Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “March,” I said in a low voice.

  We travelled as the honey-bee flies, and as rapidly while the going was good en route; but to cover this great triangle of forests we were obliged to use the tactics of hunting wolves and, from some given point, circle the surrounding country, in hopes of cutting the hidden British trail we sought.

  This delayed us; but it was the only way. And, like trained hunting dogs, we even quartered and cut up the wilderness, halting and encircling Cherry Valley on the second day out, because I knew how familiar was Walter Butler with that region and with the people who inhabited it, and suspected that he might be likely to lead his first attack over ground he knew so well.

  Ah, God! — had I known then what all the world knows now! And I erred only in guessing at the time of Cherry Valley’s martyrdom, not in estimating the ferocious purpose of young Walter Butler.

  On the afternoon of our second day out from Schoharie, while we were still beating up the bush of the Cherry Valley district, I left my Indians and went alone down into the pretty settlement in quest of information and also to renew our scanty stock of provisions. I found the lovely place almost deserted, save for a few old men of the exempts working on a sort of fort around Colonel Clyde’s house, and a few women and children who had not yet gone off to Schenectady or Albany.

  I stopped at the house of the Wells family. John Wells, the father of my friend Bob, had been one of the Judges of the Tryon County courts, sitting on the bench with old John Butler, who now was invading us, with Sir John, in arms.

  Bob was away on military duty, but there were in the house his mother, his wife, his four little children, his brother Jack, and Janet, his engaging sister whom I had admired so often at the Hall, and who was beloved like a daughter by Sir William.

  I shall never forget the amazement of these delightful and kindly people when I appeared at their door in Cherry Valley, nor their affectionate hospitality when they learned my purpose and my errand.

  A sack of provisions was immediately provided me; their kindness and courtesy seemed inexhaustible, although even now the shadow of terror lay over Cherry Valley. Their young men under Colonels Clyde and Campbell had gone to join Herkimer; they were utterly destitute of defense against McDonald or Sir John if Schoharie were invaded, or if Stanwix fell, or if Herkimer gave way before St. Leger.

  They asked news of me very calmly, and I told them all I had learned and something of the sinister rumours which now were current in the Mohawk and Schoharie Valleys.

  They, in their turn, knew nothing positive of Sir John, but had heard that he was marching on Stanwix with St. Leger and Brant, and that a thousand savages were with them.

  My sojourn at the Wells house was brief; the family was evidently very anxious but not gloomy; even the children smiled courageously when I made my adieux; and my dear little friend, Janet, led me by the hand to the edge of the brush-field, through which I must travel to regain the forest, and kissed me at our parting.

  On the wood’s edge, I paused and looked back at the place called Cherry Valley, lying so peacefully in the sunshine, where in the fields grain already was turning golden green; and fat cattle grazed their pastures; and wisps of smoke drifted from every chimney.

  That is my memory of Cherry Valley in the sunny tranquillity of late afternoon, where tasseled corn like ranks of plumed Indians, covered vale and hillock; and clover and English grass grew green again after the first haying; and on some orchard trees the summer apples glimmered rosy ripe or lush gold among the leaves; — ah, God! — if I could have known what another year was to bring to Cherry Valley!

  There was no sound in the still settlement except a dull and distant stirring made by the workmen sodding parapets on the new and unfinished fort.

  From where I stood I could see the Wells house, and the little children at play in the dooryard; and Peter Smith, a servant, drawing water, who one day was to see his master’s family in their blood.

  I could make out Colonel Campbell’s house, too, and the chimney of Colonel Clyde’s house; and had a far glimpse of the residence of the Reverend Mr. Dunlop, the aged minister of Cherry Valley.

  From a gilded weather-cock I was able to guess about where Captain M’Kean should reside; and Mr. Mitchell’s barn I discovered, also. But M’Kean and his rangers must now be marching with Herkimer’s five regiments to meet the hordes of St. Leger.

  The sun sank blood-red behind the unbroken forests, and the sky over Cherry Valley seemed to be all afire as I turned away and entered the twilight of the woods, lugging my sack of provisions on my back.

  That night my Indians and I lay within rifle-shot of the Mohawk River; and at dawn we made a crow-flight of it toward Oneida Lake; and found not a trace of Sir John or of anybody in that trackless wilderness; and so camped at last, exhausted and discouraged.

  On the fourth day, toward sunset, the Screech-owl, roaming far out on our western flank, returned with news of a dead and stinking fire in the woods, and fish heads rotting in it; and he thought the last ember burnt out some four days since.

  He took us to it in the dark, and his was a better woodcraft than I could boast, who had been Brent-Meester, too. At dawn we examined the ashes, but discovered nothing; and we were eating our parched corn and discussing the matter of the fire when, very far away in the west, a shot sounded; and in that same second we were on our feet and listening like damned men for the last trumpet.

  My heart made a deadened rataplan like a muffled drum, and seemed to deafen me, so terribly intent was I.

  Tahioni stretched out like a panther sunning on a log; and laid his ear flat against the earth. Seconds grew to minutes; nobody stirred; no other sound came from the westward.

  Presently I turned and signalled in silence; my Indians crawled noiselessly to their allotted intervals, extending our line north and south; then, trailing my rifle, I stole forward through an open forest, beneath the ancient and enormous trees of which no underbrush grew in the eternal twilight.

  Nothing stirred. There were no animals here, no birds, no living creature that I could hear or see, — not even an insect.

  Under our tread the mat of moist dead leaves gave back no sound; the silence in this dim place was absolute.

  We had been creeping forward for more than an hour, I think, before I discovered the first sign of man in that spectral region.

  I was breasting a small hillock set with tall walnut trees, in hopes of obtaining a better view ahead, and had just reached the crest, and, lying flat, was lifting my head for a cautious survey, when my eye caught a long, wide streak of sunlight ahead.

  My Indians, too, had seen this tell-tale evidence which indicated either a stream or a road. But we all knew it was a road. We could see the sunshine dappling it; and we crawled toward it, belly dragging, like tree-cats stalking a dappled fawn.

  Scarce had we come near enough to observe this road plainly, and the crushed ferns and swale grasses in the new waggon ruts, when we heard horses coming at a great distance.

  Down we drop, each to a tree, and lie with levelled pieces, while slop! thud! clink! come the horses, nearer, nearer; and, to my astonishment and perplexity, from the east, and travelling the wrong way.

  I cautioned my Oneidas fiercely against firing unless I so signalled them; we lay waiting in an excitement well nigh unendurable, while nearer and nearer came the leisurely sound of the advancing horses.

  And now we saw them! — three red-coat dragoons riding very carelessly westward on this wide, well-trodden road which now I knew must lead to Oneida Lake.

  I could see the British horsemen plainly. The day was hot; the sun beat down on their red jackets and helmets; they sat their saddles wearily; their faces were wet with perspiration, and they had loosened jacket and neck-cloth, and their pistols were in holster, and their guns slung upon their backs.

  It was plain that these troopers had no thought of precaution nor entertained any apprehension of danger on this road, which must lie in the rear o
f their army, and must also be their route of communication between the Lake and the Mohawk.

  Slap, slop, clink! they trampled past us where my Oneidas lay a-tremble like crouched cats to see the rats escaping on their runway.

  But my ears had caught another sound, — the distant noise of wheels; and I guessed that this was a waggon which the three horsemen should have escorted, but, feeling entirely secure, had let their horses take their own gait, and so had straggled on far ahead of the convoy with which they should have kept in touch.

  The waggon was far away. It approached slowly. Already the horsemen had ridden clear out o’ sight; and we crept to the edge of the road and lay flat in the weeds, waiting, listening.

  Twice the approaching vehicle halted as though to rest the horses; the dragoons must have been a long way ahead by this time, for it was some minutes since the sound of their horses’ hoofs had died away in the woods.

  And now, near and ever nearer, creeps the waggon; and now it seems close at hand; and now we see it far away down the road, slowly moving toward us.

  But it is no baggage-wain, — no transport cart that approaches us. The two horses are caparisoned in bright harness; the driver wears a red waistcoat and is a negro, and powdered. The vehicle is a private coach which lurches, though driven cautiously.

  “Good God!” said I, “that is Sir John’s family coach! Tahioni, hold your Oneidas! For I mean to find out who rides so carelessly to Oneida Lake, confiding too much in the army which has passed this way!”

  Slowly, slowly the coach drew near our ambush. I recognized Colas as the coachman pro tem; I knew the horses and the family coach; saw the Johnson arms emblazoned on the panels as I rose from the roadside weeds.

  “Colas!” I said quietly.

  The negro pulled in his horses and sat staring at me, astounded.

  I walked leisurely past the horses to the window of the coach. And there, seated, I saw Polly Johnson and Claudia Swift.

  There ensued a terrible silence and they gazed upon me as though they were looking upon a dead man.

  “Jack Drogue!” whispered Claudia, “how — how come you here?”

  I bowed, my cap in my hand, but could not utter a word.

  “Jack! Jack, are — are you alone?” faltered Lady Johnson. “Good heavens, what does this mean, I beg of you? — —”

  “Where are your people, Polly?” I asked in a dead voice.

  “My — my people? Do you mean my husband?”

  “I mean him.... And his troops. Where are they at this moment?”

  “Do you not know that the army is before Stanwix?”

  “I know it now,” said I gravely.

  “Mercy on us, Jack!” cried Claudia, finding her voice shrilly; “will you not tell us how it is that we meet you here on the Oneida road and close to our own army?”

  I shook my head: “No, Claudia, I shall not tell you. But I must ask you how you came here and whither you now are bound. And you must answer.”

  They gazed at my sombre face with an intentness and anxiety that made me sadder than ever I was in all my life.

  Then, without a word, Lady Johnson laid aside the silken flap of her red foot-mantle. And there my shocked eyes beheld a new born baby nursing at her breast.

  “We accompanied my husband from Buck Island to Oswego,” she said tremulously. “And, as the way was deemed so utterly secure, we took boat at Oneida Lake and brought our horses.... And now are returning — never dreaming of danger from — from your people — Jack.”

  I stared at the child; I stared at her.

  “In God’s name,” I said, “get forward then, and hail your horsemen escort. Say to them that the road is dangerous! Take to your batteau and get you to Oswego as soon as may be. And I strictly enjoin you, come not this way again, for there is now no safety in Tryon for man or woman or child, nor like to be while red-coat or green remains within this new-born nation!

  “And you, Claudia, say to Sir Frederick Haldimand that he has lighted in Tryon a flame that shall utterly consume him though he hide behind the ramparts of Quebec itself! Say that to him!”

  Then I stepped back and bade Colas drive on as fast as he dare. And when he cracked his long whip, I stood uncovered and looked upon the woman I once had loved, and upon the other woman who had been my childhood playmate; and saw her child at her breast, and her pale face bowed above it.

  And so out of my life passed these two women forever, without any word or sign save for the white faces of them and the deadly fear in their eyes.

  I stood there in the Oneida Road, watching their coach rolling and swaying until it was out of view, and even the noise of it had utterly died away.

  Then I walked slowly back to the wood’s edge; in silence my Oneidas rose from the weeds and stood around me where I halted, the sleeve of my buckskin shirt across my eyes.

  Then, when I was ready, I turned and went forward, swiftly, in a southeasterly direction; and heard their padded footsteps falling lightly at my heels as I Hastened toward the Mohawk, a miserable, sad, yet angry man.

  All that long, hot day we travelled; and in the afternoon black clouds hid the sun, and presently a most furious thunder storm burst on us in the woods, so that we were obliged to shelter us under the hemlocks and lie there while rain roared and lightning blinded, and deafening thunder shook the ground we lay on.

  It was over in an hour. The forest dripped and steamed as we unwrapped our rifles and started on.

  Twice, it seemed to me, far to the east I heard a duller, vaguer noise of thunder; and my Indians also noticed it.

  Later, with the sky all blue above, it came again — dull, distant shocks with no rolling echo trailing after.

  Tahioni came to me, and I saw in his uneasy eyes what I also now divined. For to the bravest Indian the sound of cannon is a terror and an abomination. And I now had become very sure that it was cannon we heard; for Stanwix lay far across the wilderness in that direction, and the heavy, lifeless, and superheated air might carry the solemn sound from a great distance.

  But I said nothing, not choosing to share my conclusions with these young warriors who, though they had taken scalps at Big Eddy, were yet scarcely tried in war.

  That night we lay near an old trail which I knew ran to Otsego and passed by Colonel Croghan’s new house.

  And on this trail, early the following morning, we encountered two men whom my Indians, instead of taking as they should have done, instantly shot down. Which betrayed their inexperience in war; and I rated them roundly.

  The two dead men were blue-eyed Indians in all the horror of their shameful paint and forest dress.

  I knew one of them, for when Tahioni washed their lifeless visages and laid them on their backs, there, to my hot indignation, I beheld young Thomas Hare, brother to Lieutenant Henry Hare and to Captain James Hare, of the Indian Service.

  Horror-stricken, bitterly mortified, I gazed down at the dead features of these two renegades who had betrayed their own race and colour; and my Indians, watching me, understood when I turned and spat upon the ground; and so they scalped both — which otherwise they had not dared in my presence.

  We found on them every evidence that they were serving as a scout for McDonald. Probably when we encountered them they had been on their way to Sir John at Stanwix with verbal intelligence. But now it was idle to surmise what they might have been able to tell us.

  We found upon their bodies no papers to shew where McDonald might be lurking; and so, as I would not trouble to bury the carrion, my Oneidas despoiled them, hid their weapons, pouched their money and ammunition, and left them lying on the trail for their more respectable relatives, the wolves, to devour.

  Now, on the Otsego trail, which was but a vile one and nigh impassable with undergrowth, we beat toward the Mohawk like circling hounds cast out and at fault to find a scent.

  And at evening of that day, the seventh of August, I saw a man in the woods, and, watching, ordered my Indians to surround him and bring him
in alive.

  Judge, then, of my chagrin when presently comes walking up, and arm in arm with my Oneidas, one Daniel Wemple in his militia regimentals, a Torloch farmer whom I knew.

  “Great God, John!” says he, “what are you doing here with your tame panthers and a pair o’ raw scalps that smell white in my nostrils?”

  I told him, and asked in turn for news.

  “You know nothing?” he demanded.

  “Nothing, Dan, only that we heard cannon to the eastward yesterday.”

  “Well,” says he, “there has been a bloody fight at Oriska, John; and Tryon must mourn her sons.

  “For our fine regiments marched into an ambuscade on our way to drive Sir John from Stanwix, which he had invested. Colonel Cox is dead, and Majors Eisinlord and Klepsattle and Van Slyck. Colonel Paris is taken, and our brigade surgeon, Younglove, and Captain Martin of the batteaux service. John Frey, Major of brigade, is missing, and so is Colonel Bellinger. Scarce an inferior officer but is slain or taken; our dead soldiers are carted off by waggon-loads; our wounded lie in their alder-litters. And among them our general, — old Honikol Herkimer! — and I myself saw that brave Oneida die — our interpreter, Spencer — —”

  A cry escaped me, instantly checked as I looked at Thiohero. The girl came and rested her arm on my left shoulder and gazed steadily at the militia man.

  He passed his hand wearily through his hair: “Only one regiment ran,” he said dully. “I shall not name it to you because it was not entirely their fault; and afterward they lost heavily and fought bravely. But this is a dreadful blow to Tryon, John Drogue.”

  “We were routed, then?”

  “No. We drove them from the field pell mell! We cut Brant’s savages to pieces. We went at Sir John’s Greens with our bayonets and tore the guts out of them! We put the fear o’ God into Butler’s green-coats, too, and there’ll be caterwauling in Canada when the news is carried, for I saw young Stephen Watts dead in his blood, and Hare running off with a broken arm a-flapping and he a-screaming like a singed wildcat — —”