SHEEP AND GOATS
Now, as I came again to the forest's edge and hastened along the wide
logging road, to make up for moments wasted, I caught sight of two
neighbors, John Putman and Herman Salisbury, walking ahead of me.
They wore the regimentals of our Mohawk Regiment of district militia,
carried rifles and packs; and I smelled the tobacco from their pipes,
which seemed pleasant though I had never learned to smoke.
I called to them; they heard me and waited.
"Well, John," says Putman, as I came up with them, "this is like to be a
sorry business for farmers, what with plowing scarce begun and not a
seed yet planted in all the Northland, barring winter wheat."
"You think we are to take the field in earnest this time?" I asked
anxiously.
"It looks that way to me, Mr. Drogue. It's a long, long road to liberty,
lad; and I'm thinking we're off at last."
"He believes," explained Salisbury, "that Little Abraham's Mohawks are
leaving the Lower Castle--which God prevent!--but I think this business
is liker to be some new deviltry of Sir John's."
"Sir John gave his parole to General Schuyler," said I, turning very
red; for I was mortified that the honour of my caste should be so
carelessly questioned.
"It is not unthinkable that Sir John might lie," retorted Salisbury
bluntly. "I knew his father. Well and good. I know the son, also.... But
I suppose that gentlemen like yourself, Mr. Drogue, are ashamed to
suspect the honour of any of their own class,--even an enemy."
But Putman was plainer spoken, saying that in his opinion any Tory was
likely to attempt any business, however dirty, and rub up his tarnished
honour afterward.
I made him no answer; and we marched swiftly forward, each engaged with
a multitude of serious and sombre thoughts.
A few moments later, chancing to glance behind me, stirred by what
instinct I know not, I espied two neighbors, young John, son of Philip
Helmer, and Charles Cady, of Fonda's Bush, following us so stealthily
and so closely that they might decently have hailed us had they been so
minded.
Now, when they perceived that I had noticed them, they dodged into the
bush, as though moved by some common impulse. Then they reappeared in
the road. And, said I in a low voice to John Putman:
"Yonder comes slinking a proper pair o' tree-cats to sniff us to our
destination. If these two be truly of the other party, then they have no
business at John Stoner's."
Putman and Salisbury both looked back. Said the one, grimly:
"They are not coming to answer the militia call; they have rifles but
neither regimentals nor packs."
Said the other: "I wish we were clean split at Fonda's Bush, so that an
honest man might know when 'neighbor' spells 'traitor' in low Dutch."
"Some riddles are best solved by bullets," muttered the other. "Who
argues with wolves or plays cat's-cradle with catamounts!"
Glancing again over my shoulder, I saw that the two behind us were
mending their pace and must soon come up with us. And so they did,
Putman giving them a civil good-day.
"Have you any news, John Drogue?" inquired young Helmer.
I replied that I had none to share with him, meaning only that I had no
news at all. But Cady took it otherwise and his flat-featured face
reddened violently, as though the pox were coming out on him.
And, "What the devil," says he, "does this young, forest-running
cockerel mean? And why should he not share his news with John Helmer
here,--yes, or with me, too, by God, or yet with any true man in County
Tryon?"
I said that I had not intended any such meaning; that he mistook me; and
that I had aimed at no discourtesy to anybody.
"And safer for you, too!" retorted Cady in a loud and threatening tone.
"A boy's wisdom lies in his silence."
"Johnny Helmer asked a question of me," said I quietly. "I replied as
best I knew how."
"Yes, and I'll ask a dozen questions if I like!" shouted Cady. "Don't
think to bully me or cast aspersions on my political complexion!"
"If," said I, "your political complexion be no clearer than your
natural one, God only can tell what ferments under your skin."
At which he seemed so taken aback that he answered nothing; but Helmer
urgently demanded to know what political views I pretended to carry.
"I wear mine on my back," said I pleasantly, glancing around at both
Helmer and Cady, who bore no packs on their backs in earnest of their
readiness for service.
"You are a damned impudent boy!" retorted Cady, "whatever may be your
politics or your complexion."
Salisbury and Putman looked around at him in troubled silence, and he
said no more for the moment. But Helmer's handsome features darkened
again: and, "I'll not be put upon," said he, "whatever Charlie Cady
stomachs! Who is Jack Drogue to flaunt his pack and his politics under
my nose!
"And," he added, looking angrily at me, "by every natural right a
gentleman should be a King's man. So if your politics stink somewhat of
Boston, you are doubly suspect as an ingrate to the one side and a
favour-currying servant to the other!"
I said: "Had Sir William lived to see this day in Tryon, I think he,
also, would be wearing his regimentals as I do, and to the same
purpose."
Cady burst into a jeering laugh: "Say as much to Sir John! Go to the
Hall and say to Sir John that his father, had he lived, would this day
be sending out a district militia call! Tell him that, young cockerel,
if you desire a flogging at the guard-house."
"You know more of floggings than do I," said I quietly. Which stopt his
mouth. For, despite my scarcity of years, I had given him a sound
beating the year before, being so harassed and pestered by him because I
had answered the militia-call on the day that General Schuyler marched
up and disarmed Sir John's Highlanders at the Hall.
Putman, beside whom I was marching, turned to me and said, loud enough
for all to hear: "You are only a lad, John Drogue, but I bear witness
that you display the patience and good temper of a grown man. For if
Charlie Cady, here, had picked on me as he has on you, he sure had
tasted my rifle-butt before now!"
"Neighbors must bear with one another in such times," said I, "and help
each other stamp down the earth where the war-axe lies buried."
And, "Damn you!" shouts Cady at a halt, "I shall not stir a step more to
be insulted. I shall not budge one inch, bell or no bell, call or no
call!----"
But Helmer dropped to the rear and got him by the elbow and pulled him
forward; and I heard them whispering together behind us as we hastened
on.
Herman Salisbury said: "A pair of real tree-cats, old Tom and little
Kit! I'm in half a mind to turn them back!" And he swung his brown rifle
from the shoulder and let it drop to the hollow of his left arm--an
insult and a menace to any man.
"They but answer their nature, which is to nose about and smell out
what's a-frying," growled Putman. "Shall we turn them back and be done
with them? It will mean civil war in Fonda's Bush."
"Watched hens never lay," said I. "Let them come with us. While they
remain under our eyes the stale old plan they brood will addle like a
cluck-egg."
Salisbury nodded meaningly:
"So that I can see my enemy," growled he, "I have no care concerning
him. But let him out o' sight and I fret like a chained beagle."
As he finished speaking we came into Stoner's clearing, which was but a
thicket of dead weed-stalks in a fallow field fenced by split rails.
Fallow, indeed, lay all the Stoner clearing, save for a patch o'
hen-scratched garden at the log-cabin's dooryard; for old Henry Stoner
and his forest-running sons were none too fond of dallying with plow and
hoe while rifle and fish-pole rested across the stag-horn's crotch above
the chimney-piece.
And if ever they fed upon anything other than fish and flesh, I do not
know; for I never saw aught growing in their garden, save a dozen
potato-vines and a stray corn-stalk full o' worms.
Around the log house in the clearing already were gathered a dozen or
sixteen men, the greater number wearing the tow-cloth rifle-frock of the
district militia.
Other men began to arrive as we came up. Everywhere great, sinewy hands
were extended to greet us; old Henry Stoner, sprawling under an apple
tree, saluted us with a harsh pleasantry; and I saw the gold rings
shining in his ears.
Nick came over to where I stood, full of that devil's humour which so
often urged him into--and led him safely out of--endless scrapes betwixt
sun-up and moon-set every day in the year.
"It's Sir John we're to take, I hear," he said to me with a grin. "They
say the lying louse of a Baronet has been secretly plotting with Guy
Johnson and the Butlers in Canada. What wonder, then, that our
Provincial Congress has its belly full of these same Johnstown Tories
and must presently spew them up. And they say we are to march on the
Hall at noon and hustle our merry Baronet into Johnstown jail."
I felt myself turning red.
"Is it not decent to give Sir John the benefit of doubt until we learn
why that bell is ringing?" said I.
"There we go!" cried Nick Stoner. "Just because your father loved Sir
William and you may wear gold lace on your hat, you feel an attachment
to all quality. Hearken to me, John Drogue: Sir William is dead and the
others are as honourable as a pack of Canada wolves." He climbed to the
top of the rickety rail fence and squatted there. "The landed gentry of
Tryon County are a pack of bloody wolves," said he, lighting his cob
pipe;--"Guy Johnson, Colonel Claus, Walter Butler, every one of
them--every one!--only excepting you, John Drogue! Look, now, where
they're gathering in the Canadas--Johnsons, Butlers, McDonalds,--the
whole Tory pack--with Brant and his Mohawks stole away, and Little
Abraham like to follow with every warrior from the Lower Castle!
"And do you suppose that Sir John has no interest in all this Tory
treachery? Do you suppose that this poisonous Baronet is not in constant
and secret communication with Canada?"
I looked elsewhere sullenly. Nick took me by the arm and drew me up to a
seat beside him on the rail fence.
"Let's view it soberly and fairly, Jack," says he, tapping his palm with
the stem of his pipe, through which smoke oozed. "Let's view it from the
start. Begin from the Boston business. Now, then! George the Virginian
got the Red-coats cooped up in Boston. That's the Yankee answer to too
much British tyranny.
"We, in the Northland, looked to our landed gentry to stand by us, lead
us, and face the British King who aims to turn us into slaves.
"We called on our own governing class to protect us in our ancient
liberties,--to arm us, lead us in our own defense! We begged Guy Johnson
to hold back his savages so that the Iroquois Confederacy should remain
passive and take neither the one side nor t'other.
"I grant you that Sir William in his day did loyally his uttermost to
quiet the Iroquois and hold his own Mohawks tranquil when Cresap was
betrayed by Dunmore, and the first breeze from this storm which is now
upon us was already stirring the Six Nations into restlessness."
"Sir William," said I, "was the greatest and the best of all Americans."
He said gravely: "Sir William is dead. May God rest his soul. But this
is the situation that confronts us here this day on the frontier: We
appealed to the landed gentry of Tryon. They sneered at us, and spoke of
us as rebels, and have used us very scornfully--all excepting yourself,
John!
"They forced Alec White on us as Sheriff, and he broke up our meetings.
They strove by colour of law and by illegal force to stamp out in Tryon
County the last spark of liberty, of manhood among us. God knows what we
have endured these last few years from the landed gentry of Tryon!--what
we have put up with and stomached since the first shot was fired at
Lexington!
"And what has become of our natural protectors and leaders! Where is the
landed gentry of County Tryon at this very hour? Except you, John
Drogue, where are our gentlemen of the Northland?"
"Gone," said I soberly.
"Gone to Canada with the murderous Indians they were supposed to hold
neutral! Guy Park stands empty and locked. It is an accursed place! Guy
Johnson is fled with every Tory desperado and every Indian he could
muster! May God damn him!
"Old John Butler followed; and is brigading malcontents in Canada.
Butlersbury stands deserted. May every devil in hell haunt that house!
Young Walter Butler is gone with many of our old neighbors of Tryon; and
at Niagara he is forming a merciless legion to return and cut our
throats.
"And Colonel Claus is gone, and McDonald, the bloody thief!--with his
kilted lunatics and all his Scotch banditti----"
"But Sir John remains," said I quietly.
"Jack! Are you truly so blinded by your caste! Did not you yourself
answer the militia call last winter and march with our good General to
disarm Sir John's popish Highlanders! And even then they lied--and Sir
John lied--for they hid their broad-swords and pikes! and delivered them
not when they paraded to ground their muskets!"
"Sir John has given his parole," I repeated stubbornly.
"Sir John breaks it every hour of the day!" cried Nick. "And he will
break it again when we march to take him. Do you think he won't learn of
our coming? Do you suppose he will stay at the Hall, which he has
pledged his honour to do?"
"His lady is still there."
"With his lady I have no quarrel," rejoined Nick. "I know her to be a
very young, very wilful, very bitter, and very unhappy Tory; and she
treats us plain folk like dirt under her satin shoon. But for that I
care nothing. I pity her because she is the wife of that cold, sleek
beast, Sir John. I pity her because she is gently bred and frail and
lonely and stuffed with childish pride o' race. I pity her lot there in
the great Hall, with her girl companions and her servants and her
slaves. And I pity her because everybody in County Tryon, excepting only
herself, knows that Sir John cares nothing for her, and that Claire
Putnam of Tribes Hill is Sir John's doxy!--and be damned to him! And you
think such a man will not break his word?
"He broke his vows to wife and mistress alike. Why should he keep his
vows to men?" He slid to the ground as he spoke, and I followed, for our
three drummers had formed rank and were drawing their sticks from their
cross-belts. Our fifers, also, lined up behind them; and Nick and his
young brother, John, took places with them.
"Fall in! Fall in!" cried Joe Scott, our captain; and everybody ran with
their packs and rifles to form in double ranks of sixteen files front
while the drums rolled like spring thunder, filling the woods with their
hollow sound, and the fifes shrilled like the swish of rain through
trees.
Standing at ease between Dries Bowman and Baltus Weed, I answered to the
roll call. Some among us lighted pipes and leaned on our long rifles,
chatting with neighbors; others tightened belts and straps, buttoned
spatter-dashes, or placed a sprig of hemlock above the black and white
cockades on their felt hats.
Balty Weed, who lived east of me, a thin fellow with red rims to his
eyes and dry, sparse hair tied in a queue with a knot of buckskin, asked
me in his stealthy way what I thought about our present business, and if
our Provincial Congress had not, perhaps, unjustly misjudged Sir John.
I replied cautiously. I had never trusted Balty because he frequented
taverns where few friends to liberty cared to assemble; and he was far
too thick with Philip and John Helmer and with Charlie Cady to suit my
taste.
We, in the little hamlet of Fonda's Bush, were scarce thirty families,
all counted; and yet, even here in this trackless wilderness, out of
which each man had hewed for himself a patch of garden and a stump
pasture along the little river Kennyetto, the bitter quarrel had long
smouldered betwixt Tory and Patriot--King's man and so-called Rebel.
And this was the Mohawk country. And the Mohawks stood for the King of
England.
The road, I say, ended here; but there was a Mohawk path through twenty
odd miles of untouched forest to those healing springs called Saratoga.
Except for this path and a deep worn war-trail north to the Sacandaga,
which was the Iroquois road to Canada, and except for the wood road to
Sir William's Mayfield and Fish House settlements, we of Fonda's Bush
were utterly cut off. Also, save for the new Block House at Mayfield, we
were unprotected in a vast wilderness which embodied the very centre of
the Mohawk country.
True, north of us stood that little pleasure house built for his hour of
leisure by Sir William, and called "The Summer House."
Painted white and green, it stood on a hard ridge jutting out into those
dismal, drowned lands which we call the Great Vlaie. But it was not
fortified.
Also, to the north, lay the Fish House, a hunting lodge of Sir William.
But these places were no protection for us. On the other hand, they
seemed a menace; for Tories, it had been rumoured, were ever skulking
along the Vlaie and the Sacandaga; and for aught we knew, these
buildings were already designed to be made into block-houses and to be
garrisoned by our enemies as soon as the first rifle-shot cracked out in
the cause of liberty.
* * * * *
Our company of the Mohawk Regiment numbered thirty-six rifles--all that
now remained of the old company, three-fourths of which had already
deserted to the Canadas with Butler. All our officers had fled; Joe
Scott of Maxon, formerly a sergeant, now commanded us; Benjamin de
Luysnes was our lieutenant; Dries Bowman and Phil Helmer our
sergeants--both already suspected.
Well, we got away from Stoner's, marching in double file, and only the
little creatures of the forest to hear our drums and fifes.
But the old discipline which had obtained in all our Tryon regiments
when Sir William was our Major General and the landed gentry our
officers seemed gone; a dull sense of bewilderment reigned, confusing
many among us, as when leaderless men begin to realize how they had
depended upon a sturdy staff now broken forever.
We marched with neither advanced guard nor flankers for the first half
mile; then Joe Scott halted us and made Nick Stoner put away his beloved
fife and sent him out on our right flank where the forest was heavy.
Me he selected to scout forward on the left--a dirty job where alders
and willows grew thick above the bogs.
But why in God's name our music played to advertise our coming I can not
guess, for our men needed no heartening, having courage and resolution,
only the lack of officers causing them any anxiety at all.
On the left flank of the little column I kept very easily in touch
because of this same silly drumming and fifing. And I was glad when we
came to high ground and breasted the hills which lead to that higher
plateau, over which runs the road to Johnstown.
Plodding along in the bush, keeping a keen watch for any enemy who might
come in paint or in scarlet coat, and the far rhythm of our drums
thumping dully in my ears, I wondered whether other companies of my
regiment were marching on Johnstown, and if other Tryon regiments--or
what was left of them--were also afoot that day.
Was this, then, the beginning of the war in the Northland? And, when we
made a prisoner of Sir John, would all the dusky forests glow with
scarlet war-paint and scarlet coats?
Today birds sang. Tomorrow the terrific panther-slogan of the Iroquois
might break out into hell's own uproar among these purple hills.
Was this truly the beginning? Would these still, leafy trails where the
crested partridge strutted witness bloody combats between old
neighbors--all the horrors of a fratricidal war?
Would the painted men of the woods hold their hands while Tory and
patriot fought it out? Or was this utter and supreme horror to be added
to this unnatural conflict?
Reflecting very seriously upon these matters, I trotted forward, rifle
a-trail, and saw nothing living in the woods save a big hare or two in
the alders, and the wild brown poultry of the woods, that ran to cover
or rose into thunderous flight among the thickets.
* * * * *
About four o'clock came to me Godfrey Shew, of Fish House, a private
soldier like myself, with news of a halt on the Johnstown road, and
orders that I eat a snack and rest in my tracks.
He told me that a company of horse from Albany was out scouting along
the Mohawk, and that a column of three thousand men under Colonel
Dayton were marching on Johnstown and had passed Schenectady about noon.
Other news he had none, excepting that our company was to remain where
we had halted, in order to stop the road to Fonda's Bush and Saratoga,
in case Sir John should attempt to retire this way.
"Well, Godfrey," said I, "if Sir John truly turns out to be without
shame and honour, and if he marches this way, there is like to be a
lively time for us of the Bush, because Sir John has three hundred
Highlanders to thirty odd of ourselves, and enough Borderers and Tory
militia to double the count."
"We all know that," said Shew calmly, "and are not afraid."
"Do you think our people mean to stand?"
"Yes," said he simply.
A hot thrill of pride tingled my every vein. Suddenly I completely
comprehended that these plain folk of Fonda's Bush were my own people;
that I was one of them; that, as they meant to stand for the ancient
liberties of all Englishmen, now wickedly denied them, so I also meant
to stand to the end.
And now, at last, I comprehended that I was in actual revolt against
that King and against that nobility and gentry who were deserting us
when we had so desperate need of them in this coming battle for human
freedom in a slave-cursed world.
The cleavage had come at last; the Northland was clean split; the red
livery of the King's men had suddenly become a target for every honest
rifle in Tryon.
"Godfrey," I said, "the last chance for truce is passing as you and I
stand here,--the last chance for any reconciliation and brotherly
understanding between us and our Tory neighbors."
"It is better that way," he said, giving me a sombre look.
I nodded, but all the horror of civil war lay heavy in my heart and I
thought of my many friends in Tryon who would wear the scarlet coat
tomorrow, and whom I now must try to murder with my proper hands, lest
they do the like for me.
Around us, where we were standing, a golden dusk reigned in the forest,
into which, through the roof of green above, fell a long sunbeam,
lighting the wooded aisle as a single candle on the altar gleams athwart
the gloom of some still cathedral.
* * * * *
At five o'clock Godfrey and I had not moved from that silent place where
we stood on watch, leaning upon our rifles.
Twice soldiers came to bid us keep close guard in these open woods
which, being primeval, were clear of underbrush and deep with the brown
carpet of dead leaves.
At last, toward six o'clock, we heard our drums rolling in the
distance--signal to scout forward. I ran out among the great trees and
started on toward Johnstown, keeping Godfrey in view on my left hand.
Very soon I came out of the forest on the edge of cleared land. Against
the evening sky I saw the spires of Johnstown, stained crimson in the
westering sun which was going down red as a cherry.
But what held me in spell was the sight that met my eyes across the open
meadows, where moving ranks of musket-barrels glanced redly in the last
gleam of sunset and the naked swords and gorgets of mounted officers
glittered.
Godfrey Shew emerged from the edge of the forest on my left and stood
knee deep in last year's wild grass, one hand shading his eyes.
"What troops are those?" I shouted to him. "They look like the
Continental Line!"
"It's a reg'lar rig'ment," he bawled, "but whose I know not!"
The clanking of their armament came clearly to my ears; the timing tap
of their drum sounded nearer still.
"There can be no mistake," I called out to Godfrey; "yonder marches a
regiment of the New York line! We're at war!"
We moved out across the pasture. I examined my flint and priming, and,
finding all tight and bright, waded forward waist high, through last
year's ghostly golden-rod, ready for a quick shot if necessary.
The sun had gone down; a lilac-tinted dusk veiled the fields, through
which the gay evening chirruping of the robins rang incessantly.
"There go our people!" shouted Godfrey.
I had already caught sight of the Fonda's Bush Company filing between
some cattle-bars to the left of us; and knew they must be making
straight for Johnson Hall.
We shouldered our pieces and ran through the dead weeds to intercept
them; but there was no need for haste, because they halted presently in
some disorder; and I saw Joe Scott walking to and fro along the files,
gesticulating.
And then, as Godfrey and I came up with them, we witnessed the first
shameful exhibition of disorder that for so many months disgraced the
militia of New York--a stupidity partly cowardly, partly treacherous,
which at one time so incensed His Excellency the Virginian that he said
they were, as a body, more detrimental than helpful to the cause, and
proposed to disband them.
In the light of later events, I now realize that their apparent
poltroonery arose not from individual cowardice. But these levies had no
faith in their companies because every battalion was still full of
Tories, nor had any regiment yet been purged.
Also, they had no confidence in their officers, who, for the greater
part, were as inexperienced as they themselves. And I think it was
because of these things that the New York militia behaved so
contemptibly after the battle of Long Island, and in Tryon County, until
the terrific trial by fire at Oriskany had burnt the dross out of us and
left only the nobler metal.
* * * * *
Our Fonda's Bush Company presented a most mortifying spectacle as
Godfrey and I came up. Joe Scott stood facing the slovenly single rank
which he had contrived to parade in the gathering dusk; and he was
arguing with the men while they talked back loudly.
There was a hubbub of voices, angry arguments, some laughter which
sounded more sinister to me than the cursing.
Then Charlie Cady and John Howell of Sacandaga left the ranks, refusing
to listen to Scott, and withdrew a little distance, where they stood
sullenly in their defiance.
Elias Cady called out that he would not march to the Hall to take Sir
John, and he, also, left the ranks.
Then, and despite Joe Scott's pleading, Phil Helmer and his sullen son,
John, walked away and joined the Cadys, and called on Andrew Bowman to
do the like.
Dries wavered; but Baltus Weed and Eugene Grinnis left the company.
Which so enraged me that I, also, forgot all discipline and duty, and
shook my rifles at the mutineers.
"You Tory dogs!" I said, "we're well purged of you, and I for one thank
God that we now know you for what you are!"
Godfrey, a stark, fierce figure in his blackened buckskins, went out in
front of our single rank and called to the malcontents:
"Pull foot, you swine, or I'll mark you!"
And, "Pull foot!" shouted Nick Stoner, "and be damned to you! Why do you
loiter! Do you wait for a volley in your guts!"
At that, Balty Weed turned and ran toward the woods; but the others
moved more slowly and sullenly, not exactly menacing us with their
rifles, but carrying them conveniently across the hollow of their left
arms.
In the increasing darkness I heard somebody sob, and saw Joe Scott
standing with one hand across his eyes, as though to close from his
sight such a scene of deep disgrace.
Then I went to him. I was trembling and could scarce command my voice,
but gave him a salute and stood at attention until he finally noticed
me.
"Well, John," said he, "this is like to be the death of me."
"Sir; will you order the drums to beat a march?"
"Do you think the men will march?"
"Yes, sir--what remains of them."
He came slowly back, motioning what was left of the company to close up.
I could not hear what he said, but the men began to count off, and their
voices were resolute enough to hearten all.
So presently Nick Stoner, who acted as fife-major, blew lustily into his
fife, playing the marching tune, which is called "The Little Red Foot";
and the drums beat it; and we marched in column of fours to take Sir
John at his ancestral Hall, if it chanced to be God's will.