Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Tahioni hung his head, the Screech-owl and the Water-snake nodded emphatic assent.

  “Yonder,” said I, “are the red-patch soldiers. They are Tory marauders and outlaws. If you can ambush and cut off any of them, do so. And I care not if you scalp them, either. But if any are taken I shall not deliver them to any Oneida fire. No prisoner of this flying scout shall burn.”

  The Water-snake twitched my sleeve timidly.

  “Hahyion,” he said, “we obey. But an Iroquois prefers the fire and torment to the noose. Because he can sing his death songs and laugh at his enemies through the flames. But what man can sing or boast when a rope chokes his speech in his throat?”

  I scarcely heeded him, for I was watching the red-patch soldiers, who now were leaving the woods and crossing the hayfield, which still was smoking where the fire made velvet-black patches in the dry grass.

  The barn had fallen in and was only a great heap of glowing coals, over which a pale flame played in the late afternoon sunshine.

  Listening and looking after the red-patches, I heard very distinctly the sound of guns in the direction of Stone House.

  Now, while it was none of my business to hang on McDonald’s flanks for prisoners and scalps, it was my business to observe him and what he might be about in Schoharie; and to carry this news to Saratoga by way of Johnstown, along with my budget concerning Stanwix and St. Leger.

  Besides, Stone House lay on my way. So I signalled my Indians and started west. And it was not very long before we came upon two Schoharie militia-men whom I knew, Jacob Enders and George Warner, who took to a tree when they discovered my Oneidas in their paint, but came out when I called them by name, and gave an account that they were hunting a notorious Tory, — a renegade and late officer in the Schoharie Regiment, — a certain George Mann, a captain, who would have carried his entire company to McDonald, but was surprised in his villainy and had fled to the woods near Fox Creek.

  I told them that we had not seen this fellow, and asked for news; and Warner showed me a scalp which he said he took an hour ago from Ogeyonda, after shooting that treacherous savage at the Flockey.

  He gave it to Tahioni, which pleased the Oneida mightily and contented me; for I hate to see any white man take a scalp, though Tim Murphy and Dave Elerson took them as coolly as they took any other peltry.

  Warner said that McDonald was up the valley, murdering and burning his way westward; that cavalry from Albany had just arrived, had raided Brick House and taken prisoner a lot of red-patch militia, forced them to tear up their Royal Protections, tied up the most obnoxious, and kicked out the remainder with a warning.

  He said, further, that Adam Crysler and Joseph Brown, of Clyberg, were great villains and had joined McDonald with Billy Zimmer and others; and that McDonald had a motley army, full of kilted Highlanders, chasseurs, red-patches, Indians, and painted Tories; and that the cavalry from Albany were marching to meet them, reinforced by Schoharie mounted-militia under Colonel Harper.

  And now, even as Warner was still speaking, we heard the trumpet of the cavalry on the river road below; and, running out to the forest’s edge, we saw the Albany Riders marching up the river, — two hundred horsemen in bright new helmets and uniforms, finely horsed, their naked sabers all glittering in the sun, and their trumpeter trotting ahead on a handsome white charger.

  The horses, four abreast, were at a fast walk; flankers galloped ahead on either wing. And, as we hurried down to the road, an officer I knew, Lieutenant Wirt, came spurring forward to meet and question us, followed by two troopers, — one named Rose and the other was Jake Van Dyck, whom I also recognized.

  “Jack Drogue, by all the gods of war!” cried the handsome lieutenant, as I saluted and spoke to him by name.

  “Dave Wirt!” I exclaimed, offering my hand, which he grasped, leaning wide from his saddle.

  He turned his mount toward the road again, and I and my Oneidas walked along beside him.

  “Are those your tame panthers?” he demanded, pointing toward my Oneidas with his sword. “If they are, then we should have agreeable work for them and for you, Jack Drogue. For Vrooman and his men are in Stone House and the red-patches fire on them whenever they show a head; and our cavalry are like to strike McDonald at any moment now. We caught two of his damned spies — —”

  At that instant, far down the road I saw a woman; and even at that distance I recognized her.

  “Yonder walks a bad citizen,” said I sharply. “That is Madame Staats!”

  We had now arrived beside the moving column of riders; and, as I spoke, a dozen cavalrymen shouted: “Here comes Rya’s Pup!”

  A captain of cavalry who spoke English with a French accent shouted to the Pup and beckoned her; but she turned and ran the other way.

  Immediately two troopers spurred after her and caught her as she was fording the river; and each seized her by a hand, turned their horses, and trotted back to us with their prisoner, amid shouts of laughter.

  Rya’s Pup, breathless from her enforced run, fairly spat at us in her fury, cursing and threatening and holding her panting flanks in turn.

  “You dirty rebel dogs!” she screamed, “wait till McDonald catches you! Ah — there’ll be blood enow for you all to wade in as I waded in the river yonder, when your filthy cavalry headed me!”

  Wirt tried to question her, but she mocked us all, boasted that McDonald had a huge army at the Flockey, and that he was now on his way to Stone House to destroy us all.

  “Turn that slut loose!” said the Captain sharply.

  So we let go the Pup, and she turned and legged it, yelling her scorn and fury as she ran; and we saw her go floundering and splashing across the river, doubtless to carry news of us to McDonald.

  And it contented us that she so do, because now we came upon Stone House, where the small garrison under a Lieutenant Wallace had ventured out and were a-digging of a ditch and piling fence rails across the road to stop McDonald’s riders in a charge.

  Here, also, were Harper’s mounted militia, sitting their saddles, poorly armed with militia fire-locks.

  But we had a respectable force and were ashamed to await the outlaws behind ditch and rail; so we marched on through the gathering dusk to a house about two miles further, where a dozen strangely painted horsemen galloped away as we approached.

  A yell of rage at sight of those blue-eyed Indians arose from our riders. Our trumpet sounded; the cavalry broke into a gallop.

  It was now twilight.

  I begged some mounted militia-men to take me and my Oneidas up behind them; and they were obliging enough to do so; and we jogged away into the rosy dusk of an August evening.

  Almost immediately I saw the Flockey ahead, and Adam Crysler’s house on the bank; and on the lawn in front of it I saw McDonald’s grotesque legion drawn up in line of battle.

  As I came up our cavalry was forming to charge; Lieutenant Wirt had just turned in his saddle to speak to me, when one of the outlaws ran out to the edge of the lawn and called across the road to Wirt that he should never live to marry Angelica Vrooman, but would die a dog’s death as he deserved.

  As the cavalry charged, Wirt rode directly at this man, who coolly shot him out of his saddle.

  I saw and recognized the outlaw, who was a Tory named Shafer.

  As Wirt fell to the grass, stone dead, his horse knocked down Shafer. The Tory got up, streaming with blood but not badly hurt, and, clubbing his piece, attempted to dash out Wirt’s dead brains; but Trooper Rose swung his horse violently against Shafer, sabred him, and, in turn, fell from his own saddle, fatally wounded.

  Another trooper dismounted to pick up poor Rose, who was in a bad way, but one of McDonald’s painted Tories fired on them and both fell.

  I fired at this man and wounded him, and Tahioni chased him, caught him, and slew him by the fence.

  Then, above the turmoil of horses and gun-shots, the Oneida’s terrific scalp-yell rang out in the deepening dusk; and at that dread panther-cry a pa
nic seemed to seize McDonald’s men, for their grotesque riders suddenly whirled their horses and stampeded ventre-à-terre, riding westward like damned men; and I saw their Highlanders and Chasseurs and renegade Greens break and scatter into the forest on every side, melting away into the night before our eyes.

  Into the brush leaped my Oneidas; their war-yells awoke the shuddering echoes of Brakabeen Wood. I saw a chasseur leap a rail fence, stumble, and fall with the Screech-owl on top of him. Again the awful Oneida scalp-yelp rang out under the first dim stars.

  The cavalry returned and camped at Stone House that night. They brought in their dead by torch-light; and I saw Wirt’s body borne on a stretcher, and the corpse of Trooper Rose, and others.

  One by one my Oneidas returned like blood-slaked and weary hounds. All had taken scalps, and sat late at our fire to hoop and stretch them, and neatly plait the miserable dead hair that hung all draggled from the pitiful shreds of skin.

  At a cavalry watch-fire near to ours were also some people I knew — Mayfield men of a scout of six, just come in; and I went over to their fire and greeted them and questioned them concerning news from home.

  Truman Christie was their lieutenant; Sol and Seely Woodworth, the two Reynolds, and Billy Dunham composed the scout; and all were in rifle-dress and keen to try their rifles on McDonald, but were arrived too late, and feared now that the outlaws were on their way to Canada.

  Christie told me that the alarm in Johnstown and at Mayfield was great; that hostile Indians had been seen near Tribes Hill, and had killed a farmer there; that some people were leaving Caughnawaga and moving their household goods down the river to Schenectady.

  “By God,” says he, “and I don’t blame ‘em, John Drogue! No! For a Mohawk war party is like to strike Caughnawaga at any hour; and why foolish folk, like old Douw Fonda, remain there is beyond my comprehension.”

  “Douw Fonda!” said I, astonished. “Why, he is gone to Albany.”

  “He came back a week ago,” says Christie. “They tell me that the young Patroon tried to dissuade the old gentleman from going, but could do nothing with him — Mr. Fonda being childish and obstinate — and so he had his way and summoned his coach and his three niggers and drove in state up the river to Caughnawaga. We passed that way on scout, and I saw the old gentleman two days ago sitting on his porch with his gold-headed walking stick and his book, and dozing there in the sun; and the yellow-haired girl knitting at his feet — —”

  “What!”

  He looked at me, startled by my vehemence.

  “Sir,” said he, “did I say aught to offend you?”

  “Good God, no. You say that the — the yellow-haired girl, Penelope Grant, is at Caughnawaga with Douw Fonda!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you see her?”

  “I did; and spoke with her.”

  “What did she say?” I asked unsteadily.

  “She said that Mr. Fonda had sent a negro servant to Johnstown to fetch her, because, having returned to Caughnawaga, he needed her.”

  “I think Mr. Fonda’s three sons and their families must all be mad to permit the old gentleman to come to Caughnawaga in such perilous times as these!” I said sharply.

  “And so do I think likewise,” rejoined Christie. “Let them think and say what they like, but, Mr. Drogue, I am an old Indian fighter and have served under Colonel Claus and Sir William Johnson. I know the Iroquois; I know their ways and wiles and craft and subtle designs; and I know how they think, and what they are most likely to do.

  “And I say to you very solemnly, Mr. Drogue, that were I Joseph Brant I would strike Caughnawaga before snow flies. And, sir, under God, it is my honest belief that he will do exactly that very thing. And it will be a sorry business for the Valley when he does so!”

  It was a dreadful thing for me to hear this veteran affirm what I myself already feared.

  But I had never dreamed that the aged Douw Fonda would return to Caughnawaga, or that his sons would permit the obstinate, helpless, and childish old gentleman to so have his say and way in times like these.

  Nor did I dream that Penelope would go to him again. I knew, of course, that she would surely go if he asked for her; but thought he had too completely forgotten her — as the Patroon wrote — and that his childishness and feeble memory no longer retained any remembrance of the young girl he had loved and had offered to adopt and to make his legatee.

  The news that Captain Christie brought was truly dismal news for me and most alarming.

  What on earth I could do about it I had no idea. Penelope, the soul of loyalty, believed that her duty lay with Mr. Fonda, and that, if he asked for her, she must go and care for him, who had been to her a father when she was poor, shelterless, and alone.

  I realized that no argument, no plea of mine could move her to abandon him now. And what logic could I employ to arouse this childish and obstinate old gentleman to any apprehension of his own peril or hers?

  To think of it madded me, because Mr. Fonda had three wealthy sons living near him, who could care for him properly with their ample means and all their servants and slaves. And why in God’s name Captain John Fonda, Major Jelles Fonda, or Major Adam Fonda did not take some means of moving themselves and their families into the Queens Fort, or, better still, into Albany, I can not comprehend.

  But it was a fact, as Christie related to me, that scarce a soul had fled from Caughnawaga. All the landed gentry remained; all people of high or low degree were still there — folk like the Veeders, Sammons, Romeyns, Hansens, Yates, Putmans, Stevens, Fishers, Gaults.

  That night my dreams were horrible: I seemed to see Dries Bowman’s body spinning in the sunshine, whilst he darted his swollen tongue at me like a snake. And always I seemed all wet with blood and could not dry myself or escape the convulsed embrace of the Little Maid of Askalege.

  Moaning, waking with a cry on my lips to gaze on the red embers of our fire and see my Indians stir under their blankets and open slitted eyes at me — or to lie exhausted in body and all trembling in my thoughts, while the slow, dark hours dragged to the dead march beating in my heart — thus passed the night at Stone House, full of visions of the dead.

  Long ere the cavalry trumpet pealed and the tired troopers awakened after near fifty miles of riding the day before, I had dragged my weary Indians from their sleep; and almost immediately we were on our way, eating a pinch of salted corn from the palms of our hands as we moved forward. For, after a brief ceremony in the Wood of Brakabeen, I meant to make Johnstown without a halt. My mind was full of anxiety for Caughnawaga, and for her who had promised herself to me when again I should come to seek her.

  But first we must halt in the Wood of Brakabeen to fulfill in ceremony that office due to the memory of a brave and faithful Oneida warrior — our little Maid of Askalege.

  It was not yet dawn, and the glades of Brakabeen Wood were dark and still; and on the ferns and grasses rested myriads of fire-flies, all pulsating with faint phosphorescence.

  I thought of Thiohero as I had beheld her in this glade, swaying on her slender feet amid a dizzy whirl of fire-flies.

  Tahioni had gathered a dry faggot; Kwiyeh carried a bundle of cherry-birch, samphire, and witch-hopple. The Water-snake laid the fire.

  All seated themselves; I struck flint, blew the tinder to a coal, and lighted a silver birch-shred.

  The scented smoke mounted straight up through the trees; I rose in silence; and when the first burning stick fell into soft white ashes, I took a few flakes in my palm and rubbed them across my forehead. Then I spoke, facing the locked gates of morning in the dark:

  “Now — now I hear your voice coming to us through the forest in the night.

  “Now our hearts are heavy, little sister. The gates of morning are still locked; the forest is still; everywhere there is thick darkness.

  “Thiohero, listen!

  “Now we Oneidas are depressed in our minds. You were a prophetess. You foretold events. You were a warr
ior. We were your clansmen of the Little Red Foot. You were a sorceress. Empty moccasins danced when you touched the witch-drum. Now, in white plumes, you have mounted to the stars like morning mist.

  “Oyaneh! Continue to listen.

  “Our lodge is empty without you. Our fire is lonely without you. Our hearts are desolate, O Thiohero Oyaneh!

  “Little Sister, continue to listen!

  “We have heard your voice at this hour coming to us through the Wood of Brakabeen. It comes in darkness like light when the gates of morning open.

  “Thiohero Oyaneh, virgin warrior of the People of the Rock, we are come to the Wood of Brakabeen to greet and thank you.

  “We give you gratitude and love. You were a warrior and wore the Little Red Foot. You struck your enemies where you found them. They are dead and without scalps, your enemies. The Canienga howl. Your war-axe sticks in their heads. The Hessians are swine. Your scarlet arrows turn them into porcupines. The green-coats flee and your bullets burn their bowels.

  “O my little sister, listen now!

  “Our trail is very lonely without you. We are dejected. We move like old men and sick. We need your wisdom. We are less wise than those littlest ones still strapped to the cradle board.

  “Thiohero!

  “We have placed food and a cup of water for you lest you hunger and thirst.

  “We have laid a bow and scarlet arrows near you so that you shall hunt when you wish.

  “We have given you moccasins so that the strange, bright trail shall not hurt your feet.

  “We have placed paint for you so that Tharon shall know you by your clan. And we have made for your grave a cross of silver-birch, so that our white Lord Christ shall meet you and take you by the hand in a land so new and strange.

  “Oyaneh!

  “We have said what is in our hearts and minds. We think that is all we have to say. We turn our eyes to the morning. When the gates open we shall depart.”

  As I ended, the three Oneidas rose and faced the east in silence. All the sky had become golden. Minute after minute passed. Suddenly a blinding lance of light pierced the Wood of Brakabeen.