“Shall I tell you what has gone amiss — from the very first there at Otsego?”
“No — that concerns not me — —”
“Yes, I shall tell you! It’s that she knew about — the wench here — Dolly Glenn.”
“Is that why she refuses you and elects to remain unhappy?” I said incredulously.
“Yes — I can say no more.... You are right, Loskiel, and such men as I are wrong — utterly and wretchedly wrong. Sooner or later comes the bolt of lightning. Hell! To think that wench should hurl it!”
“But what bolt had she to hurl?” said I, astonished.
He reddened, bit his lip savagely, made as though to speak, then, with a violent gesture, turned away.
A few moments later a cannon shot sounded. It was the signal for striking tents and packing up; and in every regiment hurry and confusion reigned and the whole camp swarmed with busy soldiery.
But toward evening orders came to unpack and pitch tents again; and whether it had been an exercise to test the quickness of our army for marching, or whether some accident postponed the advance, I do not know.
All that evening, being on duty with my Indians to watch the cattle-guard, I did not see Lois.
The next day I was ordered to take the Indians a mile or two toward Chemung and lie there till relieved; so we went very early and remained near the creek on observation, seeing nothing, until evening, when the relief came with Hanierri and three Stockbridges. These gave us an account that another soldier had been shot in camp by the accidental discharge of a musket, and that the Light Troops had marched out of their old encampment and had pitched tents one hundred rods in advance.
Also, they informed us that the flying hospital and stores had been removed to the fort, and that Colonel Shreve had taken over the command of that place.
By reason of the darkness, we were late in getting into camp, so again that day I saw nothing of Lois.
On Wednesday it rained heavily about eleven o’clock, and the troops made no movement. Some Oneidas came in and went to headquarters. My Indians did not seem to know them.
I was on duty all day at headquarters, translating into Iroquois for the General a speech which he meant to deliver to the Tuscaroras on his return through Easton. The rain ceased late in the afternoon. Later, an express came through from Fort Pitt; and before evening orders had gone out that the entire army was to march at eight o’clock in the morning.
Morning came with a booming of cannon. We did not stir.
Toward eleven, however, the army began to march out as though departing in earnest; but as Major Parr remained with the Rifles, I knew something had gone amiss.
Yet, the other regiments, including my own, marched away gaily enough, with music sounding and colours displayed; and the garrison, boatmen, artillerymen, and all the civil servants and women and children waved them adieu from the parapets of the fort.
But high water at Tioga ford, a mile or two above, soon checked them, and there they remained that night. As I was again on duty with Hanierri and the Dominie, I saw not Lois that day.
Friday was fair and sunny, and the ground dried out. And all the morning I was with Dominie Kirkland and Hanierri, translating, transcribing, and writing out the various speeches and addresses left for me by General Sullivan.
Runners came in toward noon with news that our main forces had encamped at the pass before Chemung, and were there awaiting us.
Murphy, the rifleman, came saying that our detail was packing up at the fort, that Major Parr had sent word for Lieutenant Boyd to strike tents and pull foot, and that the boats were now making ready to drop down the river with the non-combatants.
My pack, and those of my Indians, had been prepared for days, and there was little for me to do to make ready. Some batt-men carried my military chest to the fort, where it was bestowed with the officers’ baggage until we returned.
Then I hastened away to the fort and discovered our twenty riflemen paraded there, and Boyd inspecting them and their packs. His face seemed very haggard under its dark coat of sunburn, but he returned my salute with a smile, and presently came over to where I stood, saying coolly enough:
“I have made my adieux to the ladies. They are at the landing place expecting you. Best not linger. We should reach Chemung by dusk.”
“My Indians are ready,” said I.
“Very well,” he said absently, and returned to his men, continuing his careful inspection.
As I passed the log bridge, I saw Dolly Glenn standing there with a frightened look on her face, but she paid no heed to me, and I went on still haunted by the girl’s expression.
A throng of people — civilians and soldiers — were at the landing. The redoubtable Mrs. Sabin was bustling about a batteau, terrorizing its crew and bullying the servants, who were stowing away her property. Looking about me, I finally discovered Lois and Lana standing on the shore a little way down stream, and hastened to them.
Lana was as white as a ghost, but to my surprise Lois seemed cheerful and in gayest spirits, and laughed when I saluted her hand. And it relieved me greatly to find her so animated and full of confidence that all would be well with us, and the parting but a brief one.
“I know in my heart it will be brief,” she said smilingly, and permitting both her hands to remain in mine. “Soon, very soon, we shall be again together, Euan, and this interrupted fairy tale, so prettily begun by you and me, shall be once more resumed.”
“To no fairy finish,” I said, “but in sober reality.”
She looked at Lana, laughing:
“What a lad is this, dear! How can a fairy tale be ever real? Yet, he is a magician like Okwencha, this tall young Ensign of mine, and I make no doubt that his wizardry can change fancy to fact in the twinkling of an eye. Indeed, I think I, too, am something of a witch. Shall I make magic for you, Euan? What most of anything on earth would you care to see tonight?”
“You, Lois.”
“Hai-e! That is easy. I will some night send to you my spirit, and it shall be so like me and so vivid nay, so warm and breathing — that you shall think to even touch it.... Shall I do this with a spell?”
“I only have to close my eyes and see you. Make it that I can also touch you.”
“It shall be done.”
We both were smiling, and I for one was forcing my gay spirits, for now that the moment had arrived, I knew that chance might well make of our gay adieux an endless separation.
Lana had wandered a little way apart; I glanced at Lois, then turned and joined her. She laid her hand on my arm, as though her knees could scarcely prop her, and turned to me a deathly face.
“Euan,” she breathed, “I have said adieu to him. Somehow, I know that he and I shall never meet again.... Tell him I pray for him — for his soul.... And mine.... And that before he goes he shall do the thing I bid him do.... And if he will not — tell him I ask God’s mercy on him.... Tell him that, Euan.”
“Yes,” I said, awed.
She stood resting her arm on mine to support her, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked at me. And in her eyes I saw her heart was breaking as she stood there.
“Lana! Lanette! Little comrade! What is this dreadful thing that crushes you? Could you not tell me?” I whispered.
“Ask him, Euan.”
“Lana, why will you not marry him, if you love him so?”
She shuddered and closed her eyes.
Neither of us spoke again. Lois, watching us, came slowly toward us, and linked her arm in Lana’s.
“Our batteau is waiting,” she said quietly.
I continued to preserve my spirits as we walked together down to the shore where Mrs. Sabin stood glaring at me, then turned her broad back and waddled across the planks.
Lana followed; Lois clung a second to my hands, smiling still; then I released her and she sprang lightly aboard.
And now batteau after batteau swung out into the stream, and all in line dropped slowly down the river,
pole and paddle flashing, kerchiefs fluttering.
For a long way I could see the boat that carried Lois gliding in the channel close along shore, and the escort following along the bank above, with the sunshine glancing on their slanting rifles. Then a bend in the river hid them; and I turned away and walked slowly toward the fort.
By the gate my Indians were waiting. The Sagamore had my pack and rifle for me. On the rifle-platform above, the soldiers of the garrison stood looking down at us.
And now I heard the short, ringing word of command, and out of the gate marched our twenty riflemen, Boyd striding lightly ahead.
Then, as he set foot on the log bridge, I saw Dolly Glenn standing there, confronting him, blocking his way, her arms extended and her eyes fixed on him.
“Are you mad?” he said curtly.
“If you go,” she retorted unsteadily, “leaving me behind you here — unwedded — God will punish you.”
The column had came to a halt. There was a dead silence on parapet and parade while three hundred pair of eyes watched those two there on the bridge of logs.
“Dolly, you are mad!” he said, with the angry colour flashing in his face and staining throat and brow.
“Will you do me justice before you go?”
“Will you stand aside?” he said between his teeth.
“Yes — I will stand aside.... And may you remember me when you burn at the last reckoning with God!”
“‘Tention! Trail arms! By the left flank — march!” he cried, his voice trembling with rage.
The shuffling velvet tread of his riflemen fell on the bridge; and they passed, rifles at a trail, and fringes blowing in the freshening breeze.
Without a word I fell in behind. After me loped my Indians in perfect silence.
CHAPTER XVII
THE BATTLE OF CHEMUNG
Toward sundown we hailed our bullock guard below the ruins of Old Chemung, and passed forward through the army to the throat of the pass, where the Rifles lay.
The artillery was already in a sorry mess, nine guns stalled and an ammunition wagon overturned in the ford. And I heard the infantry cursing the drivers and saying that we had lost thousands of cartridges. Stewart’s bullock-guard was in a plight, too, forty head having strayed.
At the outlet to the pass Major Parr met us, cautioning silence. No fires burned and the woods were very still, so that we could hear in front of us the distant movement of men; and supposed that the enemy had come down to Chemung in force. But Major Parr told us that our scouts could make nothing of these incessant noises, reporting only a boatload of Sir John Johnson’s green-coated soldiers on the river, and a few Indians in two canoes; and that he had no knowledge whether Sir John, the two Butlers, McDonald, and Brant lay truly in front of us, or whether these people were only a mixed scalping party of blue-eyed Indians, Senecas, and other ragamuffin marauders bent on a more distant foray, and now merely lingering along our front over night to spy out what we might be about.
Also, he informed us that a little way ahead, on the Great Warrior trail, lay an Indian town which our scouts reported to be abandoned; and said that he had desired to post our pickets there, but that orders from General Hand had prevented that precaution until the General commanding arrived at the front.
Some few minutes after our appearance in camp, and while we were eating supper, there came a ruddy glimmer of torches from behind us, lighting up the leaves overhead; and Generals Sullivan, Clinton, Hand, and Poor rode up and drew bridle beside Major Parr, listening intently to the ominous sounds in front of us.
And, “What the devil do you make of it, Major?” says Sullivan, in a low voice. “It sounds like a log-rolling in March.”
“My scouts give me no explanation,” says Parr grimly. “I think the rascals are terrified.”
“Send Boyd and that young interpreter,” said Sullivan curtly.
So, as nobody could understand exactly what these noises indicated, and as headquarters’ scouts could obtain no information, Lieutenant Boyd and I, with my Indians, left our supper of fresh roast corn and beans and went forward at once. We moved out of the defile with every precaution, passing the throat of the rocky pass and wading the little trout-brook over which our trail led, the Chemung River now lying almost south of us. Low mountains rose to the north and west, very dark and clear against the stars; and directly ahead of us we saw the small Indian town surrounded by corn fields; and found it utterly deserted, save for bats and owls; and not even an Indian dog a-prowling there.
A little way beyond it we crossed another brook close to where it entered the river, opposite an island. Here the Chemung makes a great bend, flowing in more than half a circle; and there are little hills to the north, around which we crept, hearing always the stirring and movements of men ahead of us, and utterly unable to comprehend what they were so busily about.
Just beyond the island another and larger creek enters the river; and here, no longer daring to follow the Seneca trail, we turned southwest, slinking across the river flats, through the high Indian grass, until we came to a hardwood ridge, from whence some of these sounds proceeded.
We heard voices very plainly, the splintering of saplings, and a heavier, thumping sound, which the Mohican whispered to us was like hewn logs being dragged over the ground and then piled up. A few moments later, Tahoontowhee, who had crept on ahead, glided up to us and whispered that there was a high breastwork of logs on the ridge, and that many men were cutting bushes, sharpening the stems, and planting them to screen this breastwork so that it could not be seen from the Seneca trail north of us, along which lay our army’s line of march. A pretty ambuscade, in truth! But Braddock’s breed had passed.
Silently, stealthily, scarcely breathing, we got out of that dangerous place, recrossed the grassy flats, and took to the river willows the entire way back. At the mouth of the pass, where my battalion lay asleep, we found Major Parr anxiously awaiting us. He sent Captain Simpson back with the information.
Before I could unlace my shirt, drag my pack under my head, and compose myself to sleep, Boyd, who had stretched himself out beside me, touched my arm.
“Are you minded to sleep, Loskiel?”
“I own that I am somewhat inclined that way,” said I.
“As you please.”
“Why? Are you unwell?”
He lay silent for a few moments, then:
“What a mortifying business was that at the Tioga fort,” he said under his breath. “The entire garrison saw it, did they not, Loskiel? Colonel Shreve and all?”
“Yes, I fear so,”
“It will be common gossip tomorrow,” he said bitterly. “What a miserable affair to happen to an officer of Morgan’s!”
“A sad affair,” I said.
“It will come to her ears, no doubt. Shreve’s batt-men will carry it down the river.”
I was silent.
“Rumour runs the woods like lightning,” he said. “She will surely hear of this disgraceful scene. She will hear of it at Easton.... Strange,” he muttered, “strange how the old truths hold!... Our sins shall find us out.... I never before believed that, Loskiel — not in a wilderness, anyway.... I had rather be here dead and scalped than have had that happen and know that she must hear of it one day.”
He lay motionless for a while, then turned heavily on his side, facing me across the heap of dead leaves.
“Somehow or other,” he said, “she heard of that miserable business — heard of it even at Otsego.... That is why she would not marry me, Loskiel. Did you ever hear the like! That a man must be so utterly and hopelessly damned for a moment’s careless folly — lose everything in the world for a thoughtless moonlight frolic! Where lies the justice in such a judgment?”
“It is not the world that judges you severely. The world cares little what a man’s way may be with a maid.”
“But — Lana cares. It has ended everything for her.”
I said in a low voice:
“You ended everythi
ng for Dolly Glenn.”
“How was I to know she was no light o’ love — this camp tailoress — this silly little wench who — but let it go! Had she but whimpered, and seemed abashed and unfamiliar with a kiss —— Well, let it go.... But I could cut my tongue out that I ever spoke to her. God! How lightly steps a man into a trap of his own contriving!... And here I lie tonight, caring not whether I live or die in tomorrow’s battle already dawning on the Chemung. And yonder, south of us, in the black starlight, drift the batteaux, dropping down to Easton under the very sky that shines above us here.... If Lana be asleep at this moment I do not know.... She tells me I have broke her heart — but yet will have none of me.... Tells me my duty lies elsewhere; that I shall make amends. How can a man make amends when his heart lies not in the deed?... Am I then to be fettered to a passing whim for all eternity? Does an instant’s idle folly entail endless responsibility? Do I merit punishment everlasting for a silly amourette that lasted no longer than the July moon? Tell me, Loskiel, you who are called among us blameless and unstained, is there no hope for a guilty man to shrive himself and walk henceforward upright?”
“I can not answer you,” I said dully. “Nor do I know how, of such a business, a man may be shriven, or what should be his amends.... It all seems pitiful and sad to me — a matter perplexing, unhappy, and far beyond my solving.... I know it is the fashion of the times to regard such affairs lightly, making of them nothing.... Much I have heard, little learned, save that the old lessons seem to be the truest; the old laws the best. And that our cynical and modern disregard of them make one’s salvation none the surer, one’s happiness none the safer.”
I heard Boyd sigh heavily, where he lay; but he said nothing more that I heard; for I slept soon afterward, and was awakened only at dawn.
Everywhere in the rocky pass the yawning riflemen were falling in and calling off; a detail of surly Jersey men, carrying ropes, passed us, cursing the artillery which, it appeared, was in a sorry plight again, the nine guns all stalled behind us, and an entire New Jersey brigade detailed to pull them out o’ the mud and over the rocks of the narrowing defile.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 727