The German Pioneers Part 8

"I will not listen! I know the whole story as though I had been present from the beginning. Poor famished creatures, who all looked as though they had already for four weeks played the ghost. Surely! It is a sin and shame, and may the evil one pay back the greedy sharpers and Hollanders, and pour melted gold down their hungry throats! But when a gun is fired off it is well not to be in front of it. Why did you stand near and gaze when you knew that you had such a b.u.t.ter-heart in your breast? Now you have the burden. What will be the result? You will naturally marry the girl. And then? Then there comes every year a crying brat until there are four or five. At the fifth the poor creature dies and Aunt Ursul can then take the young brood and raise them. But I tell you, that won't do, by any means! I would not undertake it should you offer me a ton of gold for each child."

Aunt Ursul had spoken so excitedly and in so loud a voice that Lambert was glad when, turning, he saw Catherine following slowly at a great distance, her head bowed down and she often plucking a wood-flower.

"How can you talk in that way, aunt?" said Lambert.

"To you it would indeed be pleasanter should I utter what first comes into the mouth, and say yea, and amen, to what you dumbheads have hatched out. Furthermore, I have no sympathy for you, sir. You have prepared your own soup. You must eat it yourself. Poor girl! Thrust out into the world naked and bare, so to speak, and with such eyes--just like your sainted mother's--by which all men were captivated. This is itself already a heaven-appearing misfortune. I can sing a song about it. Why do you laugh, you green woodp.e.c.k.e.r? Do you think, since now, in my fifty-seventh year, I am not as slim as an osier-switch and as smooth as an eel, I could not turn the heads of the men at seventeen?

You are getting on beautifully. I tell you how foolish they were, though it isn't worth while to say it, for they are all so. But I had half a dozen on every finger, and your girl has as yet but two."

"Surely I do not understand you, aunt," said Lambert, whose anxiety kept increasing as long as she kept talking in her peculiar way.

"Well, then, I will speak plainly," said Ursul, after she had cast a rapid glance toward Catherine. "This morning--I was just raking up my hay--your brother came with such a leap over the gate that my first impulse was to give him one over the head, and, distracted and wild, to my horror, began to speak so incoherently, that no one besides me, who know him from childhood, could have gathered his meaning; saying that he must shoot himself dead since you could not both marry her, and other foolish talk, all showing that he is madly and blindly in love with the girl."

Lambert was frightened, as he now heard from the mouth of Aunt Ursul what Catherine herself had told him a few minutes before. So the bad temper had not been blown away by the first morning wind that fanned the cheeks of the hunter, as he had hoped it would be. He had carried it at least as far as Aunt Ursul's.

"Surely you have set his head right, aunt?" said Lambert.

"First set right the head of that pine," said Aunt Ursul, pointing to an immense tree which had been shattered by lightning so that its top now held by the bark, hung to the trunk. "And then, sir, you did not do right in not keeping your promise to bring the young man a wife as you have done for yourself."

"I promised nothing of the kind," replied Lambert earnestly. "It was impossible for me to believe that Conrad was serious when he called after me, as I was already trotting off down the valley: 'Bring back with you a wife for each of us!' I never thought of it again--especially not when heaven threw in my way a poor orphan, and I offered her, forsaken by the whole world, a refuge with me. You see, aunt, that I am indeed blameless."

"Then give him the girl," said Ursul.

"Sooner my life," earnestly replied Lambert.

"I would like to know," said Ursul, "whether I cannot justly say that beauty is a woman's misfortune, and I suppose you will admit it. Nor is it less so for the men who are bewitched by it. What do the poor creatures gain by it? Nothing more than the turtledoves which I found covered with blood near your house. What do you gain by it? Just as much as the two eagles who, on account of those doves, tore the flesh from each other's bodies. Alas, poor women! unhappy women!"

"Conrad will listen to reason," said Lambert, with trembling lips.

"I do not know," replied Ursul, shaking her large head. "It often happens that men-folks become reasonable, but they usually wait until it is too late. So I fear it will also be this time. Now he has gone into the woods, and heaven knows how long he will wander about there, and that at a time when we cannot spare a single man--and him least of all."

"He won't fail us when we need him," said Lambert.

"He failed us last year, and did we not need him then? But so men are, and especially you young men. You make a hunting match, or get up a race, or, at a wedding, dance the soles off your feet, and do everything as it pleases you, and the rest you let go as it pleases G.o.d. We saw it last year. How I talked, and preached, urging you to watchfulness, after I saw that General Abercrombie in Albany did not bestir himself, and naturally your hands were lying in your laps. I preached to deaf ears. Afterward when the abominable French broke in and sunk, and burned, and murdered after their wicked heart's desire--yes, now every one protected his own head as best he could. But how many houses might still stand, how many wives and children could to-day yet look at the lovely sun and praise their heavenly Father, if you from the first had stood together as it became intelligent men? And now, Lambert, there stands my horse and I do not know what more to say to you; so help yourself out of the mire and me on my horse; and, as to what concerns the lady, I will come again to-morrow, or you can bring her to me. I will not bite her. Have no care. Today I won't stay longer. G.o.d protect you, Lambert. Give my compliments to the lady. What is her name?"

"Catherine Weise," said Lambert. "She is an orphan. Her father, who was a preacher, and, out of love for his people, emigrated with them, she lost eight days before the s.h.i.+p reached New York."

"Catherine," said Ursul. "Our dear Father in heaven! So I always wanted to call my daughter, should I have one. Both my sainted grandmothers had that name. Nay, things happen alike. Compliments to the girl, who seems to be a well-behaved person, and G.o.d protect you, Lambert."

The Amazon arranged her clothes, which was somewhat difficult, as she sat like a man in the saddle, chirruped to her horse, gave him a hard cut over the neck, and trotted briskly away from the edge of the woods where they had stood, down the hill, over the meadow, until she reached the road which led from the creek to the other farm-houses.

The young man looked at the retreating figure with sad glances and a deep sigh. He heard behind him a light step. He turned eagerly and opened his arms to the beloved one. But Catherine shook her handsome head. Her large, inquiring dark eyes, in which there were still some traces of tears, rested on his face.

"For G.o.d's sake!" exclaimed Lambert, "why do you look in such a strange way, Catherine? What have we to do with others? I love you."

"And I you," said Catherine, "but it must happen."

"What must happen? Catherine, dear Catherine," cried Lambert.

"Come," said the maiden, "let us sit down here and talk with each other quietly, very quietly."

She sat down on the trunk of a half-buried pine and looked thoughtfully before her.

Lambert seated himself at her side. He wished to speak, but before he could find the right word, Catherine raised her eyes and said:

"See, Lambert, how much you have kindly done for me, a poor girl, and I could not do otherwise than give you back the only thing I have--my all--and love you with all the strength of my soul, with every drop of blood in my heart. I could not do otherwise, and it will be so as long as I live, and after this life throughout eternity. But, Lambert, it was not right for me that, in addition to the much and the beautiful that you have given me, I should also take your love. I felt this from the first day on, and I tried to prevent your seeing my love, though I confess it was a hard task."

Catherine's voice trembled, but she held back the tears that were ready to break from her eyes, and continued:

"I felt from the beginning--and I have said to myself, and promised thousands of times--that I would be a maid-servant to you and your parents and relatives, and, should you bring home a wife, I would also serve her and her children, and so help, as much as I could, to promote your happiness and that of all related to you. When I yesterday learned that you no longer have parents I fled. I wished to flee, while a voice, which I only now rightly understand, said that it would come about as it now has come, and as it should not have come. I have not listened to the voice of my conscience, and the punishment follows at its heels. Your brother is angry at you on my account. Your aunt has left you in anger on my account. What a bad girl I must be, could I calmly look on and see how unhappy I am making him for whom I would give my blood, drop by drop. For this reason it must take place. You have given me permission to go where I will--and G.o.d will guide my steps."

Having uttered these words she arose, pale, having her hands folded under her bosom, and her tearless eyes having a far-off look.

Immediately Lambert stood up before her, and her eyes met his, which shone with a wonderfully clear and steady light. "Catherine!"

More he did not say. But it was the right word and the right tone--a cordial tone full of tender suggestion, and yet so firm, so true, that it resounded again in the heart of the maiden: "Catherine!" and filled her soul with sweet pleasure. What she had just said, in the bitter feeling of her injured pride, and in her painful conviction that she must subordinate her own happiness and the happiness of him she loved--it now seemed to her but idle breath, like the wind sweeping above through the rustling tops of the pines and below over the bending gra.s.s of the meadow. The pines stood firm, the gra.s.s rose again, and everything remained as it was before--yes, more beautiful and delightful than before. What was now her pride except a small additional offering that she brought to her beloved who would not be happy without her--who without her could not be happy? This Lambert said to her again and again; and she said to him that separation from her beloved and death would be the same for her, and that she would never again think of it, but that she could live for him and be happy with him.

So they sat a long time at the edge of the primitive forest in the shadow of the venerable trees--before them the sunlit prairie with its bending flowers and gra.s.s, alone--speaking in whispers, as though the mottled b.u.t.terflies which were moving about the flowers must not hear.

And if a bird happened to fly past uttering his warning cry, frightened, they crowded close to each other and then laughed, happy that they were alone and might sink into each other's arms and say what they had already said a hundred times, and yet did not get tired of saying and hearing it.

Then they formed plans for the future--far-reaching plans--that during the fall they would clear at least yet five acres, and that they would in any case keep the calf of which Aunt Ursul had the care, and whether it would not be best to part.i.tion off a chamber in the upper story of the house, leaving sufficient s.p.a.ce for the store-room; and, as the stairway was very narrow and steep, they would make a new one. They must also not fail to have a suitable garden in which to raise greens and gooseberries and currants; and a honeysuckle-arbor, such as Catherine had in her father's garden, there surely must be, though Lambert was not sure that he quite understood what Catherine meant by a honeysuckle-arbor.

The ascending sun suggested their return home. Lambert was disinclined to leave the woods in whose shade the complete fullness of his happiness had been revealed. But Catherine said: "No, you must not on my account neglect a single duty that rests on you. Otherwise your friends, who consider it a misfortune that you have taken up a poor girl like me, will be right. So you must yet to-day ride to your neighbors with your compliments. They would take it amiss should you not do it, and they would be right. It is your duty to inform them about your journey, which you undertook for their best interest as well as your own. They will be pleased to see you again, and that everything has turned out so well."

"And where shall I leave you, in the meantime?" asked Lambert, as they now walked slowly along the creek toward the house.

"Where a woman should be--at home," said Catherine.

"I unwillingly leave you there," said Lambert. "I do not believe I could return before evening, however I might hasten. It is six miles to Adam Bellinger's, who lives near the mouth of the creek and who is the last of us six who prepared the pet.i.tion to the governor. On the way I must stop three times, or rather four times, for I must not ride past my old Uncle Ditmar. It is impossible for me to leave you so long alone, since the French are stirring again, and I do not know how far they have come already."

"Here good advice is dear," said Catherine laughing mischievously. "You can't take me along to-day, after you yesterday went far out of your way so that your neighbors should not see what a wonderful rarity you had brought with you on your return from your journey."

"Nor shall it be different," said Lambert, but little pained by the gentle raillery, accompanied as it was with a kiss. "Though you do not go the whole distance, you can at least go as far as Ditmar's."

Catherine arched her eyebrows: "Are you quite sure that I should be kindly received there?" she asked gently.

"Quite sure," said Lambert, earnestly, "the more so as my aunt was unfriendly to you before. As far as I know her she has no stronger wish than to repair the mischief. Believe me, Catherine, a better heart than Aunt Ursul's cannot be found, though the severe fate that has befallen her has made her peculiar and unmannerly."

"Tell me about it," said Catherine.

"It is a dreadful history," said Lambert, "and I would rather not rehea.r.s.e it; but you will think otherwise of my aunt when you meet her, and so let it be.

"It is now thirteen years--it was in 'forty-four and I was nineteen--when war broke out between the English and the French, which they call King George's war. Neither the English nor the French could raise many men, so they had to rely on the Indians, each party trying by every means to win them to itself and set them against the opposite party. Now, the English had a treaty of a long standing with the Six Nations; but at this time they also began to waver and to unite with the French, who knew better how to flatter them. So many fell away, and entered into secret or open partners.h.i.+p with our foes. The uncertainty daily increased. n.o.body had any a.s.surance of his life. The Germans here on the Mohawk, and especially on the creek, had hitherto escaped; but the danger came nearer and nearer to us, and then it was that we went to our work with a rifle on the shoulder, and when father, with the help of a couple of blacks from Virginia--secured for the occasion--strengthened the block-house as it is now. Before, it was more open.

"Nicolas Herkimer settled on the Mohawk, and several others followed his example. Most of them, however, took the matter more lightly, and said the French or Indians should only come on; they would soon show them the road, and send them home with b.l.o.o.d.y heads. About this they debated with Uncle Ditmar, and became angry at him since he was always full of courage and of bitter hatred of the French whom he had already learned to know on the other side, where they had burned his parents'

house and driven them from their home. He thought that should we wait until the French came to us it would be altogether too late. It was a shame that now everybody should think only of himself. All should a.s.semble here, and on the Mohawk, and on the Schoharie; that no one should stay at home who could fire off a rifle, and that some should go to meet the French, and pay them back, in their own territory, what before and since they have done to us. Perhaps the old man was right, but n.o.body listened to him. Then came the year 'forty-six, when the French with their Indians swept through the valley of the Mohawk as far as Schenectady and Albany, and destroyed and robbed what they found, and killed and scalped what came in their way, and committed every conceivable horror. My uncle could stand it no longer. He went out with his four sons--my cousins--of whom the eldest was twenty-six and the youngest nineteen. Aunt Ursul would not stay at home, but went along, with her rifle on her shoulder, just as you saw her awhile ago, and they carried on war by themselves and killed many French and Indians, until they were resting on a certain day among a small clump of trees on the open prairie and, not noticing, were overrun from all sides.

There my aunt saw her sons fall, one after the other, while she was loading the guns. At last old Ditmar was struck by a stray bullet and sank at her feet apparently dead. Aunt Ursul fired off the gun she had loaded once more and laid a Frenchman low, seized it by the muzzle, and swinging the b.u.t.t on high she rushed out and struck about her so, that the Indians themselves, at sight of such bravery, did not kill her, but overpowered her, and tied her, and took her along as prisoner. They likewise took uncle, who gave signs of life, when an Indian had already torn his scalp half off. Perhaps they intended to spare them for a later, more painful death. But it did not go as far as that, thank G.o.d!

for the troop which was taking them along was attacked by another tribe, which held with the English, and they were killed to the last man. So my aunt, after a couple of months, came again, robbed of her stalwart sons, with her husband, whose mind has never since been quite right, and who has lived on for months and years without uttering a word, though attending to his work like anyone else."

Lambert ceased speaking. Catherine took his hand and, with gentle pressure, held it.