He bustled out to fetch us a dish of pink clingstone peaches, grown in the gardens planted by the great Sir William. Truly, Sir John had lost much when he lost Johnson Hall; and now, like a restless ghost drawn back to familiar places, he haunted the spot that his great father had made to bloom like a rose in the wilderness. He was out there now, in the sunshine and morning haze, somewhere, beyond the blue autumn mist in the north — out there, disgraced, disinherited, shelterless, sullenly brooding, and plotting murder with his motley mob of Cayugas and painted renegades.
Colonel Willett rose and we all stood up, but he signaled those who had not finished eating to resume their places, and laying a familiar hand on my arm led me to the sunny bench outside the door where, at his nod, I seated myself beside him. He drew a map from his breast-pocket and studied in silence; I waited his pleasure.
The veteran seemed to have grown no older since I had last seen him four years since — indeed, he had changed little as I remembered him first, sipping his toddy at my father’s house, and smiling his shrewd, kindly, whimsical smile while I teased him to tell me of the French war, and how he had captured Frontenac.
I was but seventeen years old when he headed that revolt in New York City, and, single-handed, halted the British troops on Broad Street and took away their baggage. I was nineteen when he led the sortie from Stanwix. I had already taken my post in New York when he was serving with his Excellency in the Jerseys and with Sullivan in the west.
Of all the officers who served on the frontier, Marinus Willett was the only man who had ever held the enemy at check. Even Sullivan, returning from his annihilation of Indian civilization, was followed by a cloud of maddened savages and renegades that settled in his tracks, enveloping the very frontier which, by his famous campaign, he had properly expected to leave unharassed.
And now Marinus Willett was in command, with meager resources, indeed, yet his personal presence on the Tryon frontier restored something of confidence to those who still clung to the devastated region, sowing, growing, garnering, and grinding the grain that the half-starved army of the United States required to keep life within the gaunt rank and file. West Point, Albany, Saratoga called for bread; and the men of Tryon plowed and sowed and reaped, leaving their dead in every furrow — swung their scythes under the Iroquois bullets, cut their blood-wet hay in the face of ambush after ambush, stacked their scorched corn and defended it from barn, shack, and window. With torch and hatchet renegade and Iroquois decimated them; their houses kindled into flame; their women and children, scalped and throats cut, were hung over fences like dead game; twelve thousand farms lay tenantless; by thousands the widows and orphans gathered at the blockhouses, naked, bewildered, penniless. There remained in all Tryon County but eight hundred militia capable of responding to a summons — eight hundred desperate men to leave scythe and flail and grist-mill for their rifles at the dread call to arms. Two dozen or more blockhouses, holding from ten to half a hundred families each, were strung out between Stanwix Fort and Schenectady; these, except for a few forts, formed the outer line of the United States’ bulwarks in the north; and this line Willett was here to hold with the scattered handful of farmers and Rangers.
Yet, with these handfuls, before our arrival he had already cleaned out Torlock; he had already charged through the flames of Currietown, and routed the renegades at Sharon — leading the charge, cocked-hat in hand, remarking to his Rangers that he could catch in his hat all the balls that the renegades could fire. Bob McKean, the scout, fell that day; nine men, bound to saplings, were found scalped; yet the handful under Willett turned on Torlock and seized a hundred head of cattle for the famishing garrison of Herkimer. Wawarsing, Cobleskill, and Little Falls were ablaze; Willett’s trail lay through their smoking cinders, his hatchets hung in the renegades’ rear, his bullets drove the raiders headlong from Tekakwitha Spring to the Kennyetto, and his Oneidas clung to the edges of invasion, watching, waiting, listening in the still places for the first faint sound of that advance that meant the final death-grapple. It was coming, surely coming: Sir John already harrying the Sacandaga; Haldimand reported on the eastern lakes; Ross and the Butlers expected from Niagara, and nothing now to prevent Clinton from advancing up the Hudson from New York, skirting West Point, and giving the entire north to the torch. This was what confronted Tryon County; but the army needed grain, and we were there to glean what we might between fitful storms, watching that solid, thunderous tempest darkening the north from east to west, far as the eye could see.
Colonel Willett had lighted his clay pipe, and now, map spread across his knees and mine, he leaned over, arms folded, smoking, and examining the discolored and wrinkled paper.
“Where is Adriutha, Carus?” he drawled.
I pointed out the watercourse, traced in blue, showing him the ancient site and the falls near by.
“And Carenay?”
Again I pointed.
“Oswaya?”
“Only tradition remains of that lost village,” I said. “Even in the Great Rite those who pronounce the name know nothing more than that it once existed. It is so with Kayaderos and Danascara; nobody now knows exactly where they were.”
“And Thendara?”
“Thendara was, and will be, but is not. In the Great Rite of the Iroquois that place where the first ceremony, which is called ‘At the wood’s edge,’ begins is called Thendara, to commemorate the ancient place where first the Holder of Heaven talked face to face with the League’s founder, Hiawatha.”
The hawk-faced veteran smoked and studied the map for a while; then he removed the pipe from his mouth, and, in silence, traced with the smoking stem a path. I watched him; he went back to the beginning and traced the path again and yet again, never uttering a word; and presently I began to comprehend him.
“Yes, sir,” I said; “thus will the Long House strike the Oneidas — when they strike.”
“I have sent belts — as you suggested,” observed Willett carelessly.
I was delighted, but made no comment; and presently he went on in his drawling, easy manner: “I can account for Sir John, and I can hold him on the Sacandaga; I can account for Haldimand only through the cowardice or treachery of Vermont; but I can hold him, too, if he ever dares to leave the lakes. For Sir Henry Clinton I do not care a damn; like a headless chicken he tumbles about New York, seeing, hearing nothing, and no mouth left to squawk with. His head is off; one of his legs still kicks at Connecticut, t’other paddles aimlessly in the Atlantic Ocean. But he’s done for, Carus. Let his own blood cleanse him for the plucking!”
The gaunt Colonel replaced his pipe between his teeth and gazed meditatively into the north:
“But where’s Walter Butler?” he mused.
“Is he not at Niagara, sir?” I asked.
Willett folded his map and shoved it into his breast-pocket. “That,” he said, “is what I want you to find out for me, Carus.”
He wheeled around, facing me, his kindly face very serious:
“I have relieved you of your command, Carus, and have attached you to my personal staff. There are officers a-plenty to take your Rangers where I send them; but I know of only one man in Tryon County who can do what is to be done at Thendara. Send on your belt to Sachems of the Long House. Carus, you are a spy once more.”
I had not expected it, now that the Oneidas had been warned. Chilled, sickened at the thought of playing my loathsome rôle once more, bitter disappointment left me speechless. I hung my head, feeling his keen eyes upon me; I braced myself sullenly against the overwhelming rush of repulsion surging up within me. My every nerve, every fiber quivered for freedom to strike that blow denied me for four miserable years. Had I not earned the right to face my enemies in the open? Had I not earned the right to strike? Had I not waited — God! had I not waited?
Appalled, almost unmanned, I bowed my head still lower as the quick tears of rage wet my lashes. They dried, unshed.
“Is there no chance for me?” I asked— “n
o chance for one honest blow?”
His kind eyes alone answered; and, like a school-boy, I sat there rubbing my face, teeth clenched, to choke back the rebellious cry swelling my hot throat.
“Give me an Oneida, then,” I muttered. “I’ll go.”
“You are a good lad, Carus,” he said gently. “I know how you feel.”
I could not answer.
“You know,” he said, “how many are called, how few chosen. You know that in these times a man must sink self and stand ready for any sacrifice, even the supreme and best.”
He laid his hand on my shoulder: “Carus, I felt as you do now when his Excellency asked me to leave the line and the five splendid New York regiments just consolidated and given me to lead. But I obeyed; I gave up legitimate ambition; I renounced hope of that advancement all officers rightly desire; I left my New York regiments to come here to take command of a few farmers and forest-runners. God and his Excellency know best!”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“There is glory and preferment to be had in Virginia,” he said; “there are stars to be won at Yorktown, Carus. But those stars will never glitter on this faded uniform of mine. So be it. Let us do our best, lad. It’s all one in the end.”
I nodded.
“And so,” he continued pleasantly, “I send you to Thendara. None knows you for a partizan in this war. For four years you have been lost to sight; and if any Iroquois has heard of your living in New York, he must believe you to be a King’s man. Your one danger is in answering the Iroquois summons as an ensign of a nation marked for punishment. How great that danger may be, you can judge better than I.”
I thought for a while. The Canienga who had summoned me by belt could not prove I was a partizan of the riflemen who escorted me. I might have been absolutely non-partizan, traveling under escort of either side that promised protection from those ghostly rovers who scalped first and asked questions afterward.
The danger I ran as clan-ensign of a nation marked for punishment was an unknown quantity to me. From the Canienga belt-bearer I had gathered that there was no sanctuary for an Oneida envoy at Thendara; but what protection an ensign of the Wolf Clan might expect, I could not be certain of.
But there was one more danger. Suppose Walter Butler should appear to sit in council as ensign of his mongrel clan?
“Colonel,” I said, “there is one thing to be done, and, as there is nobody else to accomplish this dog’s work, I must perform it. I am trying not to be selfish — not to envy those whose lines are fallen in pleasant places — not to regret the happiness of battle which I have never known — not to desire those chances for advancement and for glory that — that all young men — crave — —”
My voice broke, but I steadied it instantly.
“I had hoped one day to do a service which his Excellency could openly acknowledge — a service which might, one day, permit him to receive me. I have never seen him. I think, now, I never shall. But, as you say, sir, ambitions like these are selfish, therefore they are petty and unworthy. He does know best.”
The Colonel nodded gravely, watching me, his unlighted pipe drooping in his hand.
“There is one thing — before I go,” I said. “My betrothed wife is with me. May I leave her in your care, sir?”
“Yes, Carus.”
“She is asleep in that room above—” I looked up at the closed shutters, scarcely seeing them for the blinding rush of tears; yet stared steadily till my eyes were dry and hot again, and my choked and tense throat relaxed.
“I think,” said the Colonel, “that she is safer in Johnstown Fort than anywhere else just now. I promise you, Carus, to guard and cherish her as though she were my own child. I may be called away — you understand that! — but I mean to hold Johnstown Fort, and shall never be too far from Johnstown to relieve it in event of siege. What can be done I will do on my honor as a soldier. Are you content?”
“Yes.”
He lowered his voice: “Is it best to see her before you start?”
I shook my head.
“Then pick your Oneida,” he muttered. “Which one?”
“Little Otter. Send for him.”
The Colonel leaned back on the bench and tapped at the outside of the tavern window. An aide came clanking out, and presently hurried away with a message to Little Otter to meet me at Butlersbury within the hour, carrying parched corn and salt for three days’ rations.
For a while we sat there, going over personal matters. Our sea-chests were to be taken to the fort; my financial affairs I explained, telling him where he might find my papers in case of accident to me. Then I turned over to him my watch, what money I had of Elsin’s, and my own.
“If I do not return,” I said, “and if this frontier can not hold out, send Miss Grey with a flag to New York. Sir Peter Coleville is kin to her; and when he understands what danger menaces her he will defend her to the last ditch o’ the law. Do you understand, Colonel?”
“No, Carus, but I can obey.”
“Then remember this: She must never be at the mercy of Walter Butler.”
“Oh, I can remember that,” he said drily.
For a few moments I sat brooding, head between my hands; then, of a sudden impulse, I swung around and laid my heart bare to him — told him everything in a breath — trembling, as a thousand new-born fears seized me, chilling my blood.
“Good God!” I stammered, “it is not for myself I care now, Colonel! But the thought of him — of her — together — I can not endure. I tell you, the dread of this man has entered my very soul; there is terror at a hint of him. Can I not stay, Colonel? Is there no way for me to stay? She is so young, so alone — —”
Hope died as I met his eye. I set my teeth and crushed speech into silence.
“The welfare of a nation comes first,” he said slowly.
“I know — I know — but — —”
“All must sacrifice to that principle, Carus. Have not the men of New York stood for it? Have not the men of Tryon given their all? I tell you, the army shall eat, but the bread they munch is made from blood-wet grain; and for every loaf they bake a life has been offered. Where is the New Yorker who has not faced what you are facing? At the crack of the ambushed rifle our people drop at the plow, and their dying eyes look upon wife and children falling under knife and hatchet. It must be so if the army is to eat and liberty live in this country we dare call our own. And when the call sounds, we New Yorkers must go, Carus. Our women know it, even our toddling children know it, God bless them! — and they proudly take their chances — nay, they demand the chances of a war that spares neither the aged nor the weak, neither mother nor cradled babe, nor the hound at the door, nor the cattle, nor any living thing in this red fury of destruction!”
He had risen, eyes glittering, face hardened into stone. “Go to your betrothed and say good-by. You do not know her yet, I think.”
“She is Canadienne,” I said.
“She is what the man she loves is — if she honors him. His cause is hers, his country hers, his God is her God!”
“Her heart is with neither side — —”
“Her heart is with you! Shame to doubt her — if I read her eyes! Read them, Carus!”
I wheeled, speechless; Elsin Grey stood before me, deadly pale.
After a moment she moved forward, laying her hand on my shoulder and facing Colonel Willett with a smile. All color had fled from her face, but neither lip nor voice quivered as she spoke:
“I think you do understand, sir. We Canadiennes yield nothing in devotion to the women of New York. Where we love, we honor. What matters it where the alarm sounds? We understand our lovers; we can give them to the cause of freedom as well here in Tryon County as on the plains of Abraham — can we not, my betrothed?” she said, looking into my face; but her smile was heart-breaking.
“Child, child,” said Willett, taking her free hand in both of his, “you speak a silent language with your eyes that no man can fail to under
stand.”
“I failed,” I said bitterly, as Willett kissed her hand, placed it in mine, and, turning, entered the open door.
“And what blame, Carus?” she whispered. “What have I been to you but a symbol of unbridled selfishness, asking all, giving nothing? How could you know I loved you so dearly that I could stand aside to let you pass? First I loved you selfishly, shamelessly; then I begged your guilty love, offering mine in the passion of my ignorance and bewilderment.”
Her arm fell from my shoulder and nestled in mine, and we turned away together under the brilliant autumn glory of the trees.
“That storm that tore me — ah, Carus — I had been wrecked without your strong arm to bear me up!”
“It was you who bore me up, Elsin. How can I leave you now!”
“Why, Carus, our honor is involved.”
“Our honor!”
“Yes, dear, ours.”
“You — you bid me go, Elsin?”
“If I bid you stay, what would avail except to prove me faithless to you? How could I truly love you and counsel dishonor?”
White as a flower, the fixed smile never left her lips, nor did her steady pace beside me falter, or knee tremble, or a finger quiver of the little hand that lay within my own.
And then we fell silent, walking to and fro under the painted maple-trees in Johnstown streets, seeing no one, heeding no one, until the bell at the fort struck the hour. It meant the end.
We kissed each other once. I could not speak. My horse, led by Jack Mount, appeared from the tavern stables; and we walked back to the inn together.
Once more I took her in my arms; then she gently drew away and entered the open door, hands outstretched as though blinded, feeling her way — that was the last I saw of her, feeling her dark way alone into the house.
Senses swimming, dumb, deafened by the raging, beating pulses hammering in my brain, I reeled at a gallop into the sunny street, north, then west, then north once more, tearing out into the Butlersbury road. A gate halted me; I dismounted and dragged it open, then to horse again, then another gate, then on again, hailed and halted by riflemen at the cross-roads, which necessitated the summoning of my wits at last before they would let me go.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 245