Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  But in Albany streets I encountered silent people who looked upon me with no welcome in their haunted gaze; and everywhere I saw the same strange look, — pinched faces, brooding visages, a strained, intent gaze, yet vacant too, as though their eyes, which looked at me, saw nothing save some hidden vision within their secret minds.

  I baited at the Half-Moon; and now I learned for the first what anxieties harassed these good burghers of the old Dutch city. For rumour had come the night before on the heels of a galloping light-horseman, that Sir John was expected to enter the Valley by the Sacandaga route; and that already strange Indians had been seen near Askalege.

  How these same rumours originated nobody seemed to know. The light horseman had them from batteaux-men at Schenectady. But who carried such alarming news to the Queen’s Fort nobody seemed to know, only that the garrison had become feverishly active, and three small scouts were preparing to start for Schoharie and Caughnawaga.

  All this from the landlord, a gross, fat, speckled man who trembled like a dish of jelly as he told it.

  But as I went out to climb into my saddle, leaving my samp and morning draught untasted, comes a-riding a gay company of light horse, careless and debonaire. Their officer saluted my uniform and, as I spurred up beside him and questioned him, he smilingly assured me that the rumours had no foundation; that if Sir John came at all he would surely arrive by the Susquehanna; and that our scouts would give warning to the Valley in ample time.

  God knows that what he said comforted me somewhat, yet I did not choose to lose any time at breakfast, either; so bought me a loaf at a bake-shop, and ate as I rode forward.

  At noon I rode into the Queen’s Fort and there fed Kaya. I saw no unusual activity there; none in the town, none on the river.

  Officers of whom I made inquiry had heard nothing concerning Sir John; did not expect a raid from him before autumn anyway, and vowed that General Sullivan had scotched the Iroquois snake in its den and driven the fear o’ God into Sir John and the two Butlers with the cannon at Chemung.

  As I rode westward again, I saw all around me men at work in the fields, plowing here, seeding there, clearing brush-fields yonder. There seemed to be no dread among these people; all was calm as the fat Dutch cattle that stood belly deep in meadows, watching me out o’ gentle, stupid eyes as I rode on toward Caughnawaga.

  A woman whom I encountered, and who was driving geese, stopped to answer my inquiries. From her I learned that Colonel Fisher, at Caughnawaga, had received a letter from Colonel Jacob Klock six days ago, which stated that Sir John Johnson was marching on the Valley. But she assured me that this news was now entirely discredited by everybody, because on Sunday a week ago Captain Walter Vrooman, of Guilderland, had marched his company to Caughnawaga, but on arriving was told he was not needed, and so continued on to Johnstown.

  I do not know why all these assurances from the honest people of the Valley did not ease my mind.

  Around me as I rode all was sunny, still, and peaceful, yet deep in my heart always I seemed to feel the faint pulse of fear as I looked around me upon a smiling region once familiar and upon which I had not laid eyes for nearly three whole years.

  And my nearness to Penelope, too, so filled me with happy impatience that the last mile seemed a hundred leagues on the dusty Schenectady road.

  I had just come into view of the first chimneys of Caughnawaga, and was riding by an empty waggon driven by an old man, when, very far away, I heard a gun-shot.

  I drew bridle sharply and asked the man in the waggon if he also had heard it; but his waggon rattled and he had not. However, he also pulled up; and we stood still, listening.

  Then, again, and softened by distance, came another gun-shot.

  The old man thought it might be some farmer emptying his piece to clean it.

  As he spoke, still far away along the river we heard several shots fired in rapid succession.

  With that, the old man fetched a yell: “Durn-ding it!” he screeched, “if Sir John’s in the Valley it ain’t no place for my old woman and me!” And he lashed his horses with the reins, and drove at a crazy gallop toward the distant firing.

  At the same moment I spurred Kaya, who bounded forward over the rise of land; and instantly I saw smoke in the sky beyond the Johnstown Road, and caught a glimpse of other fires in another direction, very near to where should stand the dwellings of Jim Davis and Sampson Sammons.

  And now, seated by the roadside just ahead, I saw a young man whom I knew by sight, named Abe Veeder; and I pulled in my horse and called to him.

  He would not move or notice me, and seemed distracted; so I spurred up to him and caught him by the shirt collar. At that he jumps up in a fright, and:

  “Oh, Jesus!” he bawls, “Sir John’s red devils are murdering everybody from Johnstown to the River!”

  “Where are they?” I cried. “Answer me and compose yourself!”

  “Where are they?” he shrieked. “Why, they’re everywhere! Lodowick Putman’s house is afire and they’ve murdered him and Aaron. Amasa Stevens’ house is burning, and he hangs naked and scalped on his garden fence!

  “They killed Billy Gault and that other man from the old country, and they murdered Captain Hansen in his bed, and his house is all afire! Everything in the Valley is afire!” he screamed, wringing his scorched hands, “Tribes Hill is burning, Fisher’s is on fire, and the Colonel and John and Harmon all murdered — all scalped and lying dead in the barn! — —”

  “Listen to me!” I cried, shaking the wretched fellow, “when did this happen? Are Sir John’s people still here? Where are they?”

  “It happened last night and lasted after sunrise this morning,” he blubbered. “Everything is burning from Schoharie to the Nose, and they’ll come back and kill the rest of us — —”

  I flung him aside, struck spurs, and galloped for Cayadutta Lodge.

  Everywhere I looked I saw smoke; barns were but heaps of live coals, houses marked only by charred cellars out of which flames leaped.

  Yet, I saw the church still standing, and Dr. Romeyn’s parsonage still intact, though all doors and windows stood wide open and bedding and broken furniture lay scattered over the grass.

  But Adam Fonda’s house was burning and the dwelling of Major Jelles was on fire; and now I caught sight of Douw Fonda’s great stone house, with its two wings and tall chimneys of hewn stone.

  It was not burning, but shutters hung from their hinges, window glass was shattered, doors smashed in, and all over the trampled garden and lawn lay a débris of broken furniture, tattered books, bedding, fragments of fine china and torn garments.

  And there, face downward on the bloody grass, lay old Douw Fonda, his aged skull split to the backbone, his scalp gone.

  Such a sick horror seized me that I reeled in my saddle and the world grew dark before my eyes for a moment.

  But my mind cleared again and my eyes, also; and I sat my horse, pistol in hand, searching the desolation about me for a sign of aught that remained alive in this awful spot.

  I heard no more gun-shots up the river. The silence was terrible.

  At length, ill with fear, I got out of my saddle and led Kaya to the shattered gate and there tied her.

  Then I entered that ruined mansion to search it for what I feared most horribly to discover, — searched every room, every closet, every corner from attic to cellar. And then came out and took my horse by the bridle.

  For there was nobody within the house, living or dead — no sign of death anywhere save there on the grass, where that poor corpse lay, a grotesque thing sprawling indecently in its blood.

  Then, as I stood there, a man appeared, slinking up the road. He was in his shirt sleeves, wore no hat, and his face and hair were streaked red from a wet wound over his left ear. He carried a fire-lock; and when he discovered me in my Continental uniform he swerved and shuffled toward me, making a hopeless gesture as he came on.

  “They’ve all gone off,” he called out to me, �
�green-coats, red-coats and savages. I saw them an hour since crossing the river some three miles above. God! What a harm have they done us here on this accursed day!”

  He crept nearer and stood close beside me and looked down at the body of Douw Fonda. But in my overwhelming grief I no longer noticed him.

  “Why, sir,” says he, “a devil out o’ hell would have spared yonder good old man. But Sir John’s people slew him. I saw him die. I saw the murder done with my own eyes.”

  Startled from my agonized reflections, I turned and gazed at him, still stunned by the calamity which had crushed me.

  “I say I saw that old man die!” he repeated shrilly. “I saw them scalp him, too!”

  I summoned all my courage: “Did — did you know Penelope Grant?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is — is she dead?” I whispered.

  “I think she is, sir. Listen, sir: I am Jan Myndert, Bouw-Meester to Douw Fonda. I saw Mistress Grant this morning. It was after sunrise and our servants and black slaves had been long a-stirring, and soupaan a-cooking, and none dreamed of any trouble. No, sir! Why — God help us all! — the black wenches were at their Monday washing, and the farm bell was ringing, and I was at the new barrack a-sorting out seed.

  “And the old gentleman, he was up and dressed and supped his porridge along with me, sir; for he rose always with the sun, sir, feeble though he seemed.

  “I — —” he passed a cinder-blackened hand across his hair; drew it away red and sticky; stood gazing at the stain with a stupid air until I could not endure his silence; and burst out:

  “Where did you last see Mistress Grant?”

  But my violence confused him, and it seemed difficult for him to speak when finally he found voice at all:

  “Sir — as I have told you, I had been sorting seeds for early planting, in the barracks,” he said tremulously, “and I was walking, as I remember, toward the house, when, of a sudden, I heard musket-firing toward Johnstown, and not very far distant.

  “With that comes a sound of galloping and rattle o’ wheels, and I see Barent Wemple standing up in his red-painted farm waggon, and whipping his fine colts, and a keg o’ rum bouncing behind him in the waggon-box, — which rolled off as the horses reached the river — and galloped into it — them two colts, sir, — breast deep in the river!

  “Then I shouts down to him: ‘Barent! Barent! Is it them red devils of Sir John? Or why be you in such a God-a’mighty hurry?’

  “But Barent he is too busy cutting his traces to notice me; and up onto one o’ the colts he jumps and seizes t’other by the head, and away across the shoals, leaving his new red waggon there in the water, hub-deep.

  “Then I run to the house and I fall to shouting: ‘Look out! Look out! Sir John is in the Valley!’ And then I run to the house, where my gun stands, and where the black boys and wenches are all a-screeching and a-praying.

  “Somebody calls out that Captain Fisher’s house is on fire; and then, of a sudden, I see a flock o’ naked, whooping devils come leaping down the road.

  “Then, sir, I saw Mistress Grant in her shift come out in the dew and stand yonder in her bare feet, a-looking across at them red devils, bounding and leaping about the Fisher place.

  “Then, out o’ the house toddles Douw Fonda with his gold headed cane and his favorite book. Sir, though the poor old gentleman was childish, he still knew an Indian when he saw one. ‘Fetch me a gun!’ he cries. ‘I take command here!’ And then he sees Mistress Grant, and he pipes out in his cracked voice: ‘Stand your ground, Penelope! Have no fear, my child. I command this post! I will protect you!’

  “The green-coats and savages were now swarming around the house of Major Jelles, whooping and yelling and capering and firing off their guns. Bang-bang-bang! Jesus! the noise of their musketry stopped your ears.

  “Then Mistress Grant she took the old gentleman by the arm and was begging him to go with her through the orchard, where we now could see Mrs. Romeyn running up the hill and carrying her two little children in her arms.

  “I also went to Mr. Fonda and took him by the other arm, but he walked with us only to the porch and there seized my gun that I had left there.

  “‘Stand fast, Penelope!’ he pipes up, ‘I will defend your life and honour!’ And further he would not budge, but turns mulish, yet too feeble to lift the gun he clung to with a grip I could not loosen lest I break his bones.

  “We got him, with his gun a-dragging, into the house, but could force him no farther, for he resisted and reproached me, demanding that I stand and face the enemy.

  “At that, through the window of the library wing I see a body of green-coats, — some three hundred or better, — marching down the Schenectady road. And some score of these, and as many Indians, were leaving the Major’s house, which they had fired; and now all began to run toward us, firing off their muskets at our house as they came on.

  “I was grazed, as you see, sir, and the blow dashed out my senses for a moment. But when I came alive I found I had fallen beside the wainscot of the east wall, where is a secret spring panel made for Mr. Fonda’s best books. My fall jarred it open; and into this closet I crawled; and the next moment the library was filled with the trample of yelling men.

  “I heard Mistress Grant give a kind of choking cry, and, through the crack of the wainscot door, I saw a green-coat put one hand over her mouth and hold her, cursing her for a rebel slut and telling her to hush her damned head or he’d do the proper business for her.

  “An Indian I knew, called Quider, and having only one arm, took hold of Mr. Fonda and led him from the library and out to the lawn, where I could see them both through the west window. The Indian acted kind to the old gentleman, gave him his hat and his book and cane, and conducted him south across the lawn. I could see it all plainly through the wainscot crack.

  “Then, of a sudden, the one-armed Indian swung his hatchet and clove that helpless and bewildered old man clean down to his neck cloth. And there, before all assembled, he took the old man’s few white hairs for a scalp!

  “Then a green-coat called out to ask why he had slain such an old and feeble man, who had often befriended him; and the one-armed Indian, Quider, replied that if he hadn’t killed Douw Fonda somebody else might have done so, and so he, Quider, thought he’d do it and get the scalp-bounty for himself.

  “And all this time the Indians and green-coats were running like wild wolves all over the house, stealing, destroying, yelling, flinging out books from the library shelves, ripping off curtains and bed-covers, flinging linen from chests, throwing crockery about, and keeping up a continual screeching.

  “Sir, I do not know why they did not set fire to the house. I do not know how my hiding place remained unnoticed.

  “From where I kneeled on the closet floor, and my face all over blood, I could see Mistress Grant across the room, sitting on a sofa, whither the cursing green-coat had flung her. She was deathly white but calm, and did not seem afraid; and she answered the filthy beasts coolly enough when they addressed her.

  “Then a big chair, which they had ripped up to look for money, was pushed against my closet, and the back of it closed the wainscot crack, so that I could no longer see Mistress Grant.

  “And that is all I know, sir. For the firing began again outside; they all ran out, and when I dared creep forth Mistress Grant was gone.... And I lay still for a time, and then found a jug o’ rum. When I could stand up I followed the destructives at a distance. And, an hour since, I saw the last stragglers crossing the river rifts some three miles above us.... And that is all, I think, sir.”

  And that was all.... The end of all things.... Or so it seemed to me.

  For now I cared no longer for life. The world had become horrible; the bright sunshine seemed a monstrous sacrilege where it blazed down, unveiling every detail of this ghastly Golgotha — this valley in ashes now made sacred by my dear love’s martyrdom. Slowly I looked around me, still stupefied, helpless, not knowing where to seek my
dead, which way to turn.

  And now my dulled gaze became fixed upon the glittering river, where something was moving.... And presently I realize it was a batteau, poled slowly shoreward by two tall riflemen in their fringes.

  “Holloa! you captain-mon out yonder!” bawled one o’ them, his great voice coming to me through his hollowed hand.

  Leading my horse I walked toward them as in a fiery nightmare, and the sun but a vast and dancing blaze in my burning eyes. One of the riflemen leaped ashore:

  “Is anny wan alive in this place?” he began loudly; then: “Jasus! It’s Captain Drogue. F’r the love o’ God, asthore! Are they all dead entirely in Caughnawaga, savin’ yourself, sorr, an’ the Dominie’s wife an’ childer, an’ the yellow-haired lass o’ Douw Fonda — —”

  I caught him by the rifle-cape. My clutch shook him; and I was shaking, too, so I could not pronounce clearly:

  “Where is Penelope Grant?” I stammered. “Where did you see her, Tim Murphy?”

  “Who’s that?” he demanded, striving to loosen my grip. “Ah, the poor lad, he’s crazy! Lave me loose, avie! Is it the yellow-haired lass ye ask for?”

  “Yes — where is she?”

  “God be good to you, Jack Drogue, she’s on the hill yonder with Mrs. Romeyn an’ the two childer! — —” He took my arm, turned me partly around, and pointed:

  “D’ye mind the pine? The big wan, I mean, betchune the two ellums? ’Twas an hour since that we seen her foreninst the pine-tree yonder, an’ the Romeyn childer hidin’ their faces in her skirt — —”

  I swung my horse and flung myself across the saddle.

  “She’s safe, I warrant,” cried Murphy, as I rode off; “Sir John’s divils was gone off two hours whin we seen her safe and sound on the long hill!”

  I galloped over the shattered fence which was still afire where the charred rails lay in the grass.

  As I spurred up the bank opposite, I caught sight of a mounted officer on the stony Johnstown road, advancing at a trot, and behind him a mass of sweating militia jogging doggedly down hill in a rattle of pebbles and dust.