Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “It was under these lilacs,” said I, “that I had my first hurt of you. You should heal that hurt now.”

  That confused her, and she blushed and swore to punish me for that fling; but I grinned at her.

  “Come,” said I, “heal me of my ancient wound as you dealt it me — with your lips!”

  “I did not kiss Steve Watts!”

  “But he kissed you. So do the like by me and I forgive you all.”

  “All?”

  “Everything.”

  “Even what I have now done?”

  “Even that.”

  “And you will not truss me up to chasten me when you go free? For it would shame me and I could not endure it.”

  “I promise.”

  She looked down at me, smiling, uncertain.

  “What will you do to me if I do not?” she asked.

  “Drown you in snow three times every day.”

  “And I needs must kiss you to buy my safety?”

  “Yes, and with hearty good will, too.”

  She glanced hastily around, perhaps to seek an avenue for escape, perhaps to see who might spy us.

  Then, looking down at me, a-blush now, yet laughing, she bent her head slowly, very slowly to mine, and rested her lips on mine.

  Then she was up and off like a young tree-lynx, fleeing, stumbling on her pattens; but, like a white hare, I lay very still in my form, unstirring, gazing up into the bluest, softest sky that my dazzled eyes ever had unclosed upon.

  There was a faint fragrance in the air. It may have been arbutus — or the trace of her lips on mine.

  In my ears trilled the pretty melody of a million little snow rills running in the sunshine. I heard the gay cock-crow from the yard, the restless lowing of cattle, the distant caw of a crow flying high over the Drowned Lands.

  When at last I got to my feet a strange, new soberness had come over me, stilling exhilaration, quieting the rough and boyish spirits which had possessed me.

  Penelope, hanging out linen to sweeten, looked at me over her shoulder, plainly uncertain concerning me. But I kept my word and did not offer to molest her, and so went about my cooper’s work again, where Nick also squatted, matching bucket staves, whilst I fell to shaping sap-pans.

  It was very still there in the sunshine. And, as I sat there, it seemed to me that I was putting more behind me than the icy and unsullied months of winter, — and that I should never be a boy any more, with a boy’s passionless and untroubled soul.

  And so came spring upon us in the Northland that fateful year of ‘77, with blue skies and melting snow and the cock’s clarion sounding clear.

  But it was mid-April before the first Forest Runner, with pelts, passed through the Sacandaga, twelve days out from Ty, and the woods nigh impassable, he gave account, what with soft drifts choking the hills and all streams over their banks.

  And then, for the first, we learned something concerning the great war that was waging everywhere around our outer borders, — how His Excellency had surprised the Hessians at Trenton, and had tricked Cornwallis and beat up the enemy at Princeton. It was amazing to realize that His Excellency, with only the frozen fragments of a meagre and defeated army, had recovered all the Jerseys. But this was so, thank God; and we wondered to hear of it.

  All this the Forest Runner told us as he ate and drank in the kitchen, — and how Lord Stirling had been made a major-general, and that we had now enlisted four fine regiments of horse to curb DeLancy’s bold riders; and how that great Tory, John Penn, who was lately Governor of Pennsylvania, Thomas Wharton, and Benjamin Chew, had been packed off with other villains as prisoners into Virginia. Which pleased me, because of all that Quaker treachery in the proprietary; and I deemed them mean and selfish and self-righteous dogs who whined all day of peace and brotherhood and non-resistance, and did conduct most cruelly by night for greed and sordid gain.

  Not that I liked the New Englanders the better; but, of the two, preferred them and had rather they settled the Pennsylvania wilds than that the sly, smug proprietaries multiplied there and nursed treason at the breast.

  Well, our Coureur-du-Bois, in his greasy leather, quills, and scarlet braid, had other news for us less palatable.

  For it seemed that we had lost two thousand men and all their artillery when Fort Washington fell; that we had lost a hundred more men and eleven vessels to Sir Guy Carleton on Lake Champlain; that the garrison at Ty was a slim one and sick for the most, and the relief regiments were so slow in filling that three New England states were drafting their soldiery by force.

  There were rumours rife concerning the summer campaign, and how the British had a plan to behead our new United States by lopping off all New England.

  It was to be done in this manner: Guy Carleton’s army was to come down from the North through the lakes, driving Gates, descend the Hudson to Albany and there join Clinton and his British, who were to force the Highlands, march up the river, and so hold all the Hudson, which would cut the head — New England — from the body of the new nation.

  And to make this more certain, there was now gathering in the West an army under Butler and Brant, to strike the Mohawk Valley, sweep through it to Schenectady, and there come in touch with Burgoyne.

  To oppose this terrible invasion from three directions we had forts on the Hudson and a few troops; but His Excellency was engaged south of these points and must remain there.

  We had, at Ty, a skeleton army, and Gates to lead it, with which to face Burgoyne. We had, in the Mohawk Valley, to block the west and show a bold front to Brant and Butler, only fragments of Van Schaick’s and Livingston’s Continental line, now digging breastworks at Stanwix, a company at Johnstown, and at a crisis, our Tryon County militia, now drilling under Herkimer.

  And, save for a handful of Rangers and Oneidas, these were all we had in Tryon to resist the hordes that were gathering to march on us from north, west and south, — British regulars with horse, foot, and magnificent artillery; partizans and loyalists numbering 1200; a thousand savages in their paint; Highlanders, Canadians, Hessians; Sir John Johnson’s regiment of Royal Greens; Colonel John Butler’s regiment of Rangers; McDonald’s renegades and painted Tories — God! what a murderous horde; and all to make their common tryst here in County Tryon!

  Our grim, lank Forest Runner sprawled on the settle by the kitchen table, smoking his bitter Indian tobacco and drinking rum and water, well sugared; and Penelope and Nick and I sat around him to listen, and look gravely at one another as we learned more and more of what it seemed that Fate had in storage for us.

  The hot spiced rum loosened the Runner’s tongue. His name was Dick Jessup; and he was a hard, grim man whose business, from youth — which was peltry — had led him through perilous ways.

  He told us of wild and horrid doings, where solitary settlers and lone trappers had been murdered by Guy Carleton’s outlying Iroquois, from Quebec to Crown Point.

  Scores and scores of scalps had been taken; wretched prisoners had suffered at the Iroquois stake under tortures indescribable — the mere mention of which made Penelope turn sickly white and set Nick gnawing his knuckles.

  But what most infuriated me was the thought that in the regiments of old John Butler and Sir John Johnson were scores of my old neighbors who now boasted that they were coming back to cut our throats on our own thresholds, — coming back with a thousand savages to murder women and children and ravage all with fire so that only a blackened desert should remain of the valleys and the humble homes we had made and loved.

  Jessup said, puffing the acrid willow smoke from his clay: “Where I lay hidden near Oneida Lake, I saw a Seneca war party pass on the crust; and they had fresh scalps which dripped on the snow.

  “And, near Niagara, I saw Butler’s Rangers manœuvring on snow-shoes, with drums and curly bugle-horns.”

  “Did you know any among them?” I asked sombrely.

  “Why, yes. There was Michael Reed, kin to Henry Stoner.”

  “My co
usin, damn him!” quoth Nick, calmly.

  “He was a drummer in the Rangers of John Butler,” nodded Jessup. “And I saw Philip Helmer there in a green uniform, and Charles Cady, too, of Fonda’s Bush.”

  “All I ask,” says Nick, “is to get these two hands on them. I demand no weapons; I want only to feel my fingers closing on them.” He sat staring into space with the blank glare of a panther. Then, “Were they painted?” he demanded.

  “No,” said Jessup, “but Simon Girty was and Newberry, too. There were a dozen painted Tories or blue-eyed Indians, — whatever you call ‘em, — and they sat at a Seneca fire where the red post stood, and all eating half-raw venison, guts and all — —”

  Penelope averted her pallid face and leaned her head on her hand.

  Jessup took no notice: “They burned a prisoner that day. I was sick, where I lay hidden, to hear his shrieks. And the British in their cantonments could hear as plainly as I, yet nobody interfered.”

  “There could have been no British officer there,” said Penelope, in the ghost of a voice.

  “Well, there were, then,” said Jessup bluntly. Turning to me he added: “There’s a gin’rall there at Niagara, called St. Leger, and he’s a drunken son of a slut! We should not be afeard of that puffed up bladder, and I hope he comes against us. But Butler has some smart officers, like his son Walter, and Lieutenant Hare, and young Stephen Watts — —”

  “You saw him there!” exclaimed Penelope.

  “Yes, I saw him in a green uniform; and, with him also, a-horse, rode Sir John Johnson, all in red, and Walter Butler in black and green, and his long cloak a-trail to his spurs. By God, there is a motley crew for you — what with Brant in the saddle, in paint and buckskins and fur robe, and shaved like any dirty Mohawk; and Hiakatoo, like a blackened devil out o’ hell, all barred with scarlet and wearing the head of a great wolf for a cap, as well as the pelt to cover his war-paint! — and McDonald, with his kilt and dirk, and the damned black eyes of him and the two buck-teeth shining on his lips! — God!” he breathed; and took a long pull at his pannikin of spiced rum.

  That evening Jessup left for Johnstown on his way to Albany with his peltry; and took with him a letter which I wrote to the Commandant at Johnstown fort.

  But it was past the first of May before I had any notice taken of my letter; and on a Sunday came an Oneida runner, bearing two letters for me; one from the Commandant, acquainting me that it was not his intention to garrison Fish House or Summer House, that Nick and I were sufficient to stand watch on the Mohawk Trail and Drowned Lands and report any movement threatening the Valley from the North, and that what few men he had must go to Stanwix, where the fort had not yet been completed.

  The other letter was writ me from Fonda’s Bush by honest John Putman:

  “Friend Jack” (says he), “this Bush is a desert indeed and all run off, — the Tories to Canady, — such as the Helmers, Cadys, Bowmans, Reeds, and the likes, — save Adam Helmer, who is of our complexion, — and our own people who are friends to liberty have fled to Johnstown excepting me, — all the women and children, — Jean De Silver’s family, De Luysnes’ people, the Salisburys, Scotts, Barbara Stoner, who married Conrad Reed and has gone to New York now; and all the Putmans save myself, who shall go presently in fear of the savages and Sir John.

  “Sir, it is sad to see our housen empty and our fields fallow, and weeds growing in plowed land. There remain no longer any cattle or fowls or any beasts at all, only the wild poultry of the woods come to the deserted doorsteps, and the red fox runs along the fence.

  “Your house stands empty as it was when you marched away. Only squirrels inhabit it now, and porcupines gnaw the corn-crib.

  “Well, friend Jack, this is all I have to say. I shall drive my oxen to Johnstown Fort tomorrow, and give this letter to the first runner or express.

  “I learn that you have bought the Summer House of the Commission. I wish you joy of it, but it seems a perilous purchase, and I fear that you shall soon be obliged to leave it.

  “So, wishing you health, and beholden to you for many kindnesses — as are we all who come from Fonda’s Bush — I close, sir, with respect and my obedience and duty to my brave young friend who serves liberty that we old folk and our women and children shall not perish or survive as British slaves.

  “Sir, awaiting the dread onset of Sir John with that firmness which becomes a good American, I am,

  “Your obliged and humble servant, “John Putman.

  The Oneida left in an hour for Ty.

  And it was, I think, an hour later when Nick comes a-running to find me.

  “A fire at Fish House,” he cries, “and a dense smoke mounting to the sky!”

  I flung aside my letter, ran to the kitchen, and called Penelope.

  “Pack up and be ready to leave!” said I. And, to Nick: “Saddle Kaya and be ready to take Penelope a-horse to Mayfield block-house. Call my Indian!”

  As I belted my shirt and stood ready, my Saguenay came swiftly, trailing his rifle.

  “Come,” said I, “we must learn why that smoke towers yonder to the sky.”

  Penelope took me by the sleeve:

  “Do nothing rash, John Drogue,” she said in a breathless way.

  “Get you ready for flight,” said I, fixing a fresh flint. “Nick shall run at your stirrup if it comes to that pinch — —”

  “But you!”

  “Why, I am well enough; and if the Iroquois are at Fish House then I retreat through Varick’s, and so by Fonda’s Bush to Mayfield Fort.”

  She clasped her hands.

  “I do not wish to leave Summer House,” she said pitifully. “What is to happen to our sheep and cattle — and to our fowls and all our stores — and to Summer House itself?”

  “God knows,” said I impatiently. “Why do you stand there idle when you must make ready for flight!”

  “I — I can not bear to have you go to Fish House — all alone — —”

  “I have the Yellow Leaf, and can keep clear o’ trouble. Come, Penelope! — —”

  “When you move toward trouble I do not desire to flee the other way, toward safety! — —”

  “Pack up, Penelope!” shouted Nick, leading Kaya into the orchard, all saddled; and fell to making up his pack on the grass.

  “At Mayfield Fort!” I called across to Nick. “And if I be not there by night, then take Penelope to Johnstown, for it means that the Iroquois are on the Sacandaga!”

  “I mark you, Jack!” he replied. I turned to the girl:

  “Farewell, Penelope,” I said. “You shall be safe with Nick.”

  “But you, John Drogue?”

  “Safe in the forest, always, and the devil himself could not catch me,” said I cheerily.

  She stretched out her hand. I took it, looked at her, then kissed her fingers. And so went away swiftly, to where our canoe lay, troubled because of this young girl whom I had no desire to fall truly in love with, and yet knew I had been near to it many times that spring.

  I got into the canoe and took the stern paddle; my Saguenay kneeled down in the bow; and we shot out across the Vlaie Water.

  Once I turned and looked back over my shoulder; and I saw Penelope standing there on the grass, and Nick awaiting her with Kaya.

  But I did not wish to feel as I felt at that moment. I did not desire to fall in love. No!

  “Au large!” I said to my Indian, and swept the birchen craft out into the deep and steady current.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  GREEN-COATS

  Nothing stirred on the Drowned Lands as we drove our canoe at top speed between tall bronzed stalks of rushes and dead water-weeds. Vlaie Water was intensely blue and patched with golden débris of floating stuff — shreds of cranberry vine, rotting lily pads, and the like — and in twenty minutes we floated silently into the Spring Pool, opposite the Stacking Ridge, where hard earth bordered both shores and where maples and willows were now in lusty bud.

  Two miles away, against Maxo
n’s sturdy bastion, a vast quantity of smoke was writhing upward in dark and cloudy convolutions. I could not see Fish House — that oblong, unpainted building a story and a half in height, with its chimneys of stone and the painted fish weather vane swimming in the sky. But I was convinced that it was afire.

  We beached our canoe and drew it under the shore-reeds, and so passed rapidly down the right bank of the stream along the quick water, holding our guns cocked and primed, like hunters ready for a hazard shot at sight.

  There was no snow left; all frost was out of the ground along the Drowned Lands; and the earth was sopping wet. Everywhere frail green spears of new grass pricked the dead and matted herbage; and in sheltered places tiny green leaves embroidered stems and twigs; and I saw wind-flowers, and violets both yellow and blue, and the amber shoots of skunk cabbage growing thickly in wet places. The shadbush, too, was in exquisite white bloom along the stream, and I remember that I saw one tree in full flower, and a dozen bluejays sitting amid the snowy blossoms like so many lumps of sapphire.

  Now, on the mainland, a clearing showed in the sunshine; and beyond it I saw a rail fence bounding a field still black and wet from last autumn’s plowing.

  We took to the brush and bore to the right, where on firm ground a grove of ash and butternut forested the ridge, and a sandy path ran through.

  I knew this path. Sir William often used it when hunting, and his cows, kept at Fish House when his two daughters lived there, travelled this way to and from pasture.

  Between us and the Sacandaga lay one of those grassy gulleys where, in time of flood, back-water from the Sacandaga spread deep.

  My Indian and I now lay down and drew our bodies very stealthily toward the woods’ edge, where the setback from the river divided us from Fish House.

  Ahead of us, through the trees, dense volumes of smoke crowded upward and unfolded into strange, cloudy shapes, and we could hear a loud and steady crackling noise made by feeding flames.

  Presently, through the trees, I saw Fish House all afire, and now only a glowing skeleton in the sunshine. But the dense smoke came not now from Fish House, but from three barracks of marsh-hay burning, which vomited thick smoke into the sky. Near the house some tall piles of hewn logs were blazing, also a corn-crib, a small barn, and a log farmhouse, where I think that damned rascal, Wormwood, once lived. And it had been bought by a tenant of Sir William, — one of the patriot Shews or Helmers, if I mistake not, who was given favourable advantages to undertake such a settlement, but now had fled to Johnstown.