RUSTIC GALLANTRY
There were few lanterns and fewer candle lights in Johnstown; sober folk
seemed to be already abed; only a constable, Hugh McMonts, stood in the
main street, leaning upon his pike as I followed the new moon out of
town and down into a dark and lovely land where all was still and
fragrant and dim as the dreams of those who lie down contented with the
world.
Now, as I jogged along on my mare, Kaya, over a well-levelled road, my
mind was very full of what I had seen and heard at Johnson Hall.
One thing seemed clear to me; there could be no foundation for any
untoward rumours regarding Sir John,--no fear that he meant to shame his
honoured name and flee to Canada to join Guy Johnson and his Indians and
the Tryon County Tories who already had fled.
No; Sir John was quietly planning his summer farming. All seemed
tranquil at the Hall. And I could not find it in my nature to doubt his
pledged word, nor believe that he was plotting mischief.
Still, it had staggered me somewhat to see Hiakatoo there in his
ceremonial paint, as though the fire were still burning at Onondaga. But
I concluded that the Seneca War Chief had come on some private affair
and not for his nation, because a chief does not travel alone upon a
ceremonial mission. No; this Indian had arrived to talk privately with
Hare, who, no doubt, now represented Guy Johnson's late authority among
the Johnstown Tories.
Thinking over these matters, I jogged into the Mayfield road; and as I
passed in between the tall wayside bushes, without any warning at all
two shadowy horsemen rode out in front of me and threw their horses
across my path, blocking it.
Instantly my hand flew to my hatchet, but at that same moment one of the
tall riders laughed, and I let go my war-axe, ashamed.
"It's John Drogue!" said a voice I recognized, as I pushed my mare
close to them and peered into their faces; and I discovered that these
riders were two neighbors of mine, Godfrey Shew of Fish House, and Joe
de Golyer of Varick's.
"What frolic is this?" I demanded, annoyed to see their big pistols
resting on their thighs and their belted hatchets loosened from the
fringed sheaths.
"No frolic," answered Shew soberly, "though Joe may find it a matter for
his French mirth."
"Why do you stop folk at night on the King's highway?" I inquired
curiously of de Golyer.
"Voyons, l'ami Jean," he replied gaily, "Sir Johnson and his Scottish
bare-shanks, they have long time stop us on their sacre King's highway.
Now, in our turn, we stop them, by gar! Oui, nom de dieu! And we shall
see what we shall see, and we shall catch in our little trap what shall
step into it, pardieu!"
Shew said in his heavy voice: "Our authorities in Albany have concluded
to watch, for smuggled arms, the roads leading to Johnstown, Mr.
Drogue."
"Do they fear treachery at the Hall?"
"They do not know what is going on at the Hall. But there are rumours
abroad concerning the running in of arms for the Highlanders, and the
constant passing of messengers between Canada and Johnstown."
"I have but left the Hall," said I. "I saw nothing to warrant
suspicion." And I told them who were there and how they conducted at
supper.
Shew said with an oath that Lieutenant Hare was a dangerous man, and
that he hoped a warrant for him would be issued.
"As for the Indian, Hiakatoo," he went on, "he's a surly and cunning
animal, and a fierce one as are all Senecas. I do not know what has
brought him to Johnstown, nor why Moucher was there, nor Steve Watts."
"Young Watts, no doubt, came to visit his sister," said I. "That is
natural, Mr. Shew."
"Oh, no doubt, no doubt," grumbled Shew. "You, Mr. Drogue, are one of
those gentlemen who seem trustful of the honour of all gentlemen. And
for every gentleman who _is_ one, the next is a blackguard. I do not
contradict you. No, sir. But we plain folk of Tryon think it wisdom to
watch gentlemen like Sir John Johnson."
"I am as plain a man as you are," said I, "but I am not able to doubt
the word of honour given by the son of Sir William Johnson."
De Golyer laughed and asked me which way I rode, and I told him.
"Nick Stoner also went Mayfield way," said Shew with a shrug. "I think
he unsaddled at Pigeon-Wood."
They wheeled their horses into the bushes with gestures of adieu; I
shook my bridle, and my mare galloped out into the sandy road again.
The sky was very bright with that sweet springtime lustre which comes
not alone from the moon but also from a million million unseen stars,
all a-shining behind the purple veil of night.
Presently I heard the Mayfield creek babbling like a dozen laughing
lasses, and rode along the bushy banks looking up at the mountains to
the north.
They are friendly little mountains which we call the Mayfield Hills, all
rising into purple points against the sky, like the waves on Lake
Ontario, and so tumbling northward into the grim jaws of the
Adirondacks, which are different--not sinister, perhaps, but grim and
stolid peaks, ever on guard along the Northern wilderness.
Long, still reaches of the creek stretched away, unstarred by rising
trout because of the lateness of the night. Only a heron's croak sounded
in the darkness; there were no lights where I knew the Mayfield
settlement to be.
Already I saw the grist mill, with its dusky wheel motionless; and, to
the left, a frame house or two and several log-houses set in cleared
meadows, where the vast ramparts of the forest had been cut away.
Now, there was a mile to gallop eastward along a wet path toward Summer
House Point; and in a little while I saw the long, low house called
Pigeon-Wood, which sat astride o' the old Iroquois war trail to the
Sacandaga and the Canadas.
It was a heavy house of hewn timber and smoothed with our blue clay,
which cuts the sandy loam of Tryon in great streaks.
There was no light in the windows, but the milky lustre of the heavens
flooded all, and there, upon the rail fence, I did see Nick Stoner
a-kissing of Betsy Browse.
They heard my horse and fluttered down from the fence like two robins,
as I pulled up and dismounted.
"Hush!" said the girl, who was bare of feet and her gingham scarce
pinned decently; and laid her finger on her lips as she glanced toward
the house.
"The old man is back," quoth Nick, sliding a graceless arm around her.
"But he sleeps like an ox." And, to Betsy, "Whistle thy little sister
from her nest, sweetheart. For there are no gallants in Tryon to match
with my comrade, John Drogue!"
Which did not please me to hear, for I had small mind for rustic
gallantry; but Martha pursed her lips and whistled thrice; and presently
the house door opened without any noise.
She was a healthy, glowing wench, half confident, half coquette, like a
playful forest thing in springtime, when all things mate.
And her sister, Jessica, was like her, only slimmer, who came across the
starlit grass rubbing both eyes with her little fists, like a child
roused from sleep,--a shy, smiling, red-lipped thing, who gave me her
hand and yawned.
And presently went to where my mare stood to pet her and pull the new,
wet grass and feed her tid-bits.
I did not feel awkward, yet knew not how to conduct or what might be
expected of me at this star-dim rendezvous with a sleepy, woodland
beauty.
But she seemed in nowise disconcerted after a word or two; drew my arm
about her; put up her red mouth to be kissed, and then begged to be
lifted to my saddle.
Here she sat astride and laughed down at me through her tangled hair.
And:
"I have a mind to gallop to Fish House," said she, "only that it might
prove a lonely jaunt."
"Shall I come, Jessica?"
"Will you do so?"
I waited till the blood cooled in my veins; and by that time she had
forgotten what she had been about--like any other forest bird.
"You have a fine mare, Mr. Drogue," said she, gently caressing Kaya with
her naked heels. "No rider better mounted passes Pigeon-Wood."
"Do many riders pass, Jessica?"
"Sir John's company between Fish House and the Hall."
"Any others lately?"
"Yes, there are horsemen who ride swiftly at night. We hear them."
"Who may they be?"
"I do not know, sir."
"Sir John's people?"
"Very like."
"Coming from the North?"
"Yes, from the North."
"Have they waggons to escort?"
"I have heard waggons, too."
"Lately?"
"Yes." She leaned down from the saddle and rested both hands on my
shoulders:
"Have you no better way to please than in catechizing me, John Drogue?"
she laughed. "Do you know what lips were fashioned for except words?"
I kissed her, and, still resting her hands on my shoulders, she looked
down into my eyes.
"Are you of Sir John's people?" she asked.
"Of them, perhaps, but not now with them, Jessica."
"Oh. The other party?"
"Yes."
"You! A Boston man?"
"Nick and I, both."
"Why?"
"Because we design to live as free as God made us, and not as
king-fashioned slaves."
"Oh, la!" quoth she, opening her eyes wide, "you use very mighty words
to me, Mr. Drogue. There are young men in red coats and gilt lace on
their hats who would call you rebel."
"I am."
"No," she whispered, putting both arms around my neck. "You are a pretty
boy and no Yankee! I do not wish you to be a Boston rebel."
"Are all your lovers King's men?"
"My lovers?"
"Yes."
"Are you one?"
At which I laughed and lifted the saucy wench from my saddle, and stood
so in the starlight, her arms still around my neck.
"No," said I, "I never had a sweetheart, and, indeed, would not know how
to conduct----"
"We could learn."
But I only laughed, disengaging her arms, and passing my own around her
supple waist.
"Listen," said I, "Nick and I mean no harm in a starlit frolic, where we
tarry for a kiss from a pretty maid."
"No harm?"
"Neither that nor better, Jessica. Nor do you; and I know that very
well. With me it's a laugh and a kiss and a laugh; and into my stirrups
and off.... And you are young and soft and sweet as new maple-sap in
the snow. But if you dream like other little birds, of nesting----"
"May a lass not dream in springtime?"
"Surely. But let it end so, too."
"In dreams."
"It is wiser."
"There is no wisdom in me, pretty boy in buckskin. And I love thrums
better than red-coats and lace."
"Love spinning better than either!"
"Oh, la! He preaches of wheels and spindles when my mouth aches for a
kiss!"
"And mine," said I, "--but my legs ache more for my saddle; and I must
go."
At that moment when I said adieu with my lips, and she did not mean to
unlink her arms, came Nick on noiseless tread to twitch my arm. And,
"Look," said he, pointing toward the long, low rampart of Maxon Ridge.
I turned, my hand still retaining Jessica's: and saw the Iroquois
signal-flame mount thin and high, tremble, burn red against the stars,
then die there in the darkness.
Northward another flame reddened on the hills, then another, fire
answering fire.
"What the devil is this?" growled Nick. "These are no times for Indians
to talk to one another with fire."
"Get into your saddle," said I, "and we shall ride by Varick's, for I've
a mind to see what will-o'-the-wisps may be a-dancing over the great
Vlaie!"
So the tall lad took his leave of his little pigeon of Pigeon-Wood, who
seemed far from willing to let him loose; and I made my adieux to
Jessica, who stood a-pouting; and we mounted and set off at a gallop for
Varick's, by way of Summer House Point.
I could not be certain, but it seemed to me that there was a light at
the Point, which came through the crescents from behind closed shutters;
but that was within reason, Sir John being at liberty to keep open the
hunting lodge if he chose.
As for the Drowned Lands, as far as we could see through the night there
was not a spark over that desolate wilderness.
The Mohawk fires on the hills, too, had died out. Fish House, if still
burning candles, was too far away to see; we galloped through Varick's,
past the mill where, from its rocky walls, Frenchman's Creek roared
under the stars; then turned west along the Brent-Meester's trail toward
Fonda's Bush and home.
"Those Iroquois fires trouble me mightily," quoth Nick, pushing his lank
horse forward beside my mare.
"And me," said I.
"Why should they talk with fire on the night Hiakatoo comes to the
Hall?"
"I do not know," said I. "But when I am home I shall write it in a
letter to Albany that this night the Mohawks have talked among
themselves with fire, and that a Seneca was present."
"And that mealy-mouthed Ensign, Moucher; and Hare and Steve Watts!"
"I shall so write it," said I, very seriously.
"Good!" cried he with a jolly slap on his horse's neck. "But the sweeter
part of this night's frolic you and I shall carry locked in our breasts.
Eh, John? By heaven, is she not fresh and pink as a dewy strawberry in
June--my pretty little wench? Is she not apt as a school-learned lass
with any new lesson a man chooses to teach?"
"Yes, too apt, perhaps," said I, shaking my head but laughing. "But I
think they have had already a lesson or two in such frolics, less
innocent, perhaps, than the lesson we gave."
"I'll break the back of any red-coat who stops at Pigeon-Wood!" cried
Nick Stoner with an oath. "Yes, red-coat or any other colour, either!"
"You would not take our frolic seriously, would you, Nick?"
"I take all frolics seriously," said he with a gay laugh, smiting both
thighs, and his bridle loose. "Where I place my mark with my proper
lips, let roving gallants read and all roysterers beware!--even though I
so mark a dozen pretty does!"
"A very Turk," said I.
"An antlered stag in the blue-coat that brooks no other near his herd!"
cried he with a burst of laughter. And fell to smiting his thighs and
tossing up both arms, riding like a very centaur there, with his hair
flowing and his thrums streaming in the starlight.
And, "Lord God of Battles!" he cried out to the stars, stretching up his
powerful young arms. "Thou knowest how I could love tonight; but dost
Thou know, also, how I could fight if I had only a foe to destroy with
these two empty hands!"
"Thou murderous Turk!" I cried in his ear. "Pray, rather, that there
shall be no war, and no foe more deadly than the pretty wench of
Pigeon-Wood!"
"Love or war, I care not!" he shouted in his spring-tide frenzy,
galloping there unbridled, his lean young face in the wind. "But God
send the one or the other to me very quickly--or love or war--for I need
more than a plow or axe to content my soul afire!"
"Idiot!" said I, "have done a-yelling! You wake every owl in the bush!"
And above his youth-maddened laughter I heard the weird yelping of the
forest owls as though the Six Nations already were in their paint, and
blood fouled every trail.
* * * * *
So we galloped into Fonda's Bush, pulling up before my door; but Nick
would not stay the night and must needs gallop on to his own log house,
where he could blanket and stall his tired and sweating horse--I owning
only the one warm stall.
"Well," says he, still slapping his thighs where he sat his saddle as I
dismounted, and his young face still aglow in the dim, silvery light,
"--well, John, I shall ride again, one day, to Pigeon-Wood. Will you
ride with me?"
"I think not."
"And why?"
But, standing by my door, bridle in hand, I slowly shook my head.
"There is no prettier bit o' baggage in County Tryon than Jessica
Browse," he insisted--"unless, perhaps, it be that Scotch girl at
Caughnawaga, whom all the red-coats buzz about like sap flies around a
pan."
"And who may this Scotch lassie be?" I asked with a smile, and busy,
now, unsaddling.
"I mean the new servant to old Douw Fonda."
"I have not noticed her."
"You have not seen the Caughnawaga girl?"
"No. I remain incurious concerning servants," said I, drily.
"Is it so!" he laughed. "Well, then,--for all that they have a right to
gold binding on their hats,--the gay youth of Johnstown, yes, and of
Schenectady, too, have not remained indifferent to the Scotch girl of
Douw Fonda, Penelope Grant!"
I shrugged and lifted my saddle.
"Every man to his taste," said I. "Some eat woodchucks, some porcupines,
and others the tail of a beaver. Venison smacks sweeter to me."
Nick laughed again. "When she reads the old man to sleep and takes her
knitting to the porch, you should see the ring of gallants every
afternoon a-courting her!--and their horses tied to every tree around
the house as at a quilting!
"But there's no quilting frolic; no supper; no dance;--nothing more
than a yellow-haired slip of a wench busy knitting there in the sun, and
looking at none o' them but intent on her needles and with that faint
smile she wears----"
"Go court her," said I, laughing; and led my mare into her warm stall.
"You'll court her yourself, one day!" he shouted after me, as he
gathered bridle. "And if you do, God help you, John Drogue, for they say
she's a born disturber of quiet men's minds, and mistress of a very
mischievous and deadly art!"
"What art?" I laughed.
"The art o' love!" he bawled as he rode off, slapping his thighs and
setting the moonlit woods all a-ringing with his laughter.