price for; nine braided, hoops blue, red tear-marks; two
very gray; black hoops, plain brown color inside; death-maul
marked in red.
(6) Six of boys’ scalps; small green hoops; red tears; symbols
in black of castete, knife, and bullet.
(5) Five of girls’ scalps; small yellow hoops. Marked with the
Seneca symbol to whom they were delivered before scalping.
(l) One box of birch-bark containing an infant’s scalp; very little
hair, but well dried and cured. (I must ask full price
for this.)
48 scalps assorted, @ 20 dollars a dozen..............80 dollars.
“Received payment, F. McCRAW.”
The ghastly face of the prisoner turned livid, and he shrieked as Mount caught him by the collar and dragged him to his feet.
“Jack,” I said, hoarsely, “the law sends that man before a court.”
“Court be damned!” growled Mount, as Elerson uncoiled the pack-rope, flung one end over a maple limb above, and tied a running noose on the other end.
Murphy crowded past me to seize the prisoner, but I caught him by the arm and pushed him aside.
“Men!” I said, angrily; “I don’t care whose command you are under. I’m an officer, and you’ll listen to me and obey me with respect. Murphy!”
The Irishman gave me a savage stare.
“By God!” I cried, cocking my rifle, “if one of you dares disobey, I’ll shoot him where he stands! Murphy! Stand aside! Mount, bring that prisoner here!”
There was a pause; then Murphy touched his cap and stepped back quietly, nodding to Mount, who shuffled forward, pushing the prisoner and darting a venomous glance at me.
“Redstock,” I said, “where is McCraw?”
A torrent of filthy abuse poured out of the prisoner’s writhing mouth. He cursed us, threatening us with a terrible revenge from McCraw if we harmed a hair of his head.
Astonished, I saw that he had mistaken my attitude for one of fear. I strove to question him, but he insolently refused all information. My men ground their teeth with impatience, and I saw that I could control them no longer.
So I gave what color I could to the lawless act of justice, partly to save my waning authority, partly to save them the consequences of executing a prisoner who might give valuable information to the authorities in Albany.
I ordered Elerson to hold the prisoner and adjust the noose; Murphy and Mount to the rope’s end. Then I said: “Prisoner, this field-court finds you guilty of murder and orders your execution. Have you anything to say before sentence is carried out?”
The wretch did not believe we were in earnest. I nodded to Elerson, who drew the noose tight; the prisoner’s knees gave way, and he screamed; but Mount and Murphy jerked him up, and the rope strangled the screech in his throat.
Sickened, I bent my head, striving to count the seconds as he hung twisting and quivering under the maple limb.
Would he never die? Would those spasms never end?
“Shtep back, sorr, if ye plaze, sorr,” said Murphy, gently. “Sure, sorr, ye’re as white as a sheet. Walk away quiet-like; ye’re not used to such things, sorr.”
I was not, indeed; I had never seen a man done to death in cold blood. Yet I fought off the sickening faintness that clutched at my heart; and at last the dangling thing hung limp and relaxed, turning slowly round and round in mid-air.
Mount nodded to Murphy and fell to digging with a sharpened stick. Elerson quietly lighted his pipe and aided him, while Murphy shaved off a white square of bark on the maple-tree under the slow-turning body, and I wrote with the juice of an elderberry:
“Daniel Redstock, a child murderer, executed by American Riflemen for his crimes, under order of George Ormond, Colonel of Rangers, August 19, 1777. Renegades and Outlaws take warning!”
When Mount and Elerson had finished the shallow grave, they laid the scalps of the murdered in the hole, stamped down the earth, and covered it with sticks and branches lest a prowling outlaw or Seneca disinter the remains and reap a ghastly reward for their redemption from General the Hon. Barry St. Leger, Commander of the British, Hessians, Loyal Colonials, and Indians, in camp before Fort Stanwix.
As we left that dreadful spot, and before I could interfere to prevent them, the three riflemen emptied their pieces into the swinging corpse — a useless, foolish, and savage performance, and I said so sharply.
They were very docile and contrite and obedient now, explaining that it was a customary safeguard, as hanged men had been revived more than once — a flimsy excuse, indeed!
“Very well,” I said; “your shots may draw McCraw’s whole force down on us. But doubtless you know much more than your officers — like the militia at Oriskany.”
The reproof struck home; Mount muttered his apology; Murphy offered to carry my rifle if I was fatigued.
“It was thoughtless, I admit that,” said Elerson, looking backward, uneasily. “But we’re close to the patroon’s boundary.”
“We’re within bounds now,” said Mount. “Fonda’s Bush lies over there to the southeast, and the Vlaie is yonder below the mountain-notch. This wagon-track runs into the Fish-House road.”
“How far are we from the manor?” I asked.
“About two miles and a half, sir,” replied Mount. “Doubtless some of Sir George Covert’s horsemen heard our shots, and we’ll meet ’em cantering out to investigate.”
I had not imagined we were as near as that. A painful thrill passed through me; my heart leaped, beating feverishly in my breast.
Minute after minute dragged as we filed swiftly onward, mechanically treading in each other’s tracks. I strove to consider, to think, to picture the sad, strange home-coming — to see her as she would stand, stunned, astounded that I had ignored her appeal to help her by my absence.
I could not think; my thoughts were chaos; my brain throbbed heavily; I fixed my hot eyes on the road and strode onward, numbed, seeing, hearing nothing.
And, of a sudden, a shout rang out ahead; horsemen in line across the road, rifles on thigh, moved forward towards us; an officer reversed his sword, drove it whizzing into the scabbard, and spurred forward, followed by a trooper, helmet flashing in the sun.
“Ormond!” cried the officer, flinging himself from his horse and holding out both white-gloved hands.
“Sir George, ... I am glad to see you.... I am very — happy,” I stammered, taking his hands.
“Cousin Ormond!” came a timid voice behind me.
I turned; Ruyven, in full uniform of a cornet, flung himself into my arms.
I could scarce see him for the mist in my eyes; I pressed the boy close to my breast and kissed him on both cheeks.
Utterly unable to speak, I sat down on a log, holding Sir George’s gloved hand, my arm on Ruyven’s laced shoulder. An immense fatigue came over me; I had not before realized the pace we had kept up for these two months nor the strain I had been under.
“Singleton!” called out Sir George, “take the men to the barracks; take my horse, too — I’ll walk back. And, Singleton, just have your men take these fine fellows up behind” — with a gesture towards the riflemen. “And see that they lack for nothing in quarters!”
Grinning sheepishly, the riflemen climbed up behind the troopers assigned them; the troop cantered off, and Sir George pointed to Ruyven’s horse, indicating that it was for me when I was rested.
“We heard shots,” he said; “I mistrusted it might be a salute from you, but came ready for anything, you see — Lord! How thin you’ve grown, Ormond!”
“I’m cornet, cousin!” burst out Ruyven, hugging me again in his excitement. “I charged with the squadron when we scattered McDonald’s outlaws! A man let drive at me—”
“Oh, come, come,” laughed Sir George, “Colonel Ormond has had more bullets driven at him than our Legion pouches in their bullet-bags!”
“A man let drive at me!” breathed Ruyven,
in rapture. “I was not hit, cousin! A man let drive at me, and I heard the bullet!”
“Nonsense!” said Sir George, mischievously; “you heard a bumble-bee!”
“He always says that,” retorted Ruyven, looking at me. “I know it was a bullet, for it went zo-o-zip-tsing-g! right past my ear; and Sergeant West shouted, ‘Cut him down, sir!’ ... But another trooper did that. However, I rode like the devil!”
“Which way?” inquired Sir George, in pretended anxiety. And we all laughed.
“It’s good to see you back all safe and sound,” said Sir George, warmly. “Sir Lupus will be delighted and the children half crazed. You should hear them talk of their hero!”
“Dorothy will be glad, too,” said Ruyven. “You’ll be in time for the wedding.”
I strove to smile, facing Sir George with an effort. His face, in the full sunlight, seemed haggard and careworn, and the light had died out in his eyes.
“For the wedding,” he repeated. “We are to be wedded to-morrow. You did not know that, did you?”
“Yes; I did know it. Dorothy wrote me,” I said. A numbed feeling crept over me; I scarce heard the words I uttered when I wished him happiness. He held my proffered hand a second, then dropped it listlessly, thanking me for my good wishes in a low voice.
There was a vague, troubled expression in his eyes, a strange lack of feeling. The thought came to me like a stab that perhaps he had learned that the woman he was to wed did not love him.
“Did Dorothy expect me?” I asked, miserably.
“I think not,” said Sir George.
“She believed you meant to follow Arnold to Stanwix,” broke in Ruyven. “I should have done it! I regard General Arnold as the most magnificent soldier of the age!” he added.
“I was ordered to Varick Manor,” I said, looking at Sir George. “Otherwise I might have followed Arnold. As it is I cannot stay for the wedding; I must report at Stillwater, leaving by nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Lord, Ormond, what a fire-eater you have become!” he said, smiling from his abstraction. “Are you ready to mount Ruyven’s nag and come home to a good bed and a glass of something neat?”
“Let Ruyven ride,” I said; “I need the walk, Sir George.”
“Need the walk!” he exclaimed. “Have you not had walks enough? — and your moccasins and buckskins in rags!”
But I could not endure to ride; a nerve-racking restlessness was on me, a desire for movement, for utter exhaustion, so that I could no longer have even strength to think.
Ruyven, protesting, climbed into his dragoon-saddle; Sir George walked beside him and I with Sir George.
Long, soft August lights lay across the leafy road; the blackberries were in heavy fruit; scarlet thimble-berries, over-ripe, dropped from their pithy cones as we brushed the sprays with our sleeves.
Sir George was saying: “No, we have nothing more to fear from McDonald’s gang, but a scout came in, three days since, bringing word of McCraw’s outlaws who have appeared in the west—”
He stopped abruptly, listening to a sound that I also heard; the sudden drumming of unshod hoofs on the road behind us.
“What the devil—” he began, then cocked his rifle; I threw up mine; a shrill cock-crow rang out above the noise of tramping horses; a galloping mass of horsemen burst into view behind us, coming like an avalanche.
“McCraw!” shouted Sir George. Ruyven fired from his saddle; Sir George’s rifle and mine exploded together; a horse and rider went down with a crash, but the others came straight on, and the cock-crow rang out triumphantly above the roar of the rushing horses.
“Ruyven!” I shouted, “ride for your life!”
“I won’t!” he cried, furiously; but I seized his bridle, swung his frightened horse, and struck the animal across the buttocks with clubbed rifle. Away tore the maddened beast, almost unseating his rider, who lost both stirrups at the first frantic bound and clung helplessly to his saddle-pommel while the horse carried him away like the wind.
Then I sprang into the ozier thicket, Sir George at my side, and ran a little way; but they caught us, even before we reached the timber, and threw us to the ground, tying us up like basted capons with straps from their saddles. Maltreated, struck, kicked, mauled, and dragged out to the road, I looked for instant death; but a lank creature flung me across his saddle, face downward, and, in a second, the whole band had mounted, wheeled about, and were galloping westward, ventre à terre.
Almost dead from the saddle-pommel which knocked the breath from my body, suffocated and strangled with dust, I hung dangling there in a storm of flying sticks and pebbles. Twice consciousness fled, only to return with the blood pounding in my ears. A third time my senses left me, and when they returned I lay in a cleared space in the woods beside Sir George, the sun shining full in my face, flung on the ground near a fire, over which a kettle was boiling. And on every side of us moved McCraw’s riders, feeding their horses, smoking, laughing, playing at cards, or coming up to sniff the camp-kettle and poke the boiling meat with pointed sticks.
Behind them, squatted in rows, sat two dozen Indians, watching us in ferocious silence.
XXI
THE CRISIS
For a while I lay there stupefied, limp-limbed, lifeless, closing my aching eyes under the glittering red rays of the westering sun.
My parched throat throbbed and throbbed; I could scarcely stir, even to close my swollen hands where they had tied my wrists, although somebody had cut the cords that bound me.
“Sir George,” I said, in a low voice.
“Yes, I am here,” he replied, instantly.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, Ormond. Are you?”
“No; very tired; that is all.”
I rolled over; my head reeled and I held it in my benumbed hands, looking at Sir George, who lay on his side, cheek pillowed on his arms.
“This is a miserable end of it all,” he said, with calm bitterness. “But that it involves you, I should not dare blame fortune for the fool I acted. I have my deserts; but it’s cruel for you.”
The sickening whirling in my head became unendurable. I lay down, facing him, eyes closed.
“It was not your fault,” I said, dully.
“There is no profit in discussing that,” he muttered. “They took us alive instead of scalping us; while there’s life there’s hope, ... a little hope.... But I’d sooner they’d finish me here than rot in their stinking prison-ships.... Ormond, are you awake?”
“Yes, Sir George.”
“If they — if the Indians get us, and — and begin their — you know—”
“Yes; I know.”
“If they begin ... that ... insult them, taunt them, sneer at them, laugh at them! — yes, laugh at them! Do anything to enrage them, so they’ll — they’ll finish quickly.... Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I muttered; and my voice sounded miles away.
He lay brooding for a while; when I opened my eyes he broke out fretfully: “How was I to dream that McCraw could be so near! — that he dared raid us within a mile of the house! Oh, I could die of shame, Ormond! die of shame!... But I won’t die that way; oh no,” he added, with a frightful smile that left his face distorted and white.
He raised himself on one elbow.
“Ormond,” he said, staring at vacancy, “what trivial matters a man thinks of in the shadow of death. I can’t consider it; I can’t be reconciled to it; I can’t even pray. One absurd idea possesses me — that Singleton will have the Legion now; and he’s a slack drill-master — he is, indeed!... I’ve a million things to think of — an idle life to consider, a misspent career to repent, but the time is too short, Ormond.... Perhaps all that will come at the instant of — of—”
“Death,” I said, wearily.
“Yes, yes; that’s it, death. I’m no coward; I’m calm enough — but I’m stunned. I can’t think for the suddenness of it!... And you just home; and Ruyven there, snuggled close to you as a house-cat
— and then that sound of galloping, like a fly-stung herd of cattle in a pasture!”
“I think Ruyven is safe,” I said, closing my eyes.
“Yes, he’s safe. Nobody chased him; they’ll know at the manor by this time; they knew long ago.... My men will be out.... Where are we, Ormond?”
“I don’t know,” I murmured, drowsily. The months of fatigue, the unbroken strain, the feverish weeks spent in endless trails, the constant craving for movement to occupy my thoughts, the sleepless nights which were the more unendurable because physical exhaustion could not give me peace or rest, now told on me. I drowsed in the very presence of death; and the stupor settled heavily, bringing, for the first time since I left Varick Manor, rest and immunity from despair or even desire.
I cared for nothing: hope of her was dead; hope of life might die and I was acquiescent, contented, glad of the end. I had endured too much.
My sleep — or unconsciousness — could not have lasted long; the sun was not yet level with my eyes when I roused to find Sir George tugging at my sleeve and a man in a soiled and tarnished scarlet uniform standing over me.
But that brief respite from the strain had revived me; a bucket of cold water stood near the fire, and I thrust my burning face into it, drinking my fill, while the renegade in scarlet bawled at me and fumed and cursed, demanding my attention to what he was saying.
“You damned impudent rebel!” he yelled; “am I to stand around here awaiting your pleasure while you swill your skin full?”
I wiped my lips with my torn hands, and got to my feet painfully, a trifle dizzy for a moment, but perfectly able to stand and to comprehend.
“I’m asking you,” he snarled, “why we can’t send a flag to your people without their firing on it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
“I do,” said Sir George, blandly.
“Oh, you do, eh?” growled the renegade, turning on him with a scowl. “Then tell me why our flag of truce is not respected, if you can.”
“Nobody respects a flag from outlaws,” said Sir George, coolly.
The fellow’s face hardened and his eyes blazed. He started to speak, then shut his mouth with a snap, turned on his heel, and strode across the treeless glade to where his noisy riders were saddling up, tightening girths, buckling straps, and examining the unshod feet of their horses or smoothing out the burrs from mane and tail. The red sun glittered on their spurs, rifles, and the flat buckles of their cross-belts. Their uniform was scarlet and green, but some wore beaded shirts of scarlet holland, belted in with Mohawk wampum, and some were partly clothed like Cayuga Indians and painted with Seneca war-symbols — a grewsome sight.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 164