The Little Red Foot Part 94

But to me there was something terrifying in secret ambush and ghastly ma.s.sacre 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 G.o.d on my knees. And when our General Clinton hung them both for human monsters as well as spies, then I thanked G.o.d again.... And wrote tenderly to Claudia, poor misguided girl!--condoling with her--not for her grief and the death of Henry Hare[45]--but that the black disgrace of it should so nearly touch and soil her.

[Footnote 45: In the writer's possession is a letter written by the widow of Lieutenant Hare, retailing the circ.u.mstances 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.]

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 b.u.t.terflies a-fluttering like windblown bits o' paper across the new gra.s.s.... In the North the woodlands should be soft with snow; and, in warm places, perhaps the b.u.t.terfly 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 c.o.c.k 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 G.o.dfrey Shew of Fish House.

They were on their way to Canada by way of Sacandaga, to learn what Sir John might be about.... G.o.d 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 b.l.o.o.d.y turncoat dogs 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.... G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+ning spires of Albany, and hundreds of gilded weather-c.o.c.ks all s.h.i.+ning me a welcome.

But in Albany streets I encountered silent people who looked upon me with no welcome in their haunted gaze; and everywhere I saw the same strange look,--pinched faces, brooding visages, a strained, intent gaze, yet vacant too, as though their eyes, which looked at me, saw nothing save some hidden vision within their secret minds.

I baited at the Half-Moon; and now I learned for the first what anxieties hara.s.sed these good burghers of the old Dutch city. For rumour had come the night before on the heels of a galloping light-horseman, that Sir John was expected to enter the Valley by the Sacandaga route; and that already strange Indians had been seen near Askalege.

How these same rumours originated n.o.body seemed to know. The light horseman had them from batteaux-men at Schenectady. But who carried such alarming news to the Queen's Fort n.o.body seemed to know, only that the garrison had become feverishly active, and three small scouts were preparing to start for Schoharie and Caughnawaga.

All this from the landlord, a gross, fat, speckled man who trembled like a dish of jelly as he told it.

But as I went out to climb into my saddle, leaving my samp and morning draught untasted, comes a-riding a gay company of light horse, careless and debonaire. Their officer saluted my uniform and, as I spurred up beside him and questioned him, he smilingly a.s.sured me that the rumours had no foundation; that if Sir John came at all he would surely arrive by the Susquehanna; and that our scouts would give warning to the Valley in ample time.

G.o.d knows that what he said comforted me somewhat, yet I did not choose to lose any time at breakfast, either; so bought me a loaf at a bake-shop, and ate as I rode forward.

At noon I rode into the Queen's Fort and there fed Kaya. I saw no unusual activity there; none in the town, none on the river.

Officers of whom I made inquiry had heard nothing concerning Sir John; did not expect a raid from him before autumn anyway, and vowed that General Sullivan had scotched the Iroquois snake in its den and driven the fear o' G.o.d into Sir John and the two Butlers with the cannon at Chemung.

As I rode westward again, I saw all around me men at work in the fields, plowing here, seeding there, clearing brush-fields yonder. There seemed to be no dread among these people; all was calm as the fat Dutch cattle that stood belly deep in meadows, watching me out o' gentle, stupid eyes as I rode on toward Caughnawaga.

A woman whom I encountered, and who was driving geese, stopped to answer my inquiries. From her I learned that Colonel Fisher, at Caughnawaga, had received a letter from Colonel Jacob Klock six days ago, which stated that Sir John Johnson was marching on the Valley. But she a.s.sured me that this news was now entirely discredited by everybody, because on Sunday a week ago Captain Walter Vrooman, of Guilderland, had marched his company to Caughnawaga, but on arriving was told he was not needed, and so continued on to Johnstown.

I do not know why all these a.s.surances from the honest people of the Valley did not ease my mind.

Around me as I rode all was sunny, still, and peaceful, yet deep in my heart always I seemed to feel the faint pulse of fear as I looked around me upon a smiling region once familiar and upon which I had not laid eyes for nearly three whole years.

And my nearness to Penelope, too, so filled me with happy impatience that the last mile seemed a hundred leagues on the dusty Schenectady road.

I had just come into view of the first chimneys of Caughnawaga, and was riding by an empty waggon driven by an old man, when, very far away, I heard a gun-shot.

I drew bridle sharply and asked the man in the waggon if he also had heard it; but his waggon rattled and he had not. However, he also pulled up; and we stood still, listening.

Then, again, and softened by distance, came another gun-shot.

The old man thought it might be some farmer emptying his piece to clean it.