When presently I espied Douw Fonda’s great mansion of stone, I saw nobody on the porch, and no smoke rising from the chimneys, yet the front door stood open.
But when I rode up to the porch, a black wench came from the house, who said that Mr. Fonda dined at his son’s that day, and would remain until evening.
However, when I made inquiry for Penelope, I found that she was within, — had already been served with dinner, — and was now gone to the library to read and knit as usual when alone.
The black wench took my mare and whistled shrilly for a slave to come and hold the horse.
But I had already mounted the stoop and entered the silent house; and now I perceived Penelope, who had risen from a chair and was laying aside her book and knitting.
She seemed very white when I went to her and drew her into my embrace; and she rested her cheek against my shoulder and took close hold of my two arms, but uttered not a word.
Under her lace cap her hair glimmered like sun-warmed gold; and her hands, which had become very fine and white again, began to move upward to my shoulders, till they encircled my neck and rested there, tight linked.
For a space she wept, but presently staunched her tears with her laced apron’s edge, like a child at school. And when I made her look upon me she smiled though she still breathed sobbingly, and her lips still quivered as I kissed her.
We sat close together there in the golden gloom of the curtained room, where only a bar of dusty sunlight fell across a row of gilded books.
I had told her everything — had given an account of all that had befallen my little scout, and how I had returned to Johnstown, and how so suddenly my fortunes had been completely changed.
I told her of what I knew of the battle at Oriskany, of the present situation at Stanwix and at Saratoga, and of what I saw of the fight at the Flockey, where McDonald ran.
I begged her to persuade Mr. Fonda to go to Albany, and she promised to do so. And when I pointed out in detail how perilous was his situation here, and how desperate her own, she said she knew it, and had been horribly afraid, but that Caughnawaga folk seemed strangely indifferent to the danger, — could not bring themselves to believe in it, perhaps, — and were loath to leave their homes unprotected and their fields untilled.
But when I touched on her leaving these foolish people and, as my wife, travelling southward with me to the great fortress on the Hudson, she only wept, saying, in tears, that she was needed by an old and feeble man who had protected her when she was poor and friendless, and that, though she loved me, her duty still lay first at Douw Fonda’s side.
Quit him she utterly refused to do; and it was in vain I pointed out his three stalwart sons and their numerous families, retainers, tenants, servants, and slaves, who ought to care for the obstinate old gentleman and provide a security for him whether he would or no.
But argument was useless; I knew it. And all I obtained of her was that, whether matters north of us mended or grew worse, she would persuade Mr. Fonda to return to Albany until such time as Tryon County became once more safe to live in.
This she promised, and even assured me that she had already spoken of the matter to Mr. Fonda, and that the old gentleman appeared to be quite willing to return to Albany as soon as his grain could be reaped and threshed.
So with this I had to content my heavy heart. And now, by the tall clock, I perceived that my time was up; for Schenectady lay far away, and Albany father still; and it was like to be a long and dreary journey to West Point, if, indeed, I should find Lord Stirling still there.
For at Johnstown fort that morning I was warned that my General Lord Stirling had already rejoined his division in the Jerseys; and that the news was brought by riflemen of Morgan’s corps, which was now swiftly marching to join our Northern forces near Saratoga.
Well, God’s will must obtain on earth; none can thwart it; none foretell ——
At the thought I looked down at Penelope, where I held her clasped; and I told her of the vision of Thiohero.
She remained very still when she learned what the Little Maid of Askalege had seen there beside me in the cannon-cloud, where the German foresters of Hainau, in their outlandish dress, were shouting and shooting.
For Penelope had seen the same white shape; and had been, she said, afeard that it was my own weird she saw, — so white it seemed to her, she said, — so still and shrouded in its misty veil.
“Was it I?” she whispered in an awed voice. “Was it truly I that the Oneida virgin saw? And did she know my features in the shroud?”
“She saw you all in white and flowers, floating there near me like mist at sunrise.”
“She told you it was I?”
“Dying, she so told me. And, ‘Yellow Hair,’ she gasped, ‘is quite a witch!’ And then she died between my arms.”
“I am no witch,” she whispered.
“Nor was the Little Maid of Askalege. Both of you, I think, saw at times things that we others can not perceive until they happen; — the shadow of events to come.”
“Yes.”
After a silence: “Have you, perhaps, discovered other shadows since we last met, Penelope?”
“Yes; shadows.”
“What coming event cast them?”
After a long pause: “Will it make his mind more tranquil if I tell him?” she murmured to herself; and I saw her dark eyes fixed absently on the dusty ray of sunlight slanting athwart the room.
Then she looked up at me; blushed to her hair: “I saw children — with yellow hair — and your eyes — —”
“With your hair!”
“And your eyes — John Drogue — John Drogue — —”
The stillness of Paradise grew all around us, filling my soul with a great and heavenly silence.
We could not die — we two who stood here so closely clasped — until this vision had been fulfilled.
And so, presently, her hands fell into mine, and our lips joined slowly, and rested.
We said no word. I left her standing there in the golden twilight of the curtains, and got to my saddle, — God knows how, — and rode away beside the quiet river to the certain destiny that no man ever can hope to hinder or escape.
CHAPTER XXXI
“IN THE VALLEY”
On the 24th of June, 1777, Major General Lord Stirling had disobeyed the orders of His Excellency; and, in consequence, his flank was turned, he lost two guns and 150 men.
It is the only military mistake that my Lord Stirling ever made; the only lesson he ever had to learn in military judgment and obedience.
I was of his family for three years, — serving as one of his secretaries and aids-de-camp.
I was present at the battle of Brandywine; I served under him at Germantown in the fog, and at Monmouth; and never doubted that my Lord Stirling was a fine and capable and knightly soldier, if not possibly a great one.
Yet, perhaps, there was only one great soldier in that long and bloody war of the American Revolution. I need not name His Excellency.
For nearly three years, as I say, I served as a member of Lord Stirling’s military family. The lights and shadows of those days of fire and ice, of plenty and starvation, of joy and despair, of monstrous and incredible effort, and of paralyzing inaction, are known now to all.
And the end is not yet — nor, I fear, very near to a finish. But we all await our nation’s destiny with confidence, I think; — and our own fate with composure.
No man can pass through such years and remain what he was born. No man can regret them; none can dare wish to live through such days again; none would shun them. And how many months, or years, maybe, of fighting still remain before us, no man can foretell. But the grim men in their scare-crow regimentals who today, in the present year of 1780, are closing ranks to prepare for future battles, even in the bitter aftermath of defeat, seem to know, somehow, that this nation is destined to survive.
From the month of August in 1777 to May, 1780, I had not seen Penelope; I had
asked for no leave to travel, knowing, by reason of my confidential office and better than many others, how desperate was our army’s plight and how utterly every able-bodied man was needed.
In consequence, I had not seen my own Northland in all those months; I had not seen Penelope. Letters I wrote and sent to her when opportunity offered; letters came from her, and always written from Caughnawaga.
For it appeared that Douw Fonda had never consented to return to Albany; but, by some miracle of God, the Valley so far had suffered no serious harm. Yet, the terrible business at Wyoming renewed my every crudest fear for the safety of Caughnawaga; and when, in the same year, a Continental regiment of the Pennsylvania Line marched out from Schoharie to destroy Unadilla, I, who knew the Iroquois, knew that their revenge was certain to follow.
It followed in that very year; and Cherry Valley became a bloodsoaked heap of cinders; and there, under Iroquois knife and hatchet, and under the merciless clubbed muskets of the blue-eyed Indians, many of my old friends died — all of the Wells family save only one — old and young and babies. What a crime was done by young Walter Butler on that fearful day! And I sometimes wonder, now, what our generous but sentimental young Marquis thinks of his deed of mercy when he saw and pitied Walter Butler in an Albany prison, sick and under sentence of death, and procured medical treatment for him and more comfortable quarters in a private residence.
And Butler drugged his sentry and slipped our fingers like a rat and was off in a trice and gone to his bloody destiny in the West! Lord — Lord! — the things men do to men!
When Brant burned Minnisink I trembled anew for Caughnawaga; and breathed freely only when our General Sullivan marched on Tioga with six thousand men.
Yet, though he cleaned out the foul and hidden nests of the Iroquois Confederacy, I, knowing these same Iroquois, knew in my dreading heart that Iroquois vengeance would surely strike again, and this time at the Valley.
Because, out of the Mohawk Valley, came all their chiefest woes; Oriskany, which set the whole Six Nations howling their dead; Stillwater; Unadilla; Tioga; The Chemung — these battles tore the Iroquois to fragments.
The Long House, in ruins, rang with the frantic wailing of four fierce nations. The Senecas screamed in their pain from the Western Gate; the Cayugas and Onondagas were singing the death song of their nations; the proud Keepers of the Eastern Gate, driven headlong into exile, gathered like bleeding panthers on the frontier, their glowing gaze intent and patient, watching the usurpers and marking them for vengeance and destruction.
To me, personally, the conflict in my Northland had become unutterably horrible.
Our battles in the Jerseys, in Pennsylvania, in Delaware, and farther south, held for me no such horror and repugnance; for if the panoply of war be dreadful, its pomp and circumstance make it endurable and to be understood by human beings.
But to me there was something terrifying in secret ambush and ghastly massacre amid the eternal twilight of the Northern wilderness, where painted men stole through still places, intent on murder; where death was swift and silent, where all must watch and none dared rest; where children wept in their sleep, and mothers lay listening all night long, and hollow-eyed men cut their corn with sickle in one hand and rifle in the other.
We, in the Jerseys, watching red-coat and Hessian, heard of scalps taken in the North from babies lying in their cradles — aye, the very watch-dog at the gate was scalped; and painted Tories threw their victims over rail fences to hang there, disembowelled, like dead game.
We heard terrible and inhuman tales of Simon Girty, of Benjy Beacraft, of Billy Newbury — all old neighbours of mine, and now turned child-killers and murderers of helpless women — all painted men, now, ferocious and without mercy.
But these men had never been more than ignorant peasants and dull tillers of the soil for thriftier masters. Yet they were no crueller than others of birth and education. And what was I to think of Walter Butler and other gentlemen of like condition, — officers who had delivered Tom Boyd of Derry to the Senecas, — Colonel Paris to the Mohawks!
The day we heard that Sergeant Newbury and Henry Hare were taken, I thanked God on my knees. And when our General Clinton hung them both for human monsters as well as spies, then I thanked God again.... And wrote tenderly to Claudia, poor misguided girl! — condoling with her — not for her grief and the death of Henry Hare — but that the black disgrace of it should so nearly touch and soil her.
I have received, so far, no letter from Claudia in reply. But Lord Stirling tells me that she reigns a belle in New York; and that she hath wrought havoc among the Queen’s Rangers, and particularly in De Lancy’s Horse and the gay cavalry of Colonel Tarleton.
I pray her pretty, restless wings may not be singed or broken, or flutter, dying, in the web of Fate.
Nick Stoner’s father, Henry, that grim old giant with his two earhoops in his leathery ears, and with all his brawn, and mighty strength, and the lurking scowl deep bitten betwixt his tiger eyes, — old Henry Stoner is dead and scalped.
Nick, who is now fife-major, has writ me this in a letter full of oaths and curses for the Iroquois who have done this shame to him and his.
For every hair on old Henry’s mangled head, said he, an Iroquois should spit out his death-yell. He tells me that he means to quit the army and enter the business of tanning Iroquois hides to make boots and moccasins; and says that Tim Murphy has knee moccasins as fine as ever he saw, and made out o’ leather skinned off an Indian’s legs!
Faugh! Grief and shame have made Nick blood-mad.... Yet, I know not what I should do, or how conduct, if she who is nearest to my heart should ever suffer from an Indian.
This sweet April day, taking the air near Lord Stirling’s marquee, I see the first white butterflies a-fluttering like windblown bits o’ paper across the new grass.... In the North the woodlands should be soft with snow; and, in warm places, perhaps the butterfly we call the beauty of Camberwell may sit sipping the first drops o’ maple sap.... And there should be a scent of pink arbutus in the breeze, if winds be soft.... Lord — Lord — I am become sick for home.... And would see my glebe again in Fonda’s Bush; and hear the spring roaring of the Kennyetto between melting banks.... And listen to the fairy thunder of the cock partridge drumming on his log.
My neighbours are all dead or gone away, they say. My house is a heap of wind-stirred ashes, — as are all houses in Fonda’s Bush save only Stoner’s. My cleared land sprouts young forests; my fences are gone; wolves travel my paths; deer pasture my hill; and my new orchard stands dead and girdled by wood-mouse and rabbit.... And still I be sick for a sight of it that was once my home, — and ever shall be while I possess a handful of mother earth to call mine own.
It is near the end of April and I seem sick, but would not have Billy Alexander think I mope.
I have a letter from Penelope. She lately saw a small scout on the Mohawk, it being a part of M’Kean’s corps; and she recognized and conversed with several men who once composed my first war party — Jean de Silver, Benjamin De Luysnes, Joe de Golyer of Frenchman’s Creek, and Godfrey Shew of Fish House.
They were on their way to Canada by way of Sacandaga, to learn what Sir John might be about.... God knows I also desire very earnestly to know what the sinister Baronet may be planning.
Penelope writes me that Tahioni the Wolf is dead in his glory; and that Hiakatoo took his scalp and heart.... I suppose that is glory enough for any dead young warrior, but the intelligence fills me with foreboding. And Kwiyeh the Screech-owl is dead at Lake Desolation, and so is Hanatoh the Water-snake, where some Praying Indians caught them in a canoe and made a dreadful example of my two young comrades.... But at least they were permitted to sing their death-songs, and so died happy — if that indeed be happiness....
The Cadys, who were gone off to Canada, and John and Phil Helmer, have been seen in green uniforms and red; and Adam Helmer has sworn an oath to seek them, follow them, and slay them for the bloody turncoat do
gs they are. Lord, Lord, how hast Thou changed Thy children into creatures of the wild to prey one upon another till all the Northland becomes once more a desert and empty of human life!
It is May. I sicken for Penelope and for my home.
I am given a furlough! I asked it not. Lord Stirling dismisses me — with a grin. Pretense of inspection covering the Johnstown district, and to count the batteaux between Schenectady and the Creek of Askalege! Which is but sheer nonsense; and I had as well spend the time a-telling of my thumbs — which Lord Stirling knows as well as I is the pastime of an idiot.... God bless him!
I am given a month, to arrange my personal affairs. I have asked for nothing; and am given a month!... And stand here at the tent door all a-tremble while my mare is saddled, not trusting my voice lest it break and shame me before all....
I close my carnet and strap it with a buckle.
I am on my way! Shad-bushes drop a million snowy petals in the soft May breeze; dogwood is in bloom; orchards are become great nosegays of pink and silver. Everywhere birds are singing.
And through this sweet Paradise I ride in my dingy regimentals; but my pistols are clean and my leathers; and my sword and spurs are bright, and chime gaily as I ride beside the great gray river northward, ever northward to my sweetheart and my home.
I baited at Tarrytown. The next night I was at Poughkeepsie, where the landlord was a low-Dutchman and a skinflint too.
I passed opposite to where Kingston lay in ashes, burned wantonly by a brute. And after that I advanced but slowly, for roads were bad and folk dour and suspicious — which state of mind I also shared and had no traffic with those I encountered, and chose to camp in the woods, too, rather than risk a night under the dubious roofs I saw, even though invited.
Only near the military posts in the Highlands did I feel truly secure until, one day at sunrise, I beheld the shining spires of Albany, and hundreds of gilded weather-cocks all shining me a welcome.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1007
