Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

Nick had cooked dinner — parched corn and trout, which we caught in the brook with one of my fish hooks and a red wampum bead from my moccasins tied above the barb.

  And now, dinner ended, Nick lay asleep with a mat of moss over his face to keep off black flies, and I mounted guard, not because I apprehended danger, but desired not to break a military rule which had become already a habit among my handful of men.

  I was seated, as I say, on a bowlder, with my legs hanging over the swirling water and my rifle across both knees. And I was thinking those vague and dreamy thoughts which float ghost-like through young men’s minds when skies are blue in early summer and life seems but an endless vista through unnumbered æons to come.

  Through a pleasant and reflective haze which possessed my mind moved figures of those I knew or had known — my honoured father, grave, dark-eyed, deliberate in all things, living for intellectual pleasure alone; — my dear mother, ardent yet timid, thrilled ever by what was most beautiful and best in the world, and loving all things made by God.

  I thought, too, of my silly kinsman in Paris, Lord Stormont, and how I had declined his pompous patronage, to carve for myself a career, aided by the slender means afforded me; and how Billy Alexander did use me very kindly — a raw youth in a New York school, left suddenly orphaned and alone.

  I thought of Stevie Watts, of Polly, of the DeLancys, Crugers, and other King’s people who had made me welcome, doubtless for the sake of my Lord Stormont. And how I finally came to know Sir William Johnson, and his great kindness to me.

  All these things I thought of in the golden afternoon, seated by Hans Creek, my eyes on duty, my thoughts a-gypsying far afield, where I saw, in my mind’s eye, my log house in Fonda’s Bush, my new-cleared land, my neighbors’ houses, the dark walls of the forest.

  Yet, drifting between each separate memory, glided ever a slender shape with yellow hair, and young, unfathomed eyes as dark as the velvet on the wings of that earliest of all our butterflies, which we call the Beauty of Camberwell.

  Think of whom I might, or of what scenes, always this slim phantom drifted in between the sequences of thought, and vaguely I seemed to see her yellow hair, and that glimmer which sometimes came into her eyes, and which was the lovely dawning of her smile.

  War seemed very far away, death but a fireside story half forgotten. For my thoughts were growing faintly fragrant with the scent of apple blossoms — white and pink bloom — sweet as her breath when she had whispered to me.

  A strange young thing to haunt me with her fragrance — this girl Penelope — her smooth hands and snowy skin — and her little naked feet, like whitest silver there in the dew at Bowman’s ——

  Suddenly, thought froze; from the foliage across the creek, scarce twenty feet from where I sat, and without the slightest sound, stepped an Indian in his paint.

  Like a shot squirrel I dropped behind my bowlder and lay flat among the shore ferns, my heart so wild that my levelled rifle shook with the shock of palsy.

  The roar of the waters was loud in my ears, but his calm voice came through it distinctly:

  “Peace, brother!” he said in the soft, Oneida dialect, and lifted his right hand high in the sunshine, the open palm turned toward me.

  “Don’t move!” I called across the stream. “Lay your blanket on the ground and place your gun across it!”

  Calmly he obeyed, then straightened up and stood there empty handed, naked in his paint, except for the beaded breadth of deer-skin that fell from belt to knee.

  “Nick!” I called cautiously.

  “I am awake and I have laid him over my rifle-sight,” came Nick’s voice from the woods behind me. “Look sharp, John, that there be not others ambuscaded along the bank.”

  “He could have killed me,” said I, “without showing himself. By his paint I take him for an Oneida.”

  “That’s Oneida paint,” replied Nick, cautiously, “but it’s war paint, all the same. Shall I let him have it?”

  “Not yet. The Oneidas, so far, have been friendly. For God’s sake, be careful what you do.”

  “Best parley quick then,” returned Nick, “for I trust no Iroquois. You know his lingo. Speak to him.”

  I called across the stream to the Indian: “Who are you, brother? What is your nation and what is your clan, and what are you doing on the Sacandaga, with your face painted in black and yellow bars, and fresh oil on your limbs and lock?”

  He said, in his quiet but distinct voice: “My nation is Oneida; my clan is the Tortoise; I am Tahioni. I am a young and inexperienced warrior. No scalp yet hangs from my girdle. I come as a friend. I come as my brother’s ally. This is the reason that I seek my brother on the Sacandaga. Hiero! Tahioni has spoken.”

  And he quietly folded his arms.

  He was a magnificent youth, quite perfect in limb and body, and as light of skin as the Mohawks, who are often nearly white, even when pure breed.

  He stood unarmed, except for the knife and war-axe swinging from crimson-beaded sheaths at his cincture. Still, I did not rise or show myself, and my rifle lay level with his belly.

  I said, in as good Oneida as I could muster:

  “Young Oneida warrior, I have listened to what you have had to say. I have heard you patiently, oh Tahioni, my brother of the great Oneida nation who wears an Onondaga name!” For Tahioni means The Wolf in Onondaga dialect.

  There was a silence, broken by Nick’s low voice from somewhere behind me: “Shall I shoot the Onondaga dog?”

  “Will you mind your business?” I retorted sharply.

  The Oneida had smiled slightly at my sarcasm concerning his name; his eyes rested on the rock behind which I lay snug, stock against cheek.

  “I am Tahioni,” he repeated simply. “My mother’s clan is the Onondaga Tortoise.”

  Which explained his clan and name, of course, if his father was Oneida.

  “I continue to listen,” said I warily.

  “Tahioni has spoken,” he said; and calmly seated himself.

  For a moment I remained silent, yet still dared not show myself.

  “Is my brother alone?” I asked at last.

  “Two Oneida youths and my adopted sister are with me, brother.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They are here.”

  “Let them show themselves,” said I, instantly bitten by suspicion.

  Two young men and a girl came calmly from the thicket and stood on the bank. All carried blanket and rifle. At a sign from Tahioni, all three laid their blankets at their feet and placed their rifles across them.

  One, a stocky, powerful youth, spoke first:

  “I am Kwiyeh. My clan is the Oneida Tortoise.”

  The other young fellow said: “Brother, I am Hanatoh, of the Oneida Tortoise.”

  Then they calmly seated themselves.

  I rose from my cover, my rifle in the hollow of my left arm. Nick came from his bed of juniper and stood looking very hard at the Oneidas across the stream.

  Save for the girl, all were naked except for breech-clout, sporran, and ankle moccasins; all were oiled and in their paint, and their heads shaven, leaving only the lock. There could be no doubt that this was a war party. No doubt, also, that they could have slain me very easily where I sat, had they wished to do so.

  There was, just below us, a string of rocks crossing the stream. I sprang from one to another and came out on their bank of the creek; and Nick followed, leaping the boulders like a lithe tree-cat.

  The Oneidas, who had been seated, rose as I came up to them. I gave my hand to each of them in turn, until I faced the girl. And then I hesitated.

  For never anywhere, among any nation of the Iroquois Confederacy, had I seen any woman so costumed, painted, and accoutred.

  For this girl looked more like a warrior than a woman; and, save for her slim and hard young body’s shape, and her full hair, must have passed for an adolescent wearing his first hatchet and his first touch of war paint.

  She, also, was naked to th
e waist, her breasts scarce formed. Two braids of hair lay on her shoulders, and her skin was palely bronzed and smooth in its oil, as amber without a flaw.

  But she wore leggins of doe-skin, deeply fringed with pale green and cinctured in at her waist, where war-axe and knife hung on her left thigh, and powder horn and bullet pouch on her right. And over these she wore knee moccasins of green snake-skin, the feet of which were deer-hide sewn thick with scarlet, purple, and greenish wampum, which glistened like a humming-bird’s throat.

  I said, wondering: “Who is this girl in a young warrior’s dress, who wears a disk of blue war-paint on her forehead?”

  But Nick pulled my arm and said in my ear:

  “Have you heard of the little maid of Askalege? Yonder she stands, thank God! For the Oneida follow their prophetess; and the Oneida are with us in this war if she becomes our friend!”

  I had heard of the little Athabasca girl, found in the forest by Skenandoa and Spencer, and how she grew up like a boy at Askalege, with the brave half-breed interpreter, Thomas Spencer; and how it was her delight to roam the forests and talk — they said — to trees and beasts by moonlight; how she knew the language of all things living, and could hear the tiny voices of the growing grass! Legends and fairy tales, but by many believed.

  Yet, Sir William had seen the child at Askalege dancing in the stream of sparks that poured from Spencer’s smithy when the Oneida blacksmith pumped his home-made bellows or struck fire-flakes from the cherry-red iron.

  I said: “Are you sure, Nick? For never have I seen an Indian maid play boy in earnest.”

  “She is the little witch-maid of Askalege — their prophetess,” he repeated. “I saw her once at Oneida Lake, dancing on the shore amid a whirl of yellow butterflies at their strawberry feast. God send she favours our party, for the Oneidas will follow her.”

  I turned to the girl, who was standing quietly beside a young silver birch-tree.

  “Who are you, my sister, who wear a little blue moon on your brow, and the dress and weapons of an adolescent?”

  “Brother,” she said in her soft Oneida tongue, “I am an Athabascan of the Heron Clan, adopted into the Oneida nation. My name is Thiohero, and my privilege is Oyaneh. Brother, I come as a friend to liberty, and to help you fight your great war against your King.

  “Brother, I have spoken,” she concluded, with lowered eyes.

  Surprised and charmed by this young girl’s modesty and quiet speech, but not knowing how to act, I thanked her as I had the young men, and offered her my hand.

  She took it, lifted her deep, wide eyes unabashed, looked me calmly and intelligently in the face, and said in English:

  “My adopted father is Thomas Spencer, the friend to liberty, and Oneida interpreter to your General Schuyler. My adopted uncle is the great war-chief Skenandoa, also your ally. The Oneida are my people. And are now become your brothers in this new war.”

  “Your words make our hearts light, my sister.”

  “Your words brighten our sky, my elder brother.”

  Our clasped hands fell apart. I turned to Tahioni:

  “Brother, why are you in battle-paint?” I demanded.

  At that the eyes of the Oneida youths began to sparkle and burn; and Tahioni straightened up and struck the knife-hilt at his belt with a quick, fierce gesture.

  “Give me a name that I may know my brother,” he said bluntly. “Even a tree has a name.” And I flushed at this merited rebuke.

  “My name is John Drogue, and I am lieutenant of our new State Rangers,” said I. “And this is my comrade, Nicholas Stoner, of Fonda’s Bush, and first sergeant in my little company.”

  “Brother John,” said he, “then listen to this news we Oneidas bring from the North: a Canada war-party is now on the Iroquois trail, looking for Sir John to guide them to the Canadas!”

  Taken aback, I stared at the young warrior for a moment, then, recovering composure, I translated for Nick what he had just told me.

  Then I turned again to Tahioni, the Wolf:

  “Where is this same war-party?” I demanded, still scarce convinced.

  “At West River, near the Big Eddy,” said he. “They have taken scalps.”

  “Why — why, then, it is war!” I exclaimed excitedly. “And what people are these who have taken scalps in the North? Are they Caniengas?”

  “Mohawks!” He fairly spat out the insulting term, which no friendly Iroquois would dream of using to a Canienga; and the contemptuous word seemed to inflame the other Oneidas, for they all picked up their rifles and crowded around me, watching my face with gleaming eyes.

  “How many?” I asked, still a little stunned by this reality, though I had long foreseen the probability.

  “Thirty,” said the girl Thiohero, turning from Nick, to whom she had been translating what was being said in the Oneida tongue.

  Now, in a twinkling, I found myself faced with an instant crisis, and must act as instantly.

  I had two good men on Maxon, the French trapper, Johnny Silver and Benjamin De Luysnes; Nick and I counted two more. With four Oneida, and perhaps Joe de Golyer and Godfrey Shew — if we could pick them up on the Vlaie — we would be ten stout men to stop this Mohawk war-party until the garrisons at Summer House Point and Fish House could drive the impudent marauders North again.

  Turning to Thiohero, I said as much in English. She nodded and spoke to the others in Oneida; and I saw their eager and brilliant eyes begin to glitter.

  Now, I carried always with me in the bosom of my buckskin shirt a carnet, or tablet of good paper, and a pencil given me years ago by Sir William.

  And now I seated myself on a rock and took my instruments and wrote:

  “Hans Creek, near

  Maxon Brook,

  June 13th, 1776.

  “To the Officer commd’ng ye

  Garrison at ye Summer House

  on Vlaie,

  “Sir:

  “I am to acquaint you that this day, about two o’clock, afternoon, arrived in my camp four Oneidas who give an account that a Mohawk War Party is now at ye Big Eddy on West River, headed south.

  “By the same intelligence I am to understand that this War Party has taken scalps.

  “Sir, anybody familiar with the laws and customs of the Iroquois Confederacy understands what this means.

  “Murder, or mere slaying, when not accompanied by such mutilation, need not constitute an act of war involving nation and Confederacy in formal declaration.

  “But the taking of a single scalp means only one thing: that the nation whose warrior scalps an enemy approves the trophy and declares itself at war with the nation of the victim.

  “I am aware, sir, that General Schuyler and Mr. Kirkland and others are striving mightily in Albany to placate the Iroquois, and that they still entertain such hope, although the upper Mohawks are gone off with Brant, and Guy Johnson holds in his grasp the fighting men of the Confederacy, save only the Oneida, and also in spite of news, known to be certain, that Mohawk Indians were in battle-paint at St. John’s.

  “Now, therefore, conscious of my responsibility, and asking God’s guidance in this supreme moment, lest I commit error or permit hot blood to confuse my clearer mind, I propose to travel instantly to the West River with my scout of four Rangers, and four Oneidas, and ask of this Mohawk War Party an explanation in the name of the Continental Congress and His Excellency, our Com’nder in Chief.

  “Sir, I doubt not that you will order your two garrisons to prepare for immediate defense, and also to support my scout on the Sacandaga; and to send an express to Johnstown as soon as may be, to acquaint Colonel Dayton of what measures I propose to take to carry out my orders which are to stop the Sacandaga trail.

  “This, sir, it is my present endeavour to do.

  “I am, sir, with all respect, “Yr most obedient “John Drogue, Lieut Rangers.”

  When I finished, I discovered that Nick and the Oneidas had fastened on their blanket-packs and were gathered a little dis
tance away in animated conversation, the little maid of Askalege translating.

  Nick had fetched my pack; I strapped it, picked up my rifle, and walked swiftly into the woods; and without any word from me they fell into file at my heels, headed west for Fish House and the fateful river.

  My scout of six moved very swiftly and without noise; and it was not an hour before I caught sight of a Continental soldier on bullock guard, and saw cattle among low willows.

  The soldier was scared and bawled lustily for his mates; but among them was one of the Sammons, who knew me; and they let us through with little delay.

  Fish House was full o’ soldiers a-sunning in every window, and under them, on the grass; and here headquarters guards stopped us until the captain in command could be found, whilst the gaping Continentals crowded around us for news, and stared at our Oneidas, whose quiet dignity and war paint astonished our men, I think. To the west and south, and along the river, I saw many soldiers in their shirts, a-digging to make an earthwork; and presently from this redoubt came a Continental Captain, out o’ breath, who listened anxiously to what news I had gathered, and who took my letter and promised to send it by an express to Summer House Point.

  A quartermaster’s sergeant asked very civilly if I desired to draw rations for my scout; and I drew parched corn, salt, dried fish, jerked venison, and pork from the brine, for ten men; and Nick and I and my Oneidas did divide between us the burthen.

  “The dogs!” he kept repeating in a confused way— “the dirty dogs, to take our scalps! And I pray God your painted Oneidas yonder may do the like for them!”

  I saw a horse saddled and a soldier mount and gallop off with my letter. That was sufficient for me; I gave the Continental Captain the officers’ salute, and looked around at my men, who had made a green fire for me on the grass in front of the house.

  It was smoking thickly, now, so I took a soldier’s watch-coat by the skirts, glanced up at Maxon Ridge, then, flinging wide the garment above the fire, kept it a-flutter there and moved it up and down till the jetted smoke mounted upward in great clots, three together, then one, then three, then one.

  Presently, high on Maxon, I saw smoke, and knew that Johnny Silver understood. So I flung the watch-coat to the soldier, turned, and walked swiftly along the river bank, where sheep grazed, then entered the forest with Nick at my heels and the four Oneidas a-padding in his tracks.