Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  Herkimer’s forehead knitted. “He’ll come if there are no guns?” He turned to his interpreter. The man raised one hand to sign while he spoke to the Indian. The Indian spoke back, and the interpreter turned to Herkimer.

  “Brant is afraid of a trap. He says you are an honorable man. He will come to Unadilla for a council if you send him a writing with your signature, pledging no guns, no ambush. Only peace.”

  Herkimer turned to the Indian. “Is he waiting for you to come back with a writing on paper from me?”

  The Indian bobbed his head.

  “How far from here?”

  “One day. Chenango River.”

  Herkimer glanced west toward where the Chenango flowed south parallel to the Tienaderha to join the Susquehanna. “One day,” he said thoughtfully, then turned to Brownley and Whetten, who stood holding their horses’ reins, concentrating intently on every word. “I think we should be in Unadilla in two days. I propose we accept his terms. Are we agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned to Bates, standing off his left elbow. “Can you get quill and ink and paper? I’ll make the answer now.”

  Fifteen minutes later, with young lieutenants trotting up to see what had stalled the column, Herkimer handed the folded document back to the Indian. “Can you take that back to Brant?”

  The Indian’s face had not changed expression since his arrival. Stoically he once again bobbed his head and reached for the folded paper. He slipped it inside his shot pouch and waited for orders to leave.

  Herkimer asked, “Do you need rest? Food? Anything?”

  For the first time a smile flickered on the Indian’s face, but was just as quickly gone. “No food. No rest. We go.” For a moment the Indian wondered if the white men would ever understand that the forest was their home. All they needed could be found there. The inability of most white men to flourish in the wilderness was a profound mystery to the red men. Without a word the three Indians turned on their heels, and within moments had disappeared.

  At noon the second day Herkimer called the midday halt, and while the column was hastily setting up the black iron cook kettles, the three Indians returned to stand stiffly before him and make their report.

  “Brant will come.” The message was delivered. They turned and were gone.

  At mid-afternoon the advance scouts came trotting back into camp to report. “Road’s clear to Unadilla, about three miles ahead. No sign of Brant or his men.”

  With the sun still three hours high, Herkimer rounded a gentle bend, then crested a rise in the trail, and before him spread a wide, shallow valley. To his left, a line of trees in the forest marked the hidden Susquehanna River, and to his right, a second line of trees marked the course of the Tienaderha. Where the two rivers met, a church steeple thrust upward, white in the emerald green forest, to mark the tiny village of Unadilla. Herkimer’s horse sensed the end of the trail and began to toss its head, chewing the bit, wanting to be finished. Herkimer held it in check while he intently studied the valley floor, looking for a telltale wisp of campfire smoke that would identify Brant and his men. There was none, and Herkimer kept his column moving. He called a halt in a clearing two hundred yards from the scattering of buildings on the northern fringe of Unadilla and gave orders to set up camp. Then he sent Bates for Brownley and Whetten. Sitting their horses while the soldiers began the chores of erecting tents for the officers and starting the supper process, the four men gathered twenty yards distant from the nearest troops.

  “I think we better go to town and tell the mayor, or whoever’s in charge, what this is all about.”

  The four of them cantered their horses through the crude, crooked streets, past low, log homes with dirt roofs, watching for anything to move. A spotted dog came barking, nipping at the heels of the nervous horses, then retreated. A few people emerged from their homes to stand silently, watching them pass, one or two raising a hand in a half-hearted waving gesture, but none called or spoke. Curtains stirred at windows, and vague faces appeared to stare. They rounded a building with a full rain barrel standing at the corner and reined to their right. Forty yards further along the rutted dirt street was an old trading post, weathered black, with an array of black iron traps hung on pegs driven in the side-wall, and the hide of a great tawny panther pegged against the logs to dry. There was an open area before the old trading post, with a flagpole in the center, but no flag. The buildings stopped, and the forest began one hundred yards to both the east and west.

  Herkimer and his three men pulled their horses to a stop and dismounted, looking around at the few people who ventured into the street to stand at a distance, silent, staring. He walked to the plank door of the trading post, pulled the latch string, and stepped inside the dark room, Brownley and Whetten following, eyes wide as they left the bright sunshine outside. The sharp odor of rum and smoked meat hit them as they looked about the low-ceilinged room at the shapes of the few men inside the building, who stood motionless, waiting.

  “I’m General Herkimer, Tryon County militia. Can you tell me where to find the mayor?”

  A bearded man in a fringed buckskin hunting shirt answered “No mayor. Reverend Belnap usually takes charge.”

  “Where might I find him?”

  “Right there.” The man pointed beyond a small counting table to a corner, and Herkimer turned. “Reverend Belnap?”

  Reverend Herman Belnap, middle-aged, portly rose from a stool. “Yes.”

  “I thought I better let you know what’s happening.”

  “That your army setting up camp just north of town?”

  “Part of it. We’ve come here to parley with Joseph Brant. Try to talk some sense into him.”

  The reverend started. “Humph. You think you can bargain with the devil?”

  “No. I think if we make a strong enough showing we might get him to leave here. Go back to Onondaga and quit stirring up trouble for you people.”

  Belnap suddenly leaned forward. “You intend meeting Brant here? In town?”

  “Yes.”

  The reverend’s voice rose in anger. “Half the people left town the last time he was here. Most haven’t come back yet. Likely the rest will be gone the minute they hear he’s coming back.”

  Herkimer shook his head. “Tell your people there will be no trouble. I’ve brought three hundred eighty seasoned soldiers. Brant won’t start anything.”

  The reverend’s reply was instant, hot. “Not while you’re here. But when you’re gone, what do we do if he comes back with his warriors and takes revenge? The whole town could be burned to the ground and all of us dead. Scalped.”

  “We’ll watch him. That won’t happen. Tell your people so they won’t do something foolish.”

  “I’ll tell them. But they’ll do what they think best.”

  Herkimer moved on. “He’ll likely be in late tonight, or early morning. We’ll hold a council with him. I need you and three or four more from town to come with me to parley with him, out near the flagpole.”

  “I doubt any of us want to be any part of it.”

  Herkimer ignored it. “I’ll also need four cattle. I’ll pay.”

  “Cattle for what? Your men?”

  “No. Gifts for Brant.”

  Belnap snorted. “Gifts to him? The gift he has in mind for you isn’t cattle.”

  Low laughter sounded from around the room, then stopped, and Herkimer continued. “He’ll expect gifts.” The general dug inside his tunic for a small leather purse, unsnapped the clasp, and quickly sorted out four gold coins. “That’s a fair price for four cattle. Pay whoever owns them and have them ready in the morning. I’ll need you and your people ready about two hours after sunup. Agreed?”

  Belnap shrugged. “I’ll tell them. They’ll do what they decide.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Herkimer and his two officers walked back out to Bates, who was holding the horses. Without a word they remounted, and Herkimer led them back north to the camp.
His command tent was pegged down, and he spoke quietly to the other three.

  “Come inside with me.”

  Inside he gestured to the plain, wooden plank table and benches. “Sit down.”

  His face was clouded, drawn as he spoke in low tones. “This is not to leave this tent, except for the three riflemen we pick.”

  Instantly all three men across from him froze.

  Herkimer lowered his voice even more. “With us at the north end of town, it seems natural for Brant to camp his men at the south end, which puts their backs against one of the two rivers down there. That means if anyone starts shooting, we can fall back, but he can’t. So I doubt he’ll be inclined to provoke a fight. But when it comes to Indians, who knows?”

  He paused, then went on. “I think it would be a mistake to send out men to scout Brant when he comes in. If they were caught, he’d declare a breach of our agreement, and there might be shooting.” He stopped to shift his weight and collect his thoughts. “And I think Brant will reach the same conclusion. I doubt he’ll try to scout us. But if he does, and our men catch his warriors snooping around here, I want them brought in. I’ll put them in chains and march them to Brant’s camp with every man I’ve got behind me, armed and ready to fight, and let Brant know he’s a liar and can’t be trusted, and then I’ll hang ’em in public.”

  Brownley reached to scratch his beard, then settled. Herkimer’s narrowed eyes were points of light beneath his shaggy brows. “Brownley, name the three best riflemen in your command.”

  Bates recoiled, and Whetten’s head jerked forward. For a moment the tent was locked in dead silence, then Brownley swallowed hard and answered.

  “Phelps, Attenborough, and Briscoe.”

  Herkimer tapped an index finger on the table. Still speaking in soft tones, he said, “Now listen close, because if this goes wrong, there’ll be the devil to pay. I intend to hold the council down in that open area around the flagpole, in front of the trading post. To the east and west, the forest comes within about one hundred yards of the flagpole. An easy shot for a good rifleman.”

  Brownley stiffened as it broke in his mind where Herkimer was going.

  “Tonight, send those three riflemen out, two west, one east, a mile or two. Have them spend the night in the forest. In the morning while we’re gathering with Brant, have them come in toward the clearing where we’ll parley. They are to stay hidden and be ready. If Brant does anything that provokes a breach of the peace, they’re to shoot him. No matter who else gets hurt, they’re to kill Brant. Do you understand?” He glared at the officers.

  Brownley’s voice cracked as he spoke. “Yes, sir.”

  “I know how that sounds, but let me tell you the reason. When the war starts between Burgoyne and St. Clair over on the Hudson, Brant’s going to become a factor in how it turns out. He’s agreed to meet and council with us in peace. He can avoid those three riflemen if he keeps his word. If he doesn’t, I don’t have the slightest reservation about shooting him. Him being gone will likely save hundreds of lives. If any of you have a quarrel with that, now is the time to settle it.”

  Herkimer fell silent and waited. He looked at each man in succession, and none of them made a sound. Herkimer slapped the table with the palm of his hand.

  “Then it’s settled. Let’s get back to our command.”

  With the western rim hiding half the sun, the Americans gathered around their steaming cookpots, and the company cooks doled out the beef stew. Talk was subdued as each of the soldiers sought a rock, or a log to sit on while he held the steaming plate in one hand and worked his fork or spoon with the other, blowing to cool the hot mix. From time to time all eyes glanced nervously to the south, past the tiny village, for the first flicker of campfires in the trees, but none came. Finally, in full darkness, the regimental drummer rattled out taps, and the soldiers sought their blankets, to lie in silence, facing south, still waiting, watching, wondering.

  No one knew when they came in the night. The Americans only knew that when the reveille drum sounded at dawn, the Indians were camped two hundred yards into the woods at the south end of town. Herkimer walked among his men, carrying his plate of fried mush and sowbelly, talking, settling them. “Eat your breakfast and roll up your bedrolls. Just stand easy, and all will go well.” In his walking, Herkimer sought out Brownley sitting on a rock with his plate and asked quietly, “Did your three riflemen go out?” Brownley nodded without looking up.

  With their morning camp chores done, Herkimer gave orders. “Have your men fall into ranks for marching. Brownley, circle around the west side of town, Whetten, you to the east, and meet at the flagpole. Bates, you come with me. We go straight in and get Belnap and his men and the cattle just before the two commands meet.”

  The militiamen fell into marching ranks, quiet, subdued, thoughts reaching ahead to the moment they would catch their first glimpse of Joseph Brant and his band of Mohawk warriors. Joseph Brant. Thyendanagea. Heroic warrior in battle. Educated, with six Indian dialects and two foreign languages on his tongue. Bound by treaty with King George III in London—dined in his palace—received gifts from him—inducted into the Falcon Freemasons’ Lodge—wooed by the London aristocracy. How would he be dressed? What would he say? What magic did he possess?

  The thoughts rode them heavy, preoccupied them, held them silent, would not let go as they fell into marching ranks. Brownley barked his orders and led his men west, while Whetten’s command followed him east. Their soldiers circled the town in silence, heads turned, watching every shadow, hearing every sound, knowing Brant was still to the south of them, but nonetheless they were seeing one of his painted, feathered warriors in every movement of a leaf, every sound in the forest.

  As his men disappeared from either side of him, Herkimer spurred his horse forward, Bates beside him, to pick their way through the crooked street while the shoes of their horses picked up large clods of firm mud left from the cloudburst a few days earlier, to throw them behind as they moved on. They passed the rain barrel and Herkimer turned to look west. Belnap was standing in front of the old trading post, three men with him, all four of them grasping the leadrope of a spotted steer or cow. Herkimer and Bates reined over to them and stopped, but remained mounted.

  “Ready?”

  Belnap answered sarcastically. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

  Herkimer spoke to the three men beside Belnap. “You’re coming as witnesses to what happens. You’ll be safe as long as you remember what I tell you. Brant’s no fool. Don’t anger him. I knew him a long time ago when we both lived in the Mohawk Valley. He’ll say some things to purposely provoke me, and I’ll handle it. When I say so, lead the cattle to him and give him the lead ropes. It’ll all be over soon.”

  Gesturing to one of the townsmen, Belnap said, “Ebenezer here lived in the Mohawk Valley for a while.”

  Herkimer looked at the other three men, studying them, and one spoke. “I’m Ebenezer Cox. Used to be a colonel in the militia.”

  “You know Brant? Or more important, does he know you?”

  “Might. I married the daughter of George Klock—”

  Herkimer started and cut him off. “Wasn’t Klock the one who accused Brant of stealing cattle? Tracked him down and humiliated him at musket point in front of his own people? Hated Brant?”

  Cox’s head bobbed. “The same.”

  Herkimer’s eyes narrowed. “You share the same feelings?”

  “I don’t like Brant.”

  Herkimer looked at Belnap, then back at Cox. “If you can’t control yourself, maybe you shouldn’t be out there with us.”

  “I’ll be all right. I’m going.”

  Belnap bobbed his head with finality. “If any of us goes, Cox goes with us.”

  Herkimer leaned slightly forward to speak to Belnap. “Then you’re responsible for him. See to it.”

  Brownley and Whetten brought the two bodies of marching men together to form a semicircle on the north side of the village flagpo
le. Herkimer and Bates sat motionless on their horses in front of the trading post with Belnap and his men behind them, holding the lead ropes to the cattle, while a few other Unadilla citizens stood at random behind them. Their eyes were all wide in surprise. There was not an Indian in sight. Herkimer called orders to Brownley and Whetten.

  “Have your men open a path for us to come through, then stand at ease. We wait.”

  Orders were given, the rank and file of the two commands separated to make a ten-foot opening, then broke from attention to remain standing silently in ranks, watching, waiting. Herkimer remained still, facing south, sitting with his shoulders hunched slightly forward, every nerve focused on the tree line dead ahead.

  Ninety seconds later a hushed murmur swept through the Americans at the first movement in the shadows of the forest south of them, and a moment later Joseph Brant walked out into the clearing. Close around him were but twenty Mohawk warriors. All were dressed in buckskin hunting shirts with bead and quill work on the breasts, buckskin breeches, and decorated moccasins. The single mark that set Brant apart from any of his warriors was the large, silver gorget slung around his neck on a silver chain, delicately engraved with the British lion, unicorn, shield, and other emblems. None were armed.

  Herkimer turned and gave orders. “Belnap, you and your men follow me. Bring the cattle.” Unarmed, the six of them moved through the opening in the semicircle of militia, out toward the flagpole, while Brant and his twenty warriors walked steadily to meet them. The two opposing groups stopped ten feet from each other, eighty yards from the rank and file of American soldiers. Brownley and Whetten came to join Herkimer and Bates as they dismounted and stood their ground. Belnap and his men, with the cattle, were behind. When both groups had come to a halt, Brant took two steps forward and stopped.

  Larger than average, solidly built, Brant exuded the impression that inside was a coiled steel spring, ready to unleash a feral energy that would be terrible and deadly. His unpainted face was remarkably handsome. The aura that moved with him was peaceful, even humble, but his dark eyes appeared to miss nothing, and in them was a chilling light. He spoke to Herkimer in perfect English, his voice soft, purring.