TWO COUNTRY MICE
It was late in April, and I had boiled my sap and had done with my sugar
bush for another year. The snow was gone; the Kennyetto roared amber
brilliant through banks of melting ice, and a sweet odour of arbutus
filled all the woods.
Spring was in the land and in my heart, too, and when Nick Stoner
galloped to my door in his new forest dress, very fine, I, nothing
loath, did hasten to dress me in my new doe-skins, not less fine than
Nick's and lately made for me by a tailor-woman in Kingsborough who was
part Oneida and part Dutch.
That day I wore a light, round cap of silver mole fur with my unshorn
hair, all innocent of queue or powder, curling crisp like a woman's. Of
which I was ashamed and eager to visit Toby Tice, our Johnstown barber,
and be trimmed.
My new forest dress, as I say, was of doe-skin--a laced shirt belted in,
shoulder-caped, cut round the neck to leave my throat free, and with
long thrums on sleeve and skirt against need.
Trews shaped to fit my legs close; and thigh moccasins, very deep with
undyed fringe, but ornamented by an infinite pattern of little green
vines, made me brave in my small mirror. And my ankle moccasins were gay
with Oneida devices wrought out of porcupine quills and beads, scarlet,
green, purple, and orange, and laid open at the instep by two beaded
flaps.
I saddled my mare, Kaya, in her stall, which was a log wing to my house,
and presently mounted and rode around to where Nick sat his saddle
a-playing on his fife, which he carried everywhere with him, he loving
music but obliged to make his own.
"Lord Harry!" cried he on seeing me so fine. "If you are not truly a
Viscount then you look one!"
"I would not change my name and health and content," said I, "for a
king's gold crown today." And I clinked the silver coins in my pouch and
laughed. And so we rode away along the Johnstown road.
He also, I think, was dying for a frolic. Young minds in trouble as well
as hard-worked bodies need a holiday now and then. He winked at me and
chinked the shillings in his bullet-pouch.
"We shall see all the sights," quoth he, "and the Kennyetto could not
quench my thirst today, nor our two horses eat as much, nor since time
began could all the lovers in history love as much as could I this April
day.... Were there some pretty wench of my own mind to use me kindly....
Like that one who smiled at us--do you remember?"
"At Christmas?"
"That's the one!" he exclaimed. "Lord! but she was handsome in her
sledge!--and her sister, too, Jack."
"I forget their names," said I.
"Browse," he said, "--Jessica and Betsy. And they live at Pigeon-Wood
near Mayfield."
"Oho!" said I, "you have made their acquaintance!"
He laughed and we galloped on.
Nick sang in his saddle, beating time upon his thigh with his fife:
"Flammadiddle!
Paddadiddle!
Flammadiddle dandy!
My Love's kisses
Are sweet as sugar-candy!
Flammadiddle!
Paddadiddle!
Flammadiddle dandy!
She makes fun o' me
Because my legs are bandy----"
He checked his gay refrain:
"Speaking of flamms," said he, "my brother John desires to be a drummer
in the Continental Line."
"He is only fourteen," said I, laughing.
"I know. But he is a tall lad and stout enough. What will be your
regiment, Jack?"
"I like Colonel Livingston's," said I, "but nobody yet knows what is to
be the fate of the district militia and whether the Mohawk regiment, the
Palatine, and the other three are to be recruited to replace the Tory
deserters, or what is to be done."
Nick flourished his flute: "All I know," he said, "is that my father and
brother and I mean to march."
"I also," said I.
"Then it's in God's hands," he remarked cheerfully, "and I mean to use
my ears and eyes in Johnstown today."
We put our horses to a gallop.
* * * * *
We rode into Johnstown and through the village, very pleased to be in
civilization again, and saluting many wayfarers whom we recognized, Tory
and Whig alike. Some gave us but a cold good-day and looked sideways at
our forest dress; others were marked in cordiality,--men like our new
Sheriff, Frey, and the two Sammonses and Jacob Shew.
We met none of the Hall people except the Bouw-Meester, riding beside
five yoke of beautiful oxen, who drew bridle to exchange a mouthful of
farm gossip with me while the grinning slaves waited on the footway,
goads in hand.
Also, I saw out o' the tail of my eye the two Bartholomews passing,
white and stunted and uncanny as ever, but pretended not to notice them,
for I had always felt a shiver when they squeaked good-day at me, and
when they doffed hats the tops of their heads had blue marbling on the
scalp under their scant dry hair. Which did not please me.
Whilst I chattered with the Bouw-Meester of seeds and plowing, Nick, who
had no love for husbandry, practiced upon his fife so windily and with
such enthusiasm that we three horsemen were soon ringed round by urchins
of the town on their reluctant way to school.
"How's old Wall?" cried Nick, resting his puckered lips and wiping his
fife. "There's a schoolmaster for pickled rods, I warrant. Eh, boys? Am
I right?"
Lads and lassies giggled, some sucked thumbs and others hung their
heads.
"Come, then," cried Nick, "he's a good fellow, after all! And so am
I--when I'm asleep!"
Whereat all the children giggled again and Nick fished a great cake of
maple sugar from his Indian pouch, drew his war-hatchet, broke the lump,
and passed around the fragments. And many a childish face, which had
been bright and clean with scrubbing, continued schoolward as sticky as
a bear cub in a bee-tree.
And now the Bouw-Meester and his oxen and the grinning slaves had gone
their way; so Nick and I went ours.
There were taverns enough in the town. We stopped at one or two for a
long pull and a dish of meat.
Out of the window I could see something of the town and it seemed
changed; the Court House deserted; the jail walled in by a new
palisade; fewer people on the street, and little traffic. Nor did I
perceive any red-coats ruffling it as of old; the Highlanders who passed
wore no side-arms,--excepting the officers. And I thought every Scot
looked glum as a stray dog in a new village, where every tyke moves
stiffly as he passes and follows his course with evil eyes.
We had silver in our bullet pouches. We visited every shop, but
purchased nothing useful; for Nick bought sweets and a mouse-trap and
some alley-taws for his brother John--who wished to go to war! Oh,
Lord!--and for his mother he found skeins of brightly-coloured wool; and
for his father a Barlow jack-knife.
I bought some suekets and fish-hooks and a fiddle,--God knows why, for I
can not play on it, nor desire to!--and I further purchased two books,
"Lives of Great Philosophers," by Rudd, and a witty poem by Peter
Pindar, called "The Lousiad"--a bold and mirthful lampoon on the British
King.
These packets we stowed in our saddle-bags, and after that we knew not
what to do save to seek another tavern.
But Nick was no toss-pot, nor was I. And having no malt-thirst, we
remained standing in the street beside our horses, debating whether to
go home or no.
"Shall you pay respects at the Hall?" he asked seriously.
But I saw no reason to go, owing no duty; and the visit certain to prove
awkward, if, indeed, it aroused in Sir John no more violent emotion than
pain at sight of me.
With our bridles over our arms, still debating, we walked along the
street until we came to the Johnson Arms Tavern,--a Tory rendezvous not
now frequented by friends of liberty.
It was so dull in Johnstown that we tied our horses and went into the
Johnson Arms, hoping, I fear, to stir up a mischief inside.
Their brew was poor; and the spirits of the dozen odd Tories who sat
over chess or draughts, or whispered behind soiled gazettes, was poorer
still.
All looked up indifferently as we entered and saluted them.
"Ah, gentlemen," says Nick, "this is a glorious April day, is it not?"
"It's well enough," said a surly man in horn spectacles, "but I should
be vastly obliged, sir, if you would shut the door, which you have left
swinging in the wind."
"Sir," says Nick, "I fear you are no friend to God's free winds. Free
winds, free sunshine, free speech, these suit my fancy. Freedom, sir, in
her every phase--and Liberty--the glorious jade! Ah, gentlemen, there's
a sweetheart you can never tire of. Take my advice and woo her, and
you'll never again complain of a breeze on your shins!"
"If you are so ardent, sir," retorted another man in a sneering voice,
"why do you not go courting your jade in Massachusetts Bay?"
"Because, sir," said I, "our sweetheart, Mistress Liberty, is already on
her joyous way to Johnstown. It is a rendezvous, gentlemen. Will it
please you to join us in receiving her?"
One man got up, overturning the draught board, paid his reckoning, and
went out muttering and gesticulating.
"A married man," quoth Nick, "and wedded to that old hag, Tyranny. It
irks him to hear of fresh young jades, knowing only too well what old
sour-face awaits him at home with the bald end of a broom."
The dark looks cast at us signalled storms; but none came, so poor the
spirit of the company.
"Gentlemen, you seem melancholy and distrait," said I. "Are you so
pensive because my Lord Dunmore has burned our pleasant city of Norfolk?
Is it that which weighs upon your minds? Or is the sad plight of Tommy
Gage distressing you? Or the several pickles in which Sir Guy Carleton,
General Burgoyne, and General Howe find themselves?"
"Possibly," quoth Nick, "a short poem on these three British warriors
may enliven you:
"_Carleton, Burgoyne, Howe,_
"_Bow-wow-wow_!"
But there was nothing to be hoped of these sullen Tories, for they took
our laughter scowling, but budged not an inch. A pity, for it was come
to a pretty pass in Johnstown when two honest farmers must go home for
lack of a rogue or two of sufficient spirit to liven a dull day withal.
* * * * *
We stopped at the White Doe Tavern, and Nick gave the company another
poem, which he said was writ by my Lord North:
"O Boston wives and maids draw near and see
Our delicate Souchong and Hyson tea;
Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or brown;
If not, we'll cut your throats and burn your town!"
Whereat all the company laughed and applauded; and there was no hope of
any sport to be had there, either.
"Well," said Nick, sighing, "the war seems to be done ere it begun.
What's in those whelps at the Johnson Arms, that they stomach such jests
as we cook for them? Time was when I knew where I could depend upon a
broken head in Johnstown--mine own or another's."
We had it in mind to dine at the Doe, planning, as we sat on the stoop,
bridles in hand, to ride back to the Bush by new moonlight.
"If a pretty wench were as rare as a broken head in Johnstown," he
muttered, "I'd be undone, indeed. Come, Jack; shall we ride that way
homeward?"
"Which way?"
"By Pigeon-Wood."
"By Mayfield?"
"Aye."
"You have a sweetheart there, you say?"
"And so, perhaps, might you, for the pain of passing by."
"No," said I, "I want no sweetheart. To clip a lip en passant, if the
lip be warm and willing,--that is one thing. A blush and a laugh and
'tis over. But to journey in quest of gallantries with malice
aforethought--no."
"I saw her in a sledge," sighed Nick, sucking his empty pipe. "And
followed. Lord, but she is handsome,--Betsy Browse!--and looked at me
kindly, I thought.... We had a fight."
"What?"
"Her father and I. For an hour the old man nigh twisted his head off
turning around to see what sledge was following his. Then he shouts,
'Whoa!' and out he bounces into the snow; and I out o' my sledge to see
what it was he wanted.
"He wanted my scalp, I think, for when I named myself and said I lived
at Fonda's Bush, he fetched me a knock with his frozen mittens,--Lord,
Jack, I saw a star or two, I warrant you; and a gay stream squirted from
my nose upon the snow and presently the whole wintry world looked red to
me, so I let fly a fist or two at the old man, and he let fly a few more
at me.
"'Dammy!' says he, 'I'll learn ye to foller my darters, you poor dum
Boston critter! I'll drum your hide from Fundy's Bush to Canady!'
"But after I had rolled him in the snow till his scratch-wig fell off,
he became more civil--quite polite for a Tory with his mouth full o'
snow.
"So I went with him to his sledge and made a polite bow to the
ladies--who looked excited but seemed inclined to smile when I promised
to pass by Pigeon-Wood some day."
"A rough wooing," said I, laughing.
"Rough on old man Browse. But he's gone with Guy Johnson."
"What! To Canada? The beast!"
"Aye. So I thought to stop some day at Pigeon-Wood to see if the cote
were entirely empty or no. Lord, what a fight we had, old Browse and I,
there in the snow of the Mayfield road! And he burly as an October
bear--a man all knotted over with muscles, and two fists that slapped
you like the front kick of a moose! Oh, Lordy! Lordy! What a battle was
there.... What bright eyes hath that little jade Betsy, of Pigeon-Wood!"
Now, as he spoke, I had a mind to see this same Tory girl of
Pigeon-Wood; and presently admitted to him my curiosity.
And then, just as we had mounted and were gathering bridles and
searching for our stirrups with moccasined toes, comes a galloper in
scarlet jacket and breeks, with a sealed letter waved high to halt me.
Sitting my horse in the street, I broke the seal and read what was
written to me.
The declining sun sent its rosy shafts through the still village now,
painting every house and setting glazed windows a-glitter.
I looked around me, soberly, at the old and familiar town; I glanced at
Nick; I gazed coldly upon the galloper,--a cornet of Border Horse, and
as solemn as he was young.
"Sir," said I, "pray present to Lady Johnson my duties and my
compliments, and say that I am honoured by her ladyship's commands, and
shall be--happy--to present myself at Johnson Hall within the hour."
Young galloper salutes; I outdo him in exact and scrupulous courtesy,
mole-skin cap in hand; and 'round he wheels and away he tears like the
celebrated Tory in the song, Jock Gallopaway.
"Here's a kettle o' fish," remarked Nick in disgust.
"Were it not Lady Johnson," muttered I, but checked myself. After all,
it seemed ungenerous that I should decline to see even Sir John, who now
was virtually a prisoner of my own party, penned here within that
magnificent domain of which his great father had been creator and
absolute lord.
"I must go, Nick," I said in a low voice.
He said with a slight sneer, "Noblesse oblige----" and then, sorry, laid
a quick hand on my arm.
"Forgive me, Jack. My father wears two gold rings in his ears. Your
father wore them on his fingers. I know I am a boor until your kindness
makes me forget it."
I said quietly: "We are two comrades and friends to liberty. It is not
what we are born to but what we are that matters a copper penny in the
world."
"It is easy for you to say so."
"It is important for you to believe so. As I do."
"Do you really so?" he asked with that winning upward glance that
revealed his boyish faith in me.
"I really do, Nick; else, perhaps, I had been with Guy Johnson in Canada
long ago."
"Then I shall try to believe it, too," he murmured, "--whether ears or
fingers or toes wear the rings."
We laughed.
"How long?" he inquired bluntly.
"To sup, I think. I must remain if Lady Johnson requests it of me."
"And afterward. Will you ride home by way of Pigeon-Wood?"
"Will you still be lingering there?" I asked with a smile.
"Whether the pigeon-cote be empty or full, I shall await you there."
I nodded. We smiled at each other and wheeled our horses in opposite
directions.