The Oneida said it was because the Iroquois had no quarrel with Penn’s people, who themselves disliked the intruding Yankee and New Yorker; but they were infuriated against us because we had driven the Iroquois from their New York lands and had punished them so dreadfully at Oriskany. And he further said that Cherry Valley would not have been made such a shambles except that Colonel Clyde and Colonel Campbell lived there, who had done them so much injury at Oriskany.
I myself thought that this was the truth, for no Iroquois ever forgave us Oriskany; and what we were now about to do to them must forever leave an implacable and unquenchable hatred between the Long House and the people of New York.
For on this river which we now followed, and between us and Tioga, where our main army lay, were the pretty Iroquois towns, Ingaren, Owaga, Chenang, and Owega, with their well-built and well-cellared houses, their tanneries, mills, fields of corn and potatoes, orchards, and pleasant gardens full of watermelons, muskmelons, peas, beans, squashes — in fact, everything growing that might ornament the estate of a proud man of my own colour. Thus had the Mohican described these towns to me. And now, as I sat weary, thinking, I knew that even before our army at Otsego joined the Tioga army, it would utterly destroy these towns on its way down; ruin the fields, and burn and girdle the orchards.
And this was not even the beginning of our destined march of destruction and death from one end of the Long House to the other!
Now our Oneida crept back to us, saying that the river was so low we could cross up to our arm-pits; and stood there naked, a slender and perfect statue, all adrip, and balancing pack and rifle on his head.
Wearily we picked our way down to the willows, stripped, hoisted rifles and packs, and went into the icy water. It seemed almost impossible for me to find courage and energy to dress, even after that chilling and invigorating plunge; but at last I was into my moccasins and shirt again. The Sagamore strode lightly to the lead; the Wyandotte started for the rear, but I shoved him next to the Mohican and in front of me, hating him suddenly, so abrupt and profound was my conviction that his stupidity was a studied treachery and not the consequences of a loutish mind.
“That is your place,” I said sharply.
“You gave no orders.”
“Nor did I rescind my last order, which was that you march behind the Sagamore.”
“Is that to be the order of march?” he asked.
“What do you mean by questioning your officer?” I demanded.
“I am no soldier, but an Indian!” he said sullenly.
“You are employed and paid as a guide by General Sullivan, are you not? Very well. Then obey my orders to the letter, or I’ll put you under arrest!”
That was not the way to talk to any Indian; but such a great loathing and contempt far this Wyandotte had seized me, so certain in my mind was I that he was disloyal and that every stupid act of his had been done a-purpose, that I could scarce control my desire to take him by that thick, bull-throat of his and kick him into the river.
For every stupid act or omission of his — or any single one of them — might yet send us all to our deaths. And their aggregate now incensed me; for I could not see how we were entirely to escape their consequences.
Again and again I was on the point of ordering a halt and having the fellow tried; but I dreaded the effect of such summary proceedings on the Oneidas and the Stockbridge, whose sense of justice was keen, and who might view with alarm such punishment meted out to mere stupidity.
It was very evident that neither they nor my Mohican had come to any definite conclusion concerning the Wyandotte. And until they did so, and until I had the unerring authority of my Indians’ opinions, I did not care to go on record as either a brutal or a hasty officer. Indians entertain profound contempt for the man who arrives hastily and lightly at conclusions, without permitting himself leisure for deep and dignified reflection.
And I was well aware that with these Indians the success of any enterprise depended entirely upon their opinion of me, upon my personal influence with them.
Dawn was breaking before the Sagamore turned his head toward me. I gave the signal to halt.
“The Ouleout,” whispered Tahoontowhee in my ear. “Here is its confluence with the Susquehanna.”
The Mohican nodded, saying that we now stood on a peninsula.
I tried to make out the character of the hillock where we stood, but it was not yet light enough to see whether the place was capable of defence, although it would seem to be, having two streams to flank it.
“Sagamore,” said I, “you and I will stand guard for the first two hours. Sleep, you others.”
One after another unrolled his blanket and dropped where he stood. The Mohican came quietly toward me and sat down to watch the Susquehanna, his rifle across his knees. As for me, I dared not sit, much less lie flat, for fear sleep would overpower me. So I leaned against a rock, resting heavily on my rifle, and strained my sleepy eyes toward the invisible Ouleout. A level stream of mist, slowly whitening, marked its course; and “The Voice that Continues” sounded dreamily among the trees that bordered its shallow flood of crystal.
Toward sunrise I caught the first glimmer of water; in fact, so near was I that I could hear the feeding trout splashing along the reaches, and the deer, one by one, retreating from the shore.
Birds that haunt woodland edges were singing, spite of their moulting fever; and I heard the Scarlet Tanager, the sweet call of the Crimson Cardinal, the peeping of the Recollet chasing gnats above the water, the lovely, linked notes of the White-throat trailing to a minor infinitely prolonged.
Greyer, greyer grew the woods; louder sang the birds; suddenly a dazzling shaft of pink struck the forest; the first shred of mist curled, detached itself, and floated slowly upward. The sun had risen.
Against the blinding glory, looming gigantic in the mist, I saw the Sagamore, an awful apparition in his paint, turn to salute the rising sun. Then, the mysterious office of his priesthood done, he lifted his rifle, tossed the heavy piece lightly to his shoulder, and strode toward me.
I shook the sleeping Oneidas, and, as they sprang to their feet, I pointed out their posts to them, laid my rifle on my sack, and dropped where I stood like a lump of lead.
I was aroused toward nine by the Mohican, and sat up as wide awake as a disturbed tree-cat, instantly ready for trouble.
“An Oneida on the Ouleout,” he said.
“Where?”
“Yonder — just across.”
“Friendly?”
“He has made the sign.”
“An ambassador?”
“A runner, not a belt-bearer.”
“Bring him to me.”
Strung along the banks of the Ouleout, each behind a tree, I saw my Indians crouching, rifles ready. Then, on the farther bank, at the water’s shallow edge, I saw the strange Indian — a tall, spare young fellow, absolutely naked except clout, ankle moccasins, hatchet-girdle, and pouch; and wearing no paint except a white disc on his forehead the size of a shilling. A single ragged frond hung from his scalp lock.
Answering the signal of the Mohican, he sprang lightly into the stream and crossed the shallow water. My Oneidas seemed to know him, for they accosted him smilingly, and Tahoontowhee turned and accompanied him back toward the spot where I was standing, naively exhibiting to the stranger his first scalp. Which seemed to please the dusty and brier-torn runner, for he was all smiles and animation until he caught sight of me. Then instantly the mask of blankness smoothed his features, so that when I confronted him he was utterly without expression.
I held out my hand, saying quietly:
“Welcome, brother.”
“I thank my brother for his welcome,” he said, taking my offered hand.
“My brother is hungry,” I said. “He shall eat. He is weary because he has came a long distance. He shall rest unquestioned.” I seated myself and motioned him to follow my example.
The tall, lank fellow looked earnestly at me
; Tahoontowhee lighted a pipe, drew a deep, full inhalation from it, passed it to me. I drew twice, passed it to the runner. Then Tahoontowhee laid a square of bark on the stranger’s knees; I poured on it from my sack a little parched corn, well salted, and laid beside it a bit of dry and twisted meat. Tahoontowhee did the same. Then, very gravely and in silence we ate our morning meal with this stranger, as though he had been a friend of many years.
“The birds sing sweetly,” observed Tahoontowhee politely.
“The weather is fine,” said I urbanely.
“The Master of Life pities the world He fashioned. All should give thanks to Him at sunrise,” said the runner quietly.
The brief meal ended, Tahoontowhee laid his sack for a pillow; the strange Oneida stretched out on the ground, laid his dusty head on it, and closed his eyes. The next moment he opened them and rose to his feet. The ceremony and hospitality devolving upon me had been formally and perfectly accomplished.
As I rose, free now to question him without losing dignity in his eyes, he slipped the pouch he wore around in front, where his heavy knife and hatchet hung, and drew from it some letters.
Holding these unopened in my hand, I asked him who he was and from whom and whence he came.
“I am Red Wings, a Thaowethon Oneida of Ironderoga, runner for General Clinton — and my credentials are this wampum string, so that you shall know that I speak the truth!” And he whipped a string of red and black wampum from his pouch and handed it to me.
Holding the shining coil in my hands, I looked at him searchingly.
“By what path did you come?”
“By no path. I left Otsego as you left, crossed the river where you had crossed, recrossed where you did not recross, but where a canoe had landed.”
“And then?”
“I saw the Mengwe,” he said politely, as the Sagamore came up beside him.
Mayaro smiled his appreciation of the Algonquin term, then he spat, saying:
“The Mengwe were Sinako and Mowawak. One has joined the Eel Clan.”
“The Red Wings saw him. The Cat-People of the Sinako sat in a circle around that scalpless thing and sang like catamounts over their dead!”
It is impossible to convey the scorn, contempt, insult, and loathing expressed by the Mohican and the Oneida, unless one truly understand the subtlety of the words they used in speaking of their common enemies.
“The Red Wings came by the Charlotte River?” I asked.
“By the Cherry, Quenevas, and Charlotte to the Ouleout. The Mengwe fired on me as I stood on a high cliff and mocked them.”
“Did they follow you?”
“Can my brother Loskiel trail feathered wings through the high air paths? A little way I let them follow, then took wing, leaving them to whine and squall on the Susquehanna.”
“And Butler and McDonald?” I demanded, smiling.
“I do not know. I saw white men’s tracks on the Charlotte, not two hours old. They pointed toward the Delaware. The Minisink lies there.”
I nodded. “Now let the Red Wings fold his feathers and go to rest,” I said, “until I have read my letters and considered them.”
The Oneida immediately threw himself on the ground and drew his pouch under his head. Before I could open my first letter, he was asleep and breathing quietly as a child. And, on his naked shoulder, I saw a smear of balsam plastered over with a hazel leaf, where a bullet had left its furrow. He had not even mentioned that he had been hit.
The first letter was from my General Clinton:
“Have a care,” he wrote, “that your Indians prove faithful. The Wyandotte I assigned to your command made a poor impression among our Oneida guides. This I hear from Major Parr, who came to tell me so after you had left. Remember, too, that you and your Mohican are most necessary to General Sullivan. Interpreters trained by Guy Johnson are anything but plenty; and another Mohican who knows the truest route to Catharines-town is not to be had for whistling.”
This letter decided me to rid myself of the Wyandotte. Here was sufficient authority; time enough had elapsed since he had joined us for me to come to a decision. Even my Indians could not consider my judgment hasty now.
I cast a cold glance at him, where he stood in the distance leaning against a huge walnut tree and apparently keeping watch across the Ouleout. The Grey-Feather was watching there, too, and I had no doubt that his wary eyes were fixed as often on the Wyandotte as on the wooded shore across the stream.
A second letter was from Major Parr, and said:
“An Oneida girl called Drooping Wings, of whom you bought some trumpery or other, came to the fort after you had left, and told me that among the party in their camp was an adopted Seneca who had seen and recognized your Wyandotte as a Seneca and not as a Huron.
“Not that this information necessarily means that the Indian called Black-Snake is a traitor. He brought proper credentials from the officer commanding at Pitt. But it is best that you know of this, and that you feel free to use your judgment accordingly.”
“Yes,” said I to myself, “I’ll use it.”
I took another long look at the suspect, then opened my third and last letter. It was from Lois; and my heart beat the “general” so violently that for a moment it stopped my breath:
“Euan Loskiel, my comrade, and my dear friend: Since you have gone, news has come that our General Wayne, with twelve hundred light infantry, stormed and took Stony Point on the Hudson on the 15th of this past month. All the stores, arms, ammunition, and guns are ours, with more than five hundred prisoners. The joy at this post is wonderful to behold; our soldiers are mad with delight and cheer all day long.
“Lieutenant Beatty tells me that we have taken fourteen pieces of good ordnance, seven hundred stand of arms, tents, rum, cheese, wine, and a number of other articles most agreeable to recount.
“On Wednesday morning last a sad affair; at Troop Beating three men were brought out to be shot, all found guilty of desertion, one from the 4th Pennsylvania, one from the 6th Massachusetts, and one from the 3rd New York. The troops were drawn up on the grand parade. Two of the men were reprieved by the General; the third was shot.... It meant more to me, kneeling in my room with both hands over my ears to shut out the volley, than it meant to those who witnessed the awful scene. Marching back, the fifes and drums played ‘Soldiers’ Joy.’ I had forgotten to stop my ears, and heard them.
“On Tuesday rain fell. News came at noon that Indians had surprised and killed thirty-six haymakers near Fort Schuyler; and that other Indians had taken fifteen or seventeen of our men who were gathering blueberries at Sabbath Day Point. Whereupon Colonel Gansevoort immediately marched for Canajoharie with his regiment, which had but just arrived; and in consequence Betty Bleecker and Angelina are desolate.
“As you see from this letter, we have left Croghan’s new house, and are living at Otsego in a fine Bush House, and near to the place where Croghan’s old house stood before it was destroyed.
“Sunday, after an all night rain, clear skies; and all the officers were being schooled in saluting with the sword, the General looking on. In the afternoon the Chaplain, ‘Parson’ Gano, as the soldiers call him, gave us a sermon. I went with Betty and Angelina. Miss Helmer went on the lake in a batteau with Mr. Boyd. The Rifles tried their guns on the lake, shooting at marks. Murphy and Elerson made no misses.
“On Monday the officers had a punch, most respectable and gay. We ladies went with Major Parr, Lieutenant Boyd, and the Ensign you so detest, to view the hilarity, but not to join, it being a sociable occasion for officers only, the kegs of rum being offered by General Clinton — a gentleman not famed for his generosity in such matters.
“This, Euan, is all the general news I have to offer, save that the army expects its marching orders at any moment now.
“Euan, I am troubled in my heart. First, I must acquaint you that Lana Helmer and I have become friends. The night you left I was sitting in my room, thinking; and Lana came in and drew my head on h
er shoulder. We said nothing to each other all that night, but slept together in my room. And since then we have come to know each other very well in the way women understand each other. I love her dearly.
“Euan, she will not admit it, but she is mad about Lieutenant Boyd — and it is as though she had never before loved and knows not how to conduct. Which is strange, as she has been so courted and is deeply versed in experience, and has lived more free of restraint than most women I ever heard of. Yet, it has taken her like a pernicious fever; and I do neither like nor trust that man, for all his good looks, and his wit and manners, and the exceedingly great courage and military sagacity which none denies him.
“Yesterday Lana came to my little room in our Bush House, where I sleep on a bed of balsam, and we sat there, the others being out, and she told me about Clarissa, and wept in the telling. What folly will not a woman commit for love! And Sir John riding the wilderness with his murdering crew! May the Lord protect and aid all women from such birds o’ passage and of prey! And I thought I had seen the pin-feathers of some such plumage on this man Boyd. But he may moult to a prettier colour. I hope so — but in my heart I dare not believe it. For he is of that tribe of men who would have their will of every pretty petticoat they notice. Some are less unscrupulous than others, that is the only difference. And he seems still to harbour a few scruples, judging from what I see of him and her, and what I know of her.
“Yet, if a man bear not his good intention plainly written on his face, and yet protests he dies unless you love him, what scruples he may entertain will wither to ashes in the fiercer flame. And how after all does he really differ from the others?
“Euan, I am sick of dread and worry, what with you out in the West with your painted scouts, and Mr. Boyd telling me that he has his doubts concerning the reliability of one o’ them! And what with Lana so white and unhappy, and coming into my bed to cry against my breast at night — —”
Here the letter ended abruptly, and underneath in hurried writing:
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 716