Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  When the mounted officer saw me he shouted through the dust-cloud that Sir John had been at the Hall, seized his plate and papers, and a lot of prisoners, and had murdered innocent people in Johnstown streets.

  Tim Murphy and his comrade, Elerson, also came up, calling out to the Johnstown men that they had come from Schoharie, and that both militia and Continentals were marching to the Valley.

  There was some cheering. I pushed my horse impatiently through the crowd and up the hill. But a little way farther on the road was choked with troops arriving on a run; and they had brought cohorns and their ammunition waggon, and God knows what! — alas! too late to oppose or punish the blood-drenched demons who had turned the Caughnawaga Valley to a smoking hell.

  Now, my horse was involved with all these excited people, and I, exasperated, thought I never should get clear of the soldiery and cohorns, but at length pushed a way through to the woods on my right, and spurred my mare into them and among the larger elms and pines where sheep had pastured, and there was less brush.

  I could not see the great pine now, but thought I had marked it down; and so bore again to the right, where through the woods I could see a glimmer of sun along cleared land.

  It was rocky; my horse slipped and I was obliged to walk him upward among stony places, where moss grew green and deep.

  And now, through a fringe of saplings, I caught a glimpse of the two elms and the tall pine between.

  “Penelope!” I cried. Then I saw her.

  She was standing as once she stood the first time ever I laid eyes on her. The sun shone in her face and made of her yellow hair a glory. And I saw her naked feet shining snow white, ankle deep in the wet grass.

  As though sun-dazzled she drew one hand swiftly across her eyes when I rode up, leaned over, and swung her up into my arms. And earth and sky and air became one vast and thrilling void through which no sound stirred save the wild beating of her heart and mine.

  Then, as from an infinite distance, came a thin cry, piercing our still paradise.

  Her arms loosened on my neck; we looked down as in a dream; and there were the little Romeyn children in the grass, naked in their shifts, and holding tightly to my stirrup.

  And now we saw light horsemen leading their mounts this way, and the poor Dominie’s lady carried on a trooper’s saddle, her bare foot clinging to the shortened stirrup.

  Other troopers lifted the children to their saddles; a great hubbub began below us along the Schenectady highway, where I now heard drums and the shrill marching music of an arriving regiment.

  I reached behind me, unstrapped my military mantle, clasped it around Penelope, swathed her body warmly, and linked up the chain. Then I touched Kaya with my left knee — she guiding left at such slight pressure — and we rode slowly over the sheep pasture and then along the sheep-walk, westward until we arrived at the bars. The bars were down and lay scattered over the grass. And thus we came quietly out into the Johnstown road.

  So still lay Penelope in my arms that I thought, at times, she was asleep; but ever, as I bent over her, her dark eyes unclosed, gazing up at me in tragic silence.

  Cautiously we advanced along the Johnstown road, Kaya cantering where the way was easy.

  We passed ruined houses, still smoking, but Penelope did not see them. And once I saw a dead man lying near a blackened cellar; and a dead hound near him.

  Long before we came in sight of Johnstown I could hear the distant quaver of the tocsin, where, on the fort, the iron bell rang ceaselessly its melancholy warning.

  And after a while I saw a spire above distant woods, and the setting sun brilliant on gilt weather-vanes.

  I bent over Penelope: “We arrive,” I whispered.

  One little hand stole out and drew aside the collar of the cloak; and she turned her head and saw the roofs and chimneys shining red in the westering sun.

  “Jack,” she said faintly.

  “I listen, beloved.”

  “Douw Fonda is dead.”

  “Hush! I know it, love.”

  “Douw Fonda is with God since sunrise,” she whispered.

  “Yes, I know.... And many others, too, Penelope.”

  She shook her head vaguely, looking up at me all the while.

  “It came so swiftly.... I was still abed.... The guns awoke me.... And the blacks screaming. I ran to the window of my chamber.

  “A Continental soldier was driving an army cart toward the Johnstown road. And I saw him jump out of his cart, cut his traces, mount, turn his horse, and gallop down the valley.... That was the first real fear that assailed me, when I saw that soldier flee.... I went below immediately; and saw Indians near the Fisher place.... But I could not persuade Mr. Fonda to escape with me through the orchard.... He would not go, Jack — he would not listen to me or to the Bouw-Meester, who also had hold of him.

  “And when we went into the library somebody fired through the window and hit the Bouw-Meester.... I don’t know what happened to him or where he fell.... For the next moment the house was full of green-coats and savages.... They led Mr. Fonda out of the house.... An Indian killed him with a hatchet.... A green-coat took hold of me and said he meant to cut my throat for a damned rebel slut! But an Indian pushed him away.... They disputed. An officer of the Indian Department came into the library and told me to go out to the orchard and escape if I was able.

  “Then a Tory neighbour of ours, Joseph Clement, came in and shouted out in low Dutch: Laat de vervlukten rabble starven!’ ... A green-coat clubbed his musket to slay me, but the Indian officer caught the gun and called out to me: ‘Run! Run, you yellow-haired slut!’

  “But I dared not stir to pass by where Clement stood with his gun. I caught up a heavy silver candle-stick, broke the window with two blows, and leaped out into the orchard.... Clement ran around the house and I saw him enter the orchard, carrying a gun and looking for me; but I lay very still under the lilac hedge; and he must have thought I had run down to the river, for he went off that way.

  “Then I got to my feet and crept up the hill.... And presently saw Mrs. Romeyn and the children toiling up the hill; and helped her carry them.... All the morning we hid there and looked down at the burning houses.... And after a long while the firing grew more distant.

  “And then — and then — you came! My dear lord! — my lover.... My own lover who has come to me at last!”

  AFTERMATH

  I know not how it shall be with me and mine! In this year of our Lord, 1782, in which I write, here in the casemates at West Point, the war rages throughout the land, and there seems no end to it, nor none likely that I can see.

  That horrid treason which, through God’s mercy, did not utterly confound us and deliver this fortress to our enemy, still seems to brood over this calm river and the frowning hills that buttress it, like a low, dark cloud.

  But I believe, under God, that our cause is now clean purged of all villainy, and all that is sordid, base, and contemptible.

  I believe, under God, that we shall accomplish our freedom and recover our ancient and English liberties in the end.

  That dull and German King, who sits yonder across the water, can never again stir in any American the faintest echo of that allegiance which once all offered simply and without question.

  Nor can his fat jester, my Lord North, contrive any new pleasantry to seduce us, or any new and bloody deviltry to make us fear the wrath of God’s anointed or the monkey chatter of his clown.

  For us, the last king has sat upon a throne; the last privilege has been accorded to the last and noble drone; the last slave’s tax has long been paid.

  Yet — and it sounds strange — England still seems home to us.... We think of it as home.... It is in our blood; and I am not ashamed to say it. And I think a hundred years may pass, and, in our hearts, shall still remain deep, deep, a tenderness for that far, ocean-severed home our grandsires knew as England.

  I say it spite o’ the German King, spite of his mad ministers, spite o’ Briti
sh wrath and scorn and jibes and cruelty. For, by God! I believe that we ourselves who stand in battle here are the true mind and heart and loins of England, fighting to slay her baser self!

  Well, we are here in the Highlands, my sweetheart-wife and I.... I who now wear the regimentals of a Continental Colonel, and have a regiment as pretty as ever I see — though it be not over-strong in numbers. But, oh, the powder toughened line o’ them in their patched blue-and-buff! And their bright bayonets! Sir, I would not boast; and ask I pardon if it seems so....

  Below us His Excellency, calm, imperturbable, holds in his hand our destinies, juggling now with Sir Henry Clinton, now with my Lord Cornwallis, as suits his temper and his purpose.

  The traitor, Arnold, ravages where he may; the traitor, Lee, sulks in retreat; and Conway has confessed his shame; and the unhappy braggart, Gates, now mourns his laurels, wears his willows, and sits alone, a broken and preposterous man.

  I think no day passes but I thank God for my Lord Stirling, for our wise Generals Greene and Knox and Wayne, for the gallant young Marquis, so loved and trusted by His Excellency.

  But war is long — oh, long and wearying! — and a dismal and vexing business for the most.

  I, being in garrison at this fortress, which is the keystone of our very liberties, find that, in barracks as in the field, every hour brings its anxieties and its harassing duties.

  Yet, thank God, I have some hours of leisure.... And we have leased a pretty cottage within our works — and our two children seem wondrous healthy and content.... Both have yellow hair. I wish they had their mother’s lovely eyes!... But, for the rest, they have her beauty and her health.

  And shall, no doubt, inherit all the beauty of her mind and heart.

  Comes a soldier servant where I sit writing:

  “Sir: Colonel Forbes’ lady; her compliments to Colonel Forbes, and desires to be informed how soon my Colonel will be free to drink a dish of tea with my lady?”

  “Pray offer my compliments and profound respect to my lady, Billy, and say that I shall have the honour of drinking a dish of tea with my lady within no more than five amazing minutes!”

  And so he salutes and off he goes; and I gather up the sheaf of memoirs I have writ and lock them in my desk against another day.

  And so take leave of you, with every kindness, because Penelope should not sit waiting.

  Farm overseer.

  The Three Patents were Sacandaga, Kayaderosseras, and Stones.

  Sachem: the Canienga term.

  One of his abandoned brass cannon is — or recently was — lying embedded in a swamp in the North Woods.

  The Screech-Owl.

  The Water-Snake.

  The River-reed.

  The noble or honourable one. The feminine of Royaneh, or Sachem, in the Algonquin.

  Thank you.

  To show that the late owner of the scalp had died fighting bravely.

  This was a true prophecy for it happened later at Oriskany.

  Years later, Thayendanegea made a reference to this attempt, but the inference was that he himself led the war party, which is not true, because Brant was then in England.

  The Huron for Canienga.

  A Mohican term of insult, but generally used to express contempt for the Canienga.

  Oneida.

  The Karenna of Thiohero

  Yi-ya-thon-dek, John Drogue, Da-ed-e-wenh-he-i, Engh-si-tsko-dak-i! Yi-ya-thon-dek, John Drogue, Nenne-a-wenni Yo-ya-neri Kenonwes!

  Perhaps! He is Chief.

  Beforehand.

  Literally, in scarlet blood.

  The Pleiades.

  The Commissioners for selling real estate in Tryon County sold the personal property of Sir John Johnson some time before the Hall and acreage were sold. The Commissioners appointed for selling confiscated personal property in Tryon County were appointed later, March 6, 1777.

  This same man, William Newberry, a sergeant in Butler’s regiment; and Henry Hare, lieutenant in the same regiment, were caught inside the American lines, court-martialed, convicted of unspeakable cruelties, and Were hung as spies by order of General Clinton, July 6th, 1779.

  Kon-kwe-ha. Literally, “I am a little of a real man.”

  “Tortoise,” or Noble Clan.

  He is an Oneida.

  “A real man,” in Canienga dialect. The Saguenay’s Iroquois is mixed and imperfect.

  “Disappearing Mist” — Sakayen-gwaration.

  Che-go-sis — pickerel. In the Oneida dialect, Ska-ka-lux or Bad-eye.

  In October, 1919, the author talked to a farmer and his son, who, a few days previously, while digging sand to mend the Johnstown road at this point, had disinterred two skeletons which had been buried there. From the shape of the skulls, it is presumed that the remains were Indian.

  Indian lore. The yellow moccasin flower is the whippoorwill’s shoe.

  A secret society common to all nations of the Iroquois Confederacy.

  32 parallel to The Expedition to Danbury, printed in a Pennsylvania newspaper, May 14th, 1777.

  Carkers — carcass — a shell fired from a small piece of artillery.

  Sir Peter Parker’s breeches were carried away by a round shot at Fort Moultrie.

  His charming but abandoned mistress.

  The house stood in the forks of the Albany and Schenectady road.

  Catherine. Her shrine is at Auriesville — the Lourdes of America — where many miraculous cures are effected.

  Haghriron, of the Great Rite, in the Canienga dialect.

  Captain Watts was left for dead but ultimately recovered.

  The historian, J. R. Simms, says that Benjamin De Luysnes and his party strung up Dries Bowman, and then cut him down and let him go with a warning. Simms also gives a different date to this affair. At all events, it seems that Bowman was cut down in time to save his life. Simms, by the way, spells De Luysnes’ name De Line. Campbell mentions Captain Stephen Watts as Major Stephen Watson. We all commit error.

  Angelica Vrooman sewed the winding sheet for Lieutenant Wirt’s body.

  A letter written by Colonel Butler so designates the place where the ancient Butler house is still standing. The letter mentioned is in the possession of the author.

  Now the town of Fonda.

  The British account makes it three guns and 200 men.

  In the writer’s possession is a letter written by the widow of Lieutenant Hare, retailing the circumstances of his execution and praying for financial relief from extreme poverty. General Sir Frederick Haldimand indorses the application in his own handwriting and recommends a pension. The widow mentions her six little children.

  The gossipy, industrious, and diverting historian, Simms, whose account of this incident would seem to imply that Penelope Grant herself related it to him, gives a different version of her testimony. The statement he offers is signed: “Mrs. Penelope Fortes. Her maiden name was Grant.” So Simms may have had it first hand.

  In Valley Dutch: “Let the accursed rebel die!”

  THE FLAMING JEWEL

  CONTENTS

  Episode One

  Episode Two

  Episode Three

  Episode Four

  Episode Five

  Episode Six

  Episode Seven

  Episode Eight

  Episode Nine

  Episode Ten

  Episode Eleven

  Episode Twelve

  To my friend R. T. Haines-Halsey who unreservedly believes everything I write.

  To R.T.

  * * * * *

  I Three Guests at dinner! That’s the life! — Wedgewood, Revere, and

  Duncan Phyfe!

  II You sit on Duncan — when you dare, — And out of Wedgewood, using care, With Paul Revere you eat your fare.

  III From Paul you borrow fork and knife To wage a gastronomic strife ‘n porringers; and platters rare Of blue Historic Willow-ware.

  IV Banquets with cymbal, drum and fife, Or rose-wreathed feasts with riot rife
To your chaste suppers can’t compare.

  V Let those deny the truth who dare! — Paul, Duncan, Wedgewood! That’s the life! All else is bunk and empty air.

  ENVOI The Cordon-bleu has set the pace With Goulash, Haggis, Bouillabaisse, Curry, Chop-suey, Kous-Kous Stew — I can not offer these to you, — Being a plain, old-fashioned cook, — So pray accept this scrambled book.

  May, 1922 R.W.C.

  * * * * *

  Episode One

  Eve

  * * * * *

  I

  During the last two years, Fate, Chance, and Destiny had been too busy to attend to Mike Clinch. But now his turn was coming in the Eternal Sequence of things. The stars in their courses indicated the beginning of the undoing of Mike Clinch.

  From Esthonia a refugee Countess wrote to James Darragh in New York: “ — After two years we have discovered that it was Jose Quintana’s band of international thieves that robbed Ricca. Quintana has disappeared. “A Levantine diamond broker in New York, named Emanuel Sard, may be in communication with him. “Ricca and I are going to America as soon as possible. “Valentine.”

  The day Darragh received the letter he started to look up Sard.

  But that very morning Sard had received a curious letter from Rotterdam.

  This was the letter:

  “Sardius — Tourmaline — Aragonite — Rhodonite * Porphyry — Obsidian

  — Nugget Gold — Diaspore * Novaculite * Yu * Nugget Silver — Amber —

  Matrix Turquoise — Elaeolite * Ivory — Sardonyx * Moonstone — Iceland

  Spar — Kalpa Zircon — Eye Agate * Celonite — Lapis — Iolite —

  Nephrite — Chalcedony — Hydrolite * Hegolite — Amethyst — Selenite *

  Fire Opal — Labradorite — Garnet * Jade — Emerald — Wood Opal —

  Essonite — Lazuli * Epidote — Ruby — Onyx — Sapphire — Indicolite

  — Topaz — Euclase * Indian Diamond * Star Sapphire — African Diamond