Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Dear, a strange and amusing thing has happened. A few score of friendly Oneidas and lukewarm Onondagas came here to pay their respects to Magdalen Brant, who, they heard, was living at our house.

  “Magdalen received them; she is a sweet girl and very good to her wild kin; and so father permitted them to camp in the empty house in the sugar-bush, and sent them food and tobacco and enough rum to please them without starting them war-dancing.

  “Now listen. You have heard me tell of the Stonish Giants — those legendary men of stone whom the Iroquois, Hurons, Algonquins, and Lenape stood in such dread of two hundred years ago, and whom our historians believe to have been some lost company of Spaniards in armor, strayed northward from Cortez’s army.

  “Well, then, this is what occurred:

  “They were all at me to put on that armor which hangs in the hall — the same suit which belonged to the first Maid-at-Arms, and which she is painted in, and which I wore that last memorable night — you remember.

  “So, to please them, I dressed in it — helmet and all — and came down. Sir George Covert’s horse stood at the stockade gate, and somebody — I think it was General Arnold — dared me to ride it in my armor.

  “Well, ... I did. Then a mad desire for a gallop seized me — had not mounted a horse since that last ride with you — and I set spurs to the poor beast, who was already dancing under the unaccustomed burden, and away we tore.

  “My conscience! what a ride that was! and the clang of my armor set the poor horse frantic till I could scarce govern him.

  “Then the absurd happened. I wheeled the horse into the pasture, meaning to let him tire himself, for he was really running away with me; when, all at once, I saw a hundred terror-stricken savages rush out of the sugar-house, stand staring a second, then take to their legs with most doleful cries and hoots and piteous howls.

  “‘Oonah! The Stonish Giants have returned! Oonah! Oonah! The Giants of Stone!’

  “My vizor was down and locked. I called out to them in Delaware, but at the sound of my voice they ran the faster — five score frantic barbarians! And, dear, if they have stopped running yet I do not know it, for they never came back.

  “But the most absurd part of it all is that the Onondagas, who are none too friendly with us, though they pretend to be, have told the Cayugas that the Stonish Giants have returned to earth from Biskoona, which is hell. And I doubt not that the dreadful news will spread all through the Six Nations, with, perhaps, some astonishing results to us. For scouts have already come in, reporting trouble between General Burgoyne and his Wyandots, who declare they have had enough of the war and did not enlist to fight the Stonish Giants — which excuse is doubtless meaningless to him.

  “And other scouts from the northwest say that St. Leger can scarce hold the Senecas to the siege of Stanwix because of their great loss at Oriskany, which they are inclined to attribute to spells cast by their enemies, who enjoy the protection of the Stonish Giants.

  “Is it not all mad enough for a child’s dream?

  “Ay, life and love are dreams, dear, and a mad world spins them out of nothing.... Forgive me ... I have been sewing on my wedding-gown again. And it is nigh finished.

  “Good-night. I love you. D.”

  Blindly I groped for the remaining letter and tore the seal.

  “Sir George has just had news of you from an Oneida who says you may be here at any moment! And I, O God I terrified at my own mad happiness, fearing myself in that meeting, begged him to wed me on the morrow. I was insane, I think, crazed with fear, knowing that, were I not forever beyond you, I must give myself to you and abide in hell for all eternity!

  “And he was astonished, I think, but kind, as he always is; and now the dreadful knowledge has come to me that for me there is no refuge, no safety in marriage which I, poor fool, fled to for sanctuary lest I do murder on my own soul!

  “What shall I do? What can I do? I have given my word to wed him on the morrow. If it be mortal sin to show ingratitude to a father and deceive a lover, what would it be to deceive a husband and disgrace a father?

  “And I, silly innocent, never dreamed but that temptation ceased within the holy bonds of wedlock — though sadness might endure forever.

  “And now I know! In the imminent and instant presence of my marriage I know that I shall love you none the less, shall tempt and be tempted none the less. And, in this resistless, eternal love, I may fall, dragging you down with me to our endless punishment.

  “It was not the fear of punishment that kept me true to my vows before; it was something within me, I don’t know what.

  “But, if I were wedded with him, it would be fear of punishment alone that could save me — not terror of flames; I could endure them with you, but the new knowledge that has come to me that my punishment would be the one thing I could not endure — eternity without you!

  “Neither in heaven nor in hell may I have you. Is there no way, my beloved? Is there no place for us?

  “I have been to the porch to tell Sir George that I must postpone the wedding. I did not tell him. He was standing with Magdalen Brant, and she was crying. I did not know she had received bad news. She said the news was bad. Perhaps Sir George can help her.

  “I will tell him later that the wedding must be postponed.... I don’t know why, either. I cannot think. I can scarcely see to write. Oh, help me once more, my darling! Do not come to Varicks’! That is all I desire on earth! For we must never, never, see each other again!”

  Stunned, I reeled to my feet and stumbled out into the moonlight, staring across the misty wilderness into the east, where, beyond the forests, somewhere, she lay, perhaps a bride.

  A deathly chill struck through and through me. To a free man, with one shred of pity, honor, unselfish love, that appeal must be answered. And he were the basest man in all the world who should ignore it and show his face at Varick Manor — were he free to choose.

  But I was not free; I was a military servant, pledged under solemn oath and before God to obedience — instant, unquestioning, unfaltering obedience.

  And in my trembling hand I held my written orders to report at Varick Manor.

  XX

  COCK-CROW

  At dawn we left the road and struck the Oneida trail north of the river, following it swiftly, bearing a little north of east until, towards noon, we came into the wagon-road which runs over the Mayfield hills and down through the outlying bush farms of Mayfield and Kingsborough.

  Many of the houses were deserted, but not all; here and there smoke curled from the chimney of some lonely farm; and across the stump pasture we could see a woman laboring in the sun-scorched fields and a man, rifle in hand, standing guard on a vantage-point which overlooked his land.

  Fences and gates became more frequent, crossing the rough road every mile or two, so that we were constantly letting down and replacing cattle-bars, unpinning rude gates, or climbing over snake fences of split rails.

  Once we came to a cross-roads where the fence had been demolished and a warning painted on a rough pine board above a wayside watering-trough.

  “WARNING!

  All farmers and townsfolk are hereby requested and ordered to remove gates, stiles, cow-bars, and fences, which includes all obstructions to the public highway, in order that the cavalry may pass without difficulty. Any person found felling trees across this road, or otherwise impeding the operations of cavalry by building brush, stump, rail, or stone fences across this road, will be arrested and tried before a court on charge of aiding and giving comfort to the enemy. G. COVERT,

  “Captain Commanding Legion.”

  Either this order did not apply to the cross-road which we now filed into, or the owners of adjacent lands paid no heed to it; for presently, a few rods ahead of us, we saw a snake fence barring the road and a man with a pack on his back in the act of climbing over it.

  He was going in the same direction that we were, and seemed to be a fur-trader laden with packets of peltry.


  I said this to Murphy, who laughed and looked at Mount.

  “Who carries pelts to Quebec in August?” asked Elerson, grinning.

  “There’s the skin of a wolverine dangling from his pack,” I said, in a low voice.

  Murphy touched Mount’s arm, and they halted until the man ahead had rounded a turn in the road; then they sprang forward, creeping swiftly to the shelter of the undergrowth at the bend of the road, while Elerson and I followed at an easy pace.

  “What is it?” I asked, as we rejoined them where they were kneeling, looking after the figure ahead.

  “Nothing, sir; we only want to see them pelts, Tim and me.”

  “Do you know the man?” I demanded.

  Murphy gazed musingly at Mount through narrowed eyes. Mount, in a brown study, stared back.

  “Phwere th’ divil have I seen him, I dunnoa!” muttered Murphy. “Jack, ’tis wan mush-rat looks like th’ next, an’ all thrappers has the same cut to them! Yonder’s no thrapper!”

  “Nor peddler,” added Mount; “the strap of the Delaware baskets never bowed his legs.”

  “Thrue, avick! Wisha, lad, ’tis horses he knows better than snow-shoes, bed-plates, an’ thrip-sticks! An’ I’ve seen him, I think!”

  “Where?” I asked.

  He shook his head, vacantly staring. Moved by the same impulse, we all started forward; the man was not far ahead, but our moccasins made no noise in the dust and we closed up swiftly on him and were at his elbow before he heard us.

  Under the heavy sunburn the color faded in his cheeks when he saw us. I noted it, but that was nothing strange considering the perilous conditions of the country and the sudden shock of our appearance.

  “Good-day, friend,” cried Mount, cheerily.

  “Good-day, friends,” he replied, stammering as though for lack of breath.

  “God save our country, friend,” added Elerson, gravely.

  “God save our country, friends,” repeated the man.

  So far, so good. The man, a thick, stocky, heavy-eyed fellow, moistened his broad lips with his tongue, peered furtively at me, and instantly dropped his eyes. At the same instant memory stirred within me; a vague recollection of those heavy, black eyes, of that broad, bow-legged figure set me pondering.

  “Me fri’nd,” purred Murphy, persuasively, “is th’ Frinch thrappers balin’ August peltry f’r to sell in Canady?”

  “I’ve a few late pelts from the lakes,” muttered the man, without looking up.

  “Domned late,” cried Murphy, gayly. “Sure they do say, if ye dhraw a summer mink an’ turrn th’ pelt inside out like a glove, the winther fur will sprout inside — wid fashtin’ an’ prayer.”

  The man bent his eyes obstinately on the ground; instead of smiling he had paled.

  “Have you the skin of a wampum bird in that bale?” asked Mount, pleasantly.

  Elerson struck the pack with the flat of his hand; the mangy wolverine pelt crackled.

  “Green hides! Green hides!” laughed Mount, sarcastically. “Come, my friend, we’re your customers. Down with your bales and I’ll buy.”

  Murphy had laid a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder, halting him short in his tracks; Elerson, rifle cradled in the hollow of his left arm, poked his forefinger into the bales, then sniffed at the aperture.

  “There are green hides there!” he exclaimed, stepping back. “Jack, slip that pack off!”

  The man started forward, crying out that he had no time to waste, but Murphy jerked him back by the collar and Elerson seized his right arm.

  “Wait!” I said, sharply. “You cannot stop a man like this on the highway!”

  “You don’t know us, sir,” replied Mount, impudently.

  “Come, Colonel Ormond,” added Elerson, almost savagely. “You’re our captain no longer. Give way, sir. Answer for your own men, and we’ll answer to Danny Morgan!”

  Mount, struggling to unfasten the pack, looked over his huge shoulders at me.

  “Not that we’re not fond of you, sir; but we know this old fox now—”

  “You lie!” shrieked the man, hurling his full weight at Murphy and tearing his right arm free from Elerson’s grip.

  There came a flash, an explosion; through a cloud of smoke I saw the fellow’s right arm stretched straight up in the air, his hand clutching a smoking pistol, and Elerson holding the arm rigid in a grip of steel.

  “INSTANTLY MOUNT TRIPPED THE MAN”.

  Instantly Mount tripped the man flat on his face in the dust, and Murphy jerked his arms behind his back, tying them fast at the wrists with a cord which Elerson cut from the pack and flung to him.

  “Rip up thim bales, Jack!” said Murphy. “Yell find them full o’ powther an’ ball an’ cutlery, sorr, or I’m a liar!” he added to me. “This limb o’ Lucifer is wan o’ Francy McCraw’s renegados! — Danny Redstock, sorr, th’ tirror av the Sacandaga!”

  Redstock! I had seen him at Broadalbin that evening in May, threatening the angry settlers with his rifle, when Dorothy and the Brandt-Meester and I had ridden over with news of smoke in the hills.

  Murphy tied the prostrate man’s legs, pulled him across the dusty road to the bushes, and laid him on his back under a great maple-tree.

  Mount, knife in hand, ripped up the bales of crackling peltry, and Elerson delved in among the skins, flinging them right and left in his impatient search.

  “There’s no powder here,” he exclaimed, rising to his knees on the road and staring at Mount; “nothing but badly cured beaver and mangy musk-rat.”

  “Well, he baled ’em to conceal something!” insisted Mount. “No man packs in this moth-eaten stuff for love of labor. What’s that parcel in the bottom?”

  “Not powder,” replied Elerson, tossing it out, where it rebounded, crackling.

  “Squirrel pelts,” nodded Mount, as I picked up the packet and looked at the sealed cords. The parcel was addressed: “General Barry St. Leger, in camp before Stanwix.” I sat down on the grass and began to open it, when a groan from the prostrate prisoner startled me. He had struggled to a sitting posture, and was facing me, eyes bulging from their sockets. Every vestige of color had left his visage.

  “For God’s sake don’t open that!” he gasped— “there is naught there, sir—”

  “Silence!” roared Mount, glaring at him, while Murphy and Elerson, dropping their armfuls of pelts, came across the road to the bank where I sat.

  “I will not be silent!” screamed the man, rocking to and fro on the ground. “I did not do that! — I know nothing of what that packet holds! A Mohawk runner gave it to me — I mean that I found it on the trail—”

  The riflemen stared at him in contempt while I cut the strings of the parcel and unrolled the bolt of heavy miller’s cloth.

  At first I did not comprehend what all that mass of fluffy hair could be. A deep gasp from Mount enlightened me, and I dropped the packet in a revulsion of horror indescribable. For the parcel was fairly bursting with tightly packed scalps.

  In the deathly silence I heard Redstock’s hoarse breathing. Mount knelt down and gently lifted a heavy mass of dark, silky hair.

  At last Elerson broke the silence, speaking in a strangely gentle and monotonous voice.

  “I think this hair was Janet McCrea’s. I saw her many times at Half-moon. No maid in Tryon County had hair like hers.”

  Shuddering, Mount lifted a long braid of dark-brown hair fastened to a hoop painted blue. And Elerson, in that strange monotone, continued speaking:

  “The hair on this scalp is braided to show that the woman was a mother; the skin stretched on a blue hoop confirms it.

  “The murderer has painted the skin yellow with red dots to represent tears shed for the dead by her family. There is a death-maul painted below in black; it shows how she was killed.”

  He laid the scalp back very carefully. Under the mass of hair a bit of paper stuck out, and I drew it from the dreadful packet. It was a sealed letter directed to General St. Leger, and I opene
d and read the contents aloud in the midst of a terrible silence.

  “SACANDAGA VLAIE,

  August 17, 1777

  “ General Barry St. Leger

  “SIR, — I send you under care of Daniel Redstock the first packet of scalps, cured, dried, hooped, and painted; four dozen in all, at twenty dollars a dozen, which will be eighty dollars. This you will please pay to Daniel Redstock, as I need money for tobacco and rum for the men and the Senecas who are with me.

  “Return invoice with payment acquitted by the bearer, who will know where to find me. Below I have prepared a true invoice. Your very humble servant,

  “F. MCCRAW.

  “Invoice.

  (6) Six scalps of farmers, green hoops to show they were killed

  in their fields; a large white circle for the sun, showing

  it was day; black bullet mark on three; hatchet on two.

  (2) Two of settlers, surprised and killed in their houses or barns;

  hoops red; white circle for the sun; a little red foot to show

  they died fighting. Both marked with bullet symbol.

  (4) Four of settlers. Two marked by little yellow flames to show

  how they died. (My Senecas have had no prisoners for

  burning since August third.) One a rebel clergyman, his

  band tied to the scalp-hoop, and a little red foot under a red

  cross painted on the skin. (He killed two of my men before

  we got him.) One, a poor scalp, the hair gray and

  thin; the hoop painted brown. (An old man whom we

  found in bed in a rebel house.)

  (12) Twelve of militia soldiers; stretched on black hoops four inches

  in diameter, inside skin painted red; a black circle showing

  they were outposts surprised at night; hatchet as usual.

  (12) Twelve of women; one unbraided — a very fine scalp (bought

  of a Wyandot from Burgoyne’s army), which I paid full