At that he dashed the flag upon the road and shook his naked sword at me.
“Your blood be on your heads!” he bawled. “I can not hold my Indians if you defy them longer!”
“Well, then, Jock,” said I, “I’ll hold ’em for you, never fear!”
He strode to the fence and grasped it.
“Will you march out? Shame on you, Stormont, who are seduced by this Yankee rabble o’ rebels when your place is with Sir John and with the loyal gentlemen of Tryon!
“For the last time, then, will you parley and march out? Or shall I give you and your Caughnawaga wench to my Indians?”
I walked out from behind my tree and drew near the fence, where he was standing, his sword hanging from one wrist by the leather knot.
“Jock Campbell,” said I, “you are a great villain. Do you lay aside your hanger and your pistols, and I will set my rifle here, and we shall soon see what your bragging words are worth.”
At that he drove his sword into the earth, but, as I set my rifle against a tree, he lifted his pistol and fired at me, and I felt the wind of the bullet on my right cheek.
Then he snatched his sword and was already vaulting the gate, when my Saguenay’s bullet caught him in mid-air, and he fell across the top rail and slid down on the muddy road outside.
Then, for the first time, I saw the two real Mohawks where they lay in ambush in the bush. One of them had risen to a kneeling position, and I saw the red flash of his piece and saw the smoke blot out the tree-trunk.
For a second I held my fire; then saw them both on the ground under the alders across the road, and fired very carefully at the nearest one.
He dropped his gun and let out a startling screech, tried to get up off the ground, screeching all the while; then lay scrabbling on the dead leaves.
I stepped behind an apple tree, primed and reloaded in desperate haste, and presently drew the fire of the other Indian with my cap on my ramrod.
Then, as I ran to the gate, my Saguenay rushed by me, leaping the fence at a great bound, and I saw his up-flung hatchet sparkle, and heard it crash through bone.
I shouted for him to come back, but when he obeyed he had two Mohawk scalps, and came reluctantly, glancing down at Campbell where he lay still breathing on the muddy road, and darting an uncertain glance at me.
But I told him with an oath that it would be an insult to me if he touched a white man’s hair in my presence; and he opened the gate and came inside like a great, sullen dog from whom I had snatched a bone of his own digging.
Very cautiously we retreated through the orchard to the house, entered, and climbed again to the roof.
And from there we saw that, in our absence, the boat had been rowed to our landing, and that its occupants were now somewhere on the mainland, doubtless preparing to assault the place as soon as dusk offered them sufficient cover.
Well, the game was nearly up now. Our people should have arrived by this time at Mayfield with sheep, cattle, and waggon. We had remained here to the limit of safety, and there was no hope of aid in time to save our skins or this house from destruction.
The sun was low over the forest when, at length, we crept out of the house and stole down to our canoe.
We made no sound when we embarked, and our craft glided away under the rushes, driven by cautiously-dipped paddles which left only silent little swirls on the dark and glassy stream.
Up Mayfield Creek we turned, which, above, is not fair canoe-water save at flood; but now the spring melting filled it brimfull, and a heavy current set into Vlaie Water so that there was labour ahead for us; and we bent to it as dusk fell over the Drowned Lands.
It was not yet full dark when, over my shoulder, I saw a faint rose light in the north. And I knew that Summer House was on fire.
Then, swiftly the rosy light grew to a red glow, and, as we watched, a great conflagration flared in the darkness, mounting higher, burning redder, fiercer, till, around us, vague smouldering shadows moved, and the water was touched with ashy glimmerings.
Summer House was all afire, and the infernal light touched us even here, painting our features and the paddle-blades, and staining the dark water with a prophecy of blood.
It was a long and irksome paddle, what with floating trees we encountered and the stream over its banks and washing us into sedge and brush and rafts of weed in the darkness. Again and again, checked by some high dam of drifted windfall, we were forced to make a swampy carry, waist high through bog and water.
Often, so, we were forced to rest; and we sat silent, panting, skin-soaked in the chilly night air, gazing at the distant fire, which, though now miles away, seemed so near. And I could even see trees black against the blaze, and smoke rolling turbulently, and a great whirl of sparks mounting skyward.
It was long past midnight when I hailed the picket at the grist-mill and drove our canoe shoreward into the light of a lifted lantern.
“Is Nick Stoner in?” I called out.
“All safe!” replied somebody on shore.
A dark figure came down to the water and took hold of our bow to steady us.
“Summer House and Fish House are burned,” said I, climbing out stiffly.
“Aye,” said the soldier, “and what of Fonda’s Bush, Mr. Drogue?”
“What!” I exclaimed, startled.
“Look yonder,” said he.
I scarce know how I managed to stumble up the bushy bank. And then, when I came out on level land near the block house, I saw fire to the southeast, and the sky crimson above the forest.
“My God!” I stammered, “Fonda’s Bush is all afire!”
There was a red light toward Frenchman’s Creek, too, but where Fonda’s Bush should lie a vast sea of fire rose and ebbed and waxed and faded above the forest.
“Were any people left there?” I asked.
“None, sir.”
“Thank God,” I said. But my heart was desolate, for now my house of logs that I had builded and loved was gone; my glebe destroyed; all my toil come to naught in the distant mockery of those shaking flames. All I had in the world was gone save for my slender funds in Albany.
“Where are my friends?” said I to a soldier.
“At the Block House, sir, and very anxious concerning you. They have not long been in, but Nick Stoner is all for going back to Summer House to discover your whereabouts, and has been beating up recruits for a flying scout.”
Even as he spoke, I saw Nick come up the road with a torch, and called out to him.
“Where have you been, John Drogue?” said he, coming to me and laying a hand on my shoulder.
“Is Penelope safe?” I asked.
“She is as safe as are any here in Mayfield. Is it Summer House that burns in the north, or only the marsh hay?”
“The whole place is afire,” said I. “A dozen green-coats, blue-eyed Indians, and two real ones, burnt Fish House and attacked us at Summer House. I saw and knew Jock Campbell, Henry Hare, Billy Newberry, Barney Cane, Eli Beacraft, and George Cuck. My Saguenay mortally wounded Jock. He’s lying on the road. He tomahawked a Canienga, too, and took his scalp and another’s.”
“Did you mark any of the dirty crew?” demanded Nick.
“I shot Beacraft and one Mohawk. How many are we at the Block House?”
“A full company to hold it safe,” said he, gloomily. “Do you know that Fonda’s Bush is burning?”
“Yes.”
After a silence I said: “Who commands here? I think we ought to move toward Johnstown this night. I don’t know how many green-coats have come to the Sacandaga, but it must have been another detachment that is burning Fonda’s Bush.”
As I spoke a Continental Captain followed by a Lieutenant came up in the torch-light; and I gave him his salute and rendered an account of what had happened on the Drowned Lands.
He seemed deeply disturbed but told me he had orders to defend the Mayfield Fort. He added, however, that if I must report at Johnstown he would give me a squad of musket-me
n as escort thither.
“Yes, sir,” said I, “my report should not be delayed. But I have Nick Stoner and an Indian, and apprehend no danger. So if I may beg a dish of porridge for my little company, and dry my clothing by your block-house fire-place, I shall set out within the hour.”
He was very civil, — a tall, haggard, careworn man, whose wife and children lived at Torloch, and their undefended situation caused him deep anxiety.
So I walked to the Fort, Nick and my Indian following; and presently saw Penelope on the rifle-platform of the stockade, among the soldiers.
She was gazing at the fiery sky in the north when I caught sight of her and called her name.
For a moment she bent swiftly down over the pickets as though to pierce the dark where my voice came from; then she turned, and was descending the ladder when I entered by the postern.
As I came up she took my shoulders between both hands, but said nothing, and I saw she had trouble to speak.
“Yes,” said I, “there is bad news for you. Your pretty Summer House is no more, Penelope.”
“Oh,” she stammered, “did you — did you suppose it was the loss of a house that has driven me out o’ my five senses?”
“Are your sheep and cattle safe?” I asked in sudden alarm.
“My God,” she breathed, and stood with her face in both hands, there at the foot of the ladder under the April stars.
“What is it frightens you?” I asked.
Her hands fell to her side and she looked at me: “Nothing, sir.... Unless it be myself,” she said calmly. “Your clothing is wet and you are shivering. Will you come into the fort?”
We went in. I remembered how I had seen her there that night, nearly a year ago, and all the soldiers gathered around to entertain her, whilst she supped on porridge and smiled upon them over her yellow bowl’s edge, like a very child.
The few soldiers inside rose respectfully. A sergeant drew a settle to the blazing fire; a soldier brought us soupaan and a gill of rum. Nick came in with the Saguenay, and they both squatted down in their blankets before the fire, grave as a pair o’ cats; and there they ate their fill of porridge at our feet, and blinked at the blaze and smoked their clays in silence.
I told Penelope that we must travel this night to Johnstown, it being my duty to give an account of what had happened, without delay.
“There can be no danger to us on the road,” said I, “but the thought of leaving you here in this fort disturbs me.”
“What would I do here alone?” she asked.
“What will you do alone in Johnstown?” I inquired in turn.
At the same time I realized that we both were utterly homeless; and that in Johnstown our shelter must be a tavern, or, if danger threatened, the fortified jail called Johnstown Fort.
“You will not abandon me, will you, sir?” she asked, touching my sleeve with the pretty confidence of a child.
“Why, no,” said I. “We can lodge at Jimmy Burke’s Tavern. And there is Nick to give us countenance — and a most respectable Indian.”
“Is it scandalous for me to go thither in your company?”
“What else is there for us to do?”
“I should go to Albany,” said she, “as soon as may be. And I am resolved to do so and to seek out Mr. Fonda and disembarrass you of any further care for me.”
“It is no burden,” said I; “but I do not know where I shall be sent, now that the war is come to Tryon County. And — I can not bear to think of you alone and unprotected, living the miserable life of a refugee in the women’s quarters at Johnstown Fort.”
“Does solicitude for my welfare truly occupy your thoughts, sir?”
“Why, yes, and naturally. Are we not close friends and comrades in misfortune, Penelope?”
“I counted it no misfortune to live at Summer House.”
“No, nor I.... I was very happy there.... Alas for your pretty cottage! — poor little châtelaine of Summer House!”
“John Drogue?”
“I hear you.”
“Did you suppose I ever meant to take that gift of you?”
“Why — why, yes! I gave it! Even now I have the deed to the land and shall convey it to you. And one day, God willing, a new cottage shall be built — —”
“Then you must build it, John Drogue, for the land is yours and I never meant to take it of you, and never shall.... And I thank you, — and am deeply beholden — and touched in my heart’s deep depths — that you have offered this to me.... Because you desired me to be respectable, and well considered by men.... And you wished me to possess substance which I lacked — so that none could dare use me lightly and without consideration.... And I promise you that I have learned my lesson. You have schooled me well, Mr. Drogue.... And if for no other reason save respect for you, and gratitude, I promise you I shall so conduct hereafter that you shall have no reason to think contemptuously of me.”
“I never held you in contempt.”
“Yes; when I stole your horse; and when you deemed me easy — and proved me so — —”
“I meant it not that way!” said I, reddening.
“Yet it was so, John Drogue. I was not difficult. I meant no harm, but had not sense enough to know harm when it approached me!... And so I thank you for schooling me. But I never could have taken any gift from you.”
After a silence I rose and went into the officer’s quarters.
The Continental Captain was lying on his trundle-bed, but got up and sent two men to harness Kaya to our waggon.
I told him I should leave all stores and provisions with him, and asked if he would look after our sheep and cattle and fowls until they could be fetched to Johnstown and cared for there.
He was a most kindly man, and promised to care for our creatures, saying that the eggs and milk would be welcome to his garrison, and that if he took a lamb or two he would pay for it on demand.
So when our waggon drove up in the darkness outside, he came and took leave of us all very kindly, saying he hoped that Penelope would be safe in Johnstown, and that the raiders would soon be driven out of the Sacandaga.
I gave him our canoe, for which he seemed grateful.
Then I helped Penelope into the waggon, got in myself and took the reins. Nick and the Saguenay vaulted into the box and lay down on our pile of furs and blankets.
And so we drove out of the stockade and onto the Johnstown Road, Penelope in a wolf-robe beside me, and both her hands clasped around my left arm.
“Are you a-chill?” I asked.
“I do not know what ails me,” she murmured, “but — the world is so vast and dark.... and God is so far — so far — —”
“You are unhappy.”
“No.”
“You grieve for somebody?”
“No, I do not grieve.”
“Are you lonesome?”
“I do not know if I am.... I do not know why I tremble so.... The world is so dark and vast.... I am so small a thing to be alone in it.... It is the war, perhaps, that awes me. It seems so near now. Alas for the battles to be fought! — the battles in the North.... Where you shall be, John Drogue.”
“You said that once before.”
“Yes. I saw you there against a cannon’s rising cloud.... And a white shape near you.”
“You said it was Death,” I reminded her.
“Death or a bride.... I did not wish to see that vision. I never desire to see such things.”
“Pooh! Do you really believe in dreams, Penelope?”
“There were strange uniforms there,” she murmured, “ — not red-coats.”
“Oh; green-coats!”
“No. I never saw the like. I never saw such soldiery in England or in France or in America.”
“They were only dream soldiers,” said I gaily. “So now you must laugh a little, and take heart, Penelope, because if we two have been made homeless this night by fire, still we are young, and in health, and have all life before us. Come, then! Shall we be melanc
holy? And if there are to be battles in the North, why, there will be battles, and some must die and some survive.
“So, in the meanwhile, shall we be merry?”
“If you wish, sir.”
“Excellent! Sing me a pretty French song — low voiced — in my ear, Penelope, whilst I guide my horse.”
“What song, sir?”
“What you will.”
So, holding my arm with both her hands, she leaned close to me on the jolting seat and placed her lips at my ear; and sang “Malbrook,” as we drove toward Johnstown through the dark forest under the April stars.
Something hot touched my cheek.
“Why, Penelope!” said I, “are you weeping?”
She shook her head, rested her forehead a moment against my shoulder, and, sitting so, strove to continue —
“Il ne — ne reviendra—”
Her voice sank to a tremulous whisper and she bowed her face in her two hands and rested so in silence, her slender form swaying with the swaying waggon.
It was plain to me that the child was afeard. The shock of flight, the lurid tokens of catastrophe in the heavens, the alarming rumours in those darkening hours, anxiety, suspense, all had contributed to shake a heart both gentle and courageous.
For in the thickening gloom around us a very murk of murder seemed to brood over this dark and threatened land, seeming to grow more sinister and more imminent as the fading crimson in the northern heavens paled to a sickly hue in the first faint pallor of the coming dawn.
CHAPTER XXV
BURKE’S TAVERN
Now, whether it was the wetting I got on Mayfield Creek and the chill I took on the long night’s journey to Johnstown, or if my thigh-wound became inflamed from that day’s exertion at Fish House, Summer House, and Mayfield, I do not know for certain.
But when at sunrise we drove up to Jimmy Burke’s Tavern in Johnstown, I discovered that I could not move my right leg; and, to my mortification, Nick and my Indian were forced to make a swinging chair of their linked hands, and carry me into the tavern, Penelope following forlornly, her arms full of furs and blankets.
Here was a pretty dish! But try as I might I could not set my foot to the ground; so they laid me upon a bed and stripped me, and my Saguenay wrapped my leg in hot blankets and laid furs over me, till I was wet with sweat to the hair.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 997