’t say?”

  “Everybody’s got crazy ideas about this country.”

  A motion on the bed made him look at his watch again and Jake went over to the window and leaned out. Mrs. Helmer came bustling in from the kitchen and bent over the footboard. But Betsey shook her head. “No, thanks, Mrs. Helmer.” Her voice held no gratitude for the woman. “Listen, Doc. If Dayton feels that way and you can get him four or five teams, maybe he would get John Wolff off. Jake would send ours, I guess.”

  “Sure,” said Jake, explosively. “Casler owes me work too. You fix her up, Doc, and I’ll promise you two teams, maybe three, for a couple of weeks.”

  Dr. Petry got up and leaned over the bed with admiration on his homely face.

  “Betsey, you’re quite a girl.”

  She stuck her tongue out, bit it, and shrieked.

  “Get out of here, Jake,” said the doctor. He took Betsey’s hand. “I’ll fix you up all right, Betsey, if it’s the last job I ever do.”

  Her lips drew back. Jake took one look at her and fled.

  Dr. Petry arrived at Fort Dayton after dark. He had a job getting in to see Colonel Dayton, but when he did he came right to the point.

  “How many teams do you need?”

  “Do you know of any, doctor?”

  “How many?”

  “How many can you promise?”

  “Would four teams be any use?”

  “I’d shoot my grandmother for that many.”

  “You needn’t shoot any. You can have those teams if you let John Wolff off.”

  “What the devil …”

  “I don’t care what you do to him. I mean I don’t want him shot. I married his daughter, see? I reckon you can fix it.”

  “I’ll have to send him to jail for the duration of the war; I can’t do better than that.”

  “That’s all right with me. I just don’t want the poor fool killed.”

  The colonel got up and shook hands.

  The doctor went home and routed his wife out of bed.

  “They ain’t going to shoot John,” he said flatly.

  She came out of the bedroom in her nightdress and stared at him with her pale face that so resembled Wolff’s.

  “Oh, Bill,” she said. They stared at each other. Then she asked, “Where’ve you been all day?”

  “Getting John off,” he said crossly. “And attending a case.”

  “You must be tired,” she said. “You coming to bed?”

  Her voice invited him. She was making up for the way she had acted since her father’s arrest, as if that had been his fault. He couldn’t really blame her. He supposed you got fond of your father sometimes, even if he was John Wolff. But he shook his head. He went down to the kitchen and stirred up the fire and got some rum from the store. He was thinking about Betsey Small. He wouldn’t have believed it was possible to have got a baby out of a body like that, and have both live.

  Dayton had said that Herkimer had had word of trouble to be expected on the West Canada or at Hazenclever’s. Some of the rangers had gone up the Kill before dark. They had sent word to Demooth.

  When he finally changed his mind and went into his bedroom his wife found him difficult. She couldn’t understand why he should act so, but she accepted her lot like a martyr.

  Two mornings after the birth of Jacob and Betsey Small’s first child, John Wolff was prodded on his blankets by the muzzle of the sergeant’s musket. It was close after sunrise and the fort was yet quiet.

  “Get up,” said the serge
ant. “Your wife wants to see you.”

  He said, “My wife.”

  “Yes, she wants to say good-bye to you.”

  John Wolff sat dumbly on the edge of the blankets, with his hands round his knees, his dull eyes staring at the soldier’s Yankee face.

  “They ain’t going to shoot you,” the sergeant said with contemptuous kindness. “They’re sending you down to Albany.” He walked out of the door, holding it open behind him. Through it Wolff heard his wife sobbing. It seemed to him the last unnecessary jab of fate that he should have to put up with his wife’s weeping before breakfast. But he knew that he had a duty to perform. “Come in,” he said. “And quit that crying.”

  “Oh, John. They ain’t going to kill you.”

  “No,” he said dazedly.

  “Where are they taking you to?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  She had sat down beside him on the blanket. She was sniffling her sobs back into her nose. Her clothes were put on which-way and her hair was still braided.

  “How long will you be away, John?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. He began to feel more kindly. “Listen, dear.” (He hadn’t called her dear for a good many years; she was a fool woman, always scared to death of something. She got on his nerves; but he had to admit she was loyal, if she was weak-minded.) “Listen,” he said, “what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He said bitterly, “There’s fourteen dollars hid in the store. But that won’t last so long. Maybe you could live with Kate.”

  “She asked me, but I said I’d rather die than stay in his house.”

  “I don’t blame you. But it’s the only thing.”

  “I’ll get the money. I’ll board with somebody. Maybe I can get work somewheres. Maybe I’d move down to where they’re taking you, if we knew where it was.”

  “People look at me here,” she added plaintively. “How long will they keep you away, John?”

  “They can’t keep me after the army comes down. That won’t be long. Maybe next spring. Then I’ll get back here.”

  “Oh, John!”

  He put his arm round her shoulder and kissed her.

  “You look out for yourself,” he said.

  He stood uncertainly as the sergeant waited for him. He couldn’t understand how you could get fond of a person without ever knowing you were. Then he handed her what silver he had on him.