Strange, strange, that I, a white man of blood untainted, must answer for this final tragic catastrophe! Without me, perhaps, the sachems of the three clans might submit to the will of the League, for even the surly Onondagas had now heeded the League-Call — yes, even the Tuscaroras, too. And as for those Delaware dogs, they had come, belly-dragging, cringing to the lash of the stricken Confederacy, though now was their one chance in a hundred years to disobey and defy. But the Lenape were ever women.
Strange, strange, that I, a white man of unmixed blood, should stand in League-Council for the noblest clan of the Oneida nation!
That I had been adopted satisfied the hereditary law of chieftainship; that I had been selected satisfied the elective law of the sachems. Rank follows the female line; the son of a chief never succeeded to rank. It is the matron — the chief woman of the family — who chooses a dead chief’s successor from the female line in descent; and thus Cloud on the Sun chose me, her adopted; and, dying, heard the loud, imperious challenge from the council-fire as the solemn rite ended with:
“Now show me the man!”
And so, knowing that the antlers were lifted and the quiver slung across my thigh, she died contented, and I, a lad, stood a chief of the Oneida nation. Never since time began, since the Caniengas adopted Hiawatha, had a white councilor been chosen who had been accepted by family, clan, and national council, and ratified by the federal senate, excepting only Sir William Johnson and myself. That Algonquin word “sachem,” so seldom used, so difficult of pronunciation by the Iroquois, was never employed to designate a councilor in council; there they used the title, Roy-a-neh, and to that title had I answered the belt of the Iroquois, in the name of Kayanehenh-Kowa, the Great Peace.
For what Magna Charta is to the Englishman, what the Constitution is to us, is the Great Peace to an Iroquois; and their gratitude, their intense reverence and love for its founder, Hiawatha, is like no sentiment we have conceived even for the beloved name of Washington.
Now that the Revolution had split the Great Peace, which is the Iroquois League, the larger portion of the nation had followed Brant to Canada — all the Caniengas, the greater part of the Onondaga nation, all the Cayugas, the one hundred and fifty of our own Oneidas. And though the Senecas did not desert their western post as keepers of the shattered gate in a house divided against itself, they acted with the Mohawks; the Onondagas had brought their wampum from Onondaga, and a new council-fire was kindled in Canada as rallying-place of a great people in process of final disintegration.
It was sad to me who loved them, who knew them first as firm allies of New York province, who understood them, their true character, their history and tradition, their intimate social and family life.
And though I stood with those whom they struck heavily, and who in turn struck them hip and thigh, I bear witness before God that they were not by nature the fiends and demons our historians have painted, not by instinct the violent and ferocious scourges that the painted Tories made of these children of the forest, who for five hundred years had formed a confederacy whose sole object was peace.
I speak not of the brutal and degraded gens de prairie — the horse-riding savages of the West, whose primal instincts are to torture the helpless and to violate women — a crime no Iroquois, no Huron, no Algonquin, no Lenni-Lenape can be charged with. But I speak for the gens de bois — the forest Indians of the East, and of those who maintained the Great League, which was but a powerful tribunal imposing peace upon half a continent.
Left alone to themselves, unharassed by men of my blood and color, they are a kindly and affectionate people, full of sympathy for their friends in distress, considerate of their women, tender to their children, generous to strangers, anxious for peace, and profoundly reverent where their League or its founders were concerned.
Centuries of warfare for self-preservation have made them efficient in the arts of war. Ferocity, craft, and deception, practised on them by French, Dutch, and English, have taught them to reply in kind. Yet these somber, engrafted qualities which we have recorded as their distinguishing traits, no more indicate their genuine character than war-paint and shaven head display the customary costume they appear in among their own people. The cruelties of war are not peculiar to any one people; and God knows that in all the Iroquois confederacy no savage could be found to match the British Provost, Cunningham, or Major Bromfield — no atrocities could obscure the atrocities in the prisons and prison-ships of New York, the deeds of the Butlers, of Crysler, of Beacraft, and of Bettys.
For, among the Iroquois, I can remember only two who were the peers in cruelty of Walter Butler and the Tory Beacraft, and these were the Indian called Seth Henry, and the half-breed hag, Catrine Montour.
Pondering on these things, perplexed and greatly depressed, I presently emerged from the forest-belt through which I had been riding, and found our little column halted in the open country, within a few minutes’ march of the Schenectady highway.
The rangers looked up at me curiously as I passed, doubtless having an inkling of what had been going on from questioning the Oneida scouts, for Murphy broke out impulsively, “Sure, Captain, we was that onaisy, alanna, that Elerson an’ me matched apple-pipps f’r to inthrojuce wan another to that powwow forninst the big pine.”
“Had you appeared yonder while I was talking to that belt-bearer it might have gone hard with me, Tim,” I said gravely.
Riding on past the spot where Jack Mount stood, his brief authority ended, I heard him grumbling about the rashness of officers and the market value of a good scalp in Quebec; and I only said: “Scold as much as you like, Jack, only obey.” And so cantered forward to where Elsin sat her black mare, watching my approach. Her steady eyes welcomed, mine responded; in silence we wheeled our horses north once more, riding stirrup to stirrup through the dust. On either side stretched abandoned fields, growing up in weeds and thistles, for now we were almost on the Mohawk River, the great highway of the border war down which the tides of destruction and death had rolled for four terrible years.
There was nothing to show for it save meadows abandoned to willow scrub, fallow fields deep in milk-weed, goldenrod, and asters; and here and there a charred rail or two of some gate or fence long since destroyed.
Far away across the sand-flats we could see a ruined barn outlined against the sunset sky, but no house remained standing to the westward far as the eye could reach. However, as we entered the highway, which I knew well, because now we were approaching a country familiar to me, I, leading, caught sight of a few Dutch roofs to the east, and presently came into plain view of the stockade and blockhouses of Schenectady, above which rose the lovely St. George’s church and the heavy walls and four demi-bastions of the citadel which is called the Queen’s Fort.
As we approached in full view of the ramparts there was a flash, a ball of white smoke; and no doubt a sentry had fired his musket, such was evidently their present state of alarm, for I saw the Stars and Stripes run up on the citadel, and, far away, I heard the conch-horn blowing, and the startled music of the light-infantry horns. Evidently the sight of our Oneidas, spread far forward in a semicircle, aroused distrust. I sent Murphy forward with a flag, then advanced very deliberately, recalling the Oneidas by whistle-signal.
And, as we rode under the red rays of the westering sun, I pointed out St. George’s to Elsin and the Queen’s Fort, and where were formerly the town gates by which the French and Indians had entered on that dreadful winter night when they burned Schenectady, leaving but four or five houses, and the snowy streets all wet and crimsoned with the blood of women and children.
“But that was many, many years ago, sweetheart,” I added, already sorry that I had spoken of such things. “It was in 1690 that Monsieur De Mantet and his Frenchmen and Praying Indians did this.”
“But people do such things now, Carus,” she said, serious eyes raised to mine.
“Oh, no — —”
“They did at Wyoming, at Cherry Valle
y, at Minnisink. You told me so in New York — before you ever dreamed that you and I would be here together.”
“Ah, Elsin, but things have changed now that Colonel Willett is in the Valley. His Excellency has sent here the one man capable of holding the frontier; and he will do it, dear, and there will be no more Cherry Valleys, no more Minnisinks, no more Wyomings now.”
“Why were they moving out of the houses in Albany, Carus?”
I did not reply.
Presently up the road I saw Murphy wave his white flag; and, a moment later, the Orange Gate, which was built like a drawbridge, fell with a muffled report, raising a cloud of dust. Over it, presently, our horses’ feet drummed hollow as we spurred forward.
“Pass, you Tryon County men!” shouted the sentinels; and the dusty column entered. We were in Schenectady at last.
As we wheeled up the main street of the town, marching in close column between double lines of anxious townsfolk, a staff-officer, wearing the uniform of the New York line, came clattering down the street from the Queen’s Fort, and drew bridle in front of me with a sharp, precise salute.
“Captain Renault?” he asked.
I nodded, returning his salute.
“Colonel Gansvoort’s compliments, and you are directed to report to Colonel Willett at Butlersbury without losing an hour.”
“That means an all-night march,” I said bluntly.
“Yes, sir.” He lowered his voice: “The enemy are on the Sacandaga.”
I stiffened in my stirrups. “Tell Colonel Gansvoort it shall be done, sir.” And I wheeled my horse, raising my rifle: “Attention! — to the left — dress! Right about face! By sections of four — to the right — wheel — March! ... Halt! Front — dress! Trail — arms! March!”
The veterans of Morgan, like trained troop-horses, had executed the maneuvers before they realized what was happening. They were the first formal orders I had given. I myself did not know how the orders might be obeyed until all was over and we were marching out of the Orange Gate once more, and swinging northward, wagons, bat-horses, and men in splendid alignment, and the Oneidas trotting ahead like a pack of foxhounds under master and whip. But I had to do with irregulars; I understood that. Already astonished and inquiring glances shot upward at me as I rode with Elsin; already I heard a low whispering among the men. But I waited. Then, as we turned the hill, a cannon on the Queen’s Fort boomed good-by and Godspeed! — and our conch-horn sounded a long, melancholy farewell.
It was then that I halted the column, facing them, rifle resting across my saddle-bow.
“Men of New York,” I said, “the enemy are on the Sacandaga.”
Intense silence fell over the ranks.
“If there be one rifleman here who is too weary to enter Johnstown before daylight, let him fall out.”
Not a man stirred.
“Very well,” I said, laughing; “if you Tryon County men are so keen for battle, there’s a dish o’ glory to be served up, hot as sugar and soupaan, among the Mayfield hills. Come on, Men of New York!”
And I think they must have wondered there in Schenectady at the fierce cheering of Morgan’s men as our column wheeled northwest once more, into the coming night.
We entered Johnstown an hour before dawn, not a man limping, nor a horse either, for that matter. An officer from Colonel Willett met us, directing the men and the baggage to the fort which was formerly the stone jail, the Oneidas to huts erected on the old camping-ground west of Johnson Hall, and Elsin and me to quarters at Jimmy Burke’s Tavern. She was already half-asleep in her saddle, yet ever ready to rouse herself for a new effort; and now she raised her drowsy head with a confused smile as I lifted her from the horse to the porch of Burke’s celebrated frontier inn.
“Colonel Willett’s compliments, and he will breakfast with you at ten,” whispered the young officer. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night,” I nodded, and entered the tavern, bearing Elsin in my arms, now fast asleep as a worn-out child.
CHAPTER XI
THE TEST
I was awakened by somebody shaking me. Bewildered, not recognizing my landlord, but confusing him with the sinister visions that had haunted my sleep, I grappled with him until, senses returning, I found myself sitting bolt upright in a shaky trundle-bed, clutching Jimmy Burke by the collar.
“Lave go me shirrt, sorr,” he pleaded— “f’r the saints’ sake, Misther Renault! I’ve the wan shirrt to me back — —”
“Confound you, Jimmy!” I yawned, dropping back on my pillow; “what do you mean by choking me?”
“Chocken’, is it, sorr!” exclaimed the indignant Irishman; “’tis me shcalp ye’re afther liftin’ wid a whoop an’ a yell, glory be! I’ll throuble ye, Captain Renault, f’r to projooce me wig, sorr!”
Clutched in my left hand I discovered the unfortunate landlord’s wig, and I lay there amused and astonished while he haughtily adjusted it before the tiny triangle of glass nailed on the wall.
“Shame on you, Jimmy Burke, to wear a wig to cheat some honest Mohawk out of his eight dollars!” I yawned, rubbing my eyes.
“Mohawks, is it? Now, God be good to the haythen whin James Burrke takes the Currietown thrail — —”
“You’re exempt, you fat rascal!” I said, laughing; and the dumpy little Irishman gave me a sly grin as he retied his stock and stood smoothing down his rumpled wig before the glass.
“Och! divil a hair has he left on the wig o’ me!” he grumbled. “Will ye get up, sorr? ’Tis ten o’clock, lackin’ some contrairy minutes, an’ the officers from the foort do be ragin’ f’r lack o’ soupaan — —”
“Are they here?” I cried, leaping out of bed. “Why didn’t you say so? Where’s my tub of water? Don’t stand there grinning, I tell you. Say to Colonel Willett I’ll join him in a second.”
The fat little landlord retreated crab-wise. I soused my clipped head in the tub, took a spatter-bath like a wild duck in a hurry, clothed me in my gay forest-dress, making no noise lest I wake Elsin, and ran down the rough wooden stairs to the coffee-room, plump into a crowd of strange officers, all blue and buff and gilt.
“Well, Carus!” came a cool, drawling voice from the company; and I saw the tall, gaunt figure of Colonel Marinus Willett sauntering toward me, his hawk’s nose wrinkled into a whimsical smile.
“Colonel,” I stammered, saluting, then sprang forward and grasped the veteran’s outstretched hand, asking his pardon for my tardiness.
“What a great big boy!” he commented, holding my hand in both of his, and inspecting me from crown to heel. “Is this the lad I’ve heard of — below—” His nose wrinkled again, and his grimly humorous mouth twitched. “Carus, you’ve grown since I last saw you at the patroon’s, romping a reel with those rosy Dutch lassies from Vrooman’s — eh? That’s well, my son; the best dancers were ever the best fighters! Look at Tim Murphy! As for me, I never could learn to dance with you Valley aristocrats. Carus, you should know my officers.” And he mentioned names with a kindly, informal precision characteristic of a gentleman too great to follow conventions, too highly bred to ignore them. The consequent compromise was, as I say, a delightfully formal informality which reigned among his entourage, but never included himself, although he apparently invited it. In this, I imagine, he resembled his Excellency, and have heard others say so; but I do not know, for I never saw his Excellency.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Colonel Willett casually, as he seated himself at the head of the table. And we sat down at the signal, I next to the Colonel at his nod of invitation.
The fat little landlord, Burke, notorious for the speed with which he fled from Sir John Johnson when that warrior-baronet raided Johnstown, came bustling into the coffee-room like a fresh breeze from the Irish coast, asking our pleasure in a brogue thick enough to season the bubbling, steaming bowl of hasty-pudding he set before us a moment later.
“Jimmy,” said an officer, glancing up at him where he stood, thick legs apart, hands clasped behind him
, and jolly head laid on one side, “is there any news of Sir John Johnson in these parts?”
“Faith,” said Burke, with a toss of his head, “’tis little I bother meself along wid the likes o’ Sir John. Lave him poke his nose into the Sacandagy an’ dhrown there, bad cess to him! We’ve a thrick to match his, an’ wan f’r the pig!”
“I’m glad to know that, Jimmy,” said another officer earnestly. “And if that’s the case. Captain Renault’s Rangers might as well pack up and move back to Albany.”
“Sure, Captain dear,” he said, turning to me, “’tis not f’r the likes o’ Jimmy Burke to say it, but there do be a fri’nd o’ mine in the Rangers, a blatherin’, blarneyin’, bog-runnin’ lad they call Tim Murphy. ’Tis f’r his sake I’d be glad to see the Rangers here — an’ ye’ll not misjudge me, sorr, that Jimmy Burke is afeared o’ Sir John an’ his red whippets!”
“Oh, no,” I said gravely; “I’m quite ready to leave Johnstown to your protection, Jimmy, and march my men back to-night — with Colonel Willett’s permission — —”
“Sorra the day! Och, listen to him, Colonel dear!” exclaimed the landlord, with an appealing glance at Willett. “Wud ye lave us now, wid th’ ould women an’ childer huddled like catthle in the foort, an’ Walther Butler at Niagary an’ Sir John on the Sacandagy! Sure, ’tis foolin’ ye arre, Captain dear — wid the foine ale I have below, an’ divil a customer — the town’s that crazy wid fear o’ Sir John! ’Tis not f’r meself I shpake, sorr,” he added airily, “but ’tis the jooty o’ the military f’r to projooce thraffic an’ thrade an’ the blessing of prosperity at the p’int o’ the bagnet, sorr.”
“In that case,” observed Willett, “you ought to stay, Carus. Burke can’t attend to his tavern and take time to chase Sir John back to the lakes.”
“Thrue f’r ye, sorr!” exclaimed Burke, with a twinkle in his gray eye. “Where wud th’ b’ys find a dhram, sorr, wid Jimmy Burke on a scout, sorr, thrimmin’ the Tories o’ Mayfield, an’ runnin’ the Scotch loons out o’ Perth an’ the Galways, glory be!”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 244