THE WOOD OF BRAKABEEN
It was the 12th day of August when we came again to the Wood of
Brakabeen,--we four young warriors of the clan of the Little Red Foot.
We were ragged and bruised and weary, and starving; but the fierce rage
burning in our breasts gave to each a strength and purpose that nerved
our briar-torn and battered bodies to effort inexhaustible.
Under scattered and furtive shots from German muskets we had retreated
through the forest with our dead prophetess, until night ended pursuit
by the chasseurs, and we ourselves had lost our direction.
All the next day we travelled southwest with our dead. On the tenth day
we came out on Otsego Lake, near to Croghan's new house.
Where he had cleared the bush and where Indian grass was growing as tall
as a man's head, we made a deep grave. And here we four clansmen buried
the Little Maid of Askalege; and sodded the mound with wild grasses
where strawberries grew, and blue asters and plumes of golden-rod.
A Canada whitethroat called sweetly, sadly, from the forest in the
sunset glow. We made for the grave a white cross of silver birch. We
placed parched corn and a cup of water at the foot of the cross; and her
bow and scarlet arrows against her needs where deer, God willing, should
be plenty. And near these we set her little moccasins lest in that
unknown land her tender feet should suffer on the trail.
In the morning we made a fire of ozier, sweet-birch, cherry wood, and
samphire.
When the aromatic smoke blew over us I rose and spoke. After I had
finished, the others in turn rose and spoke their mind, saying very
simply what was in their hearts concerning their little prophetess, who
had died wearing a little red foot painted on her body.
So we left her at rest under the wild flowers and Indian grass, near to
Croghan's empty house, with a vast wilderness around to guard the
sanctuary, and the sad whitethroats to mourn her.
* * * * *
And now, fierce and starved and ragged, we came once more to the Wood of
Brakabeen. And heard McDonald's guns in the valley and his pibroch on
the hills.
The afternoon was still and hot, the deep blue sky cloudless. Over
Vrooman's Land a brown smoke hung; more smoke was rising above Clyberg;
more rolled up beyond the swampy ground near the Flockey.
From the edge of Brakabeen Wood, looking out over the valley, we could
hear firing in the direction of Stone House, more musketry toward Fox
Creek.
"McDonald is in Schoharie," I said to Tahioni. "There will be many dead
here, women and children and the grey-haired. Are my brothers of the
Little Red Foot too weary to strike?"
The young Oneida warrior laughed. I looked at my ragged comrades where
they crouched in their frightful paint, listening excitedly to the
distant firing, and I saw their lean cheeks twitching and their nostrils
a-flare as they scented the distant fighting.
The wild screaming of the pibroch, too, seemed to madden them; and it
enraged me, also, because I saw that Sir John's Highlanders were here
with McDonald's fantastic crew and had come to slaughter us all with
their dirks and broad-swords as they had threatened before Sir John fled
North.
We turned to the left and I led my Oneidas in a file through the ferny
glades of Brakabeen Wood, and amid still places where clear streams ran
deep in greenest moss; where tall lilies nodded their yellow Chinese
caps in the flowery swale; where, in the demi-light of forest aisles,
nothing grew save the great trees bedded there since the dawn of time,
which sprung their vast arches high above us to support their glowing
tapestry of leaves.
It was mid-afternoon when, smelling hot smoke, we came near the woods by
the river; and saw, close to us, a barn afire, and three men carrying
guns, running hither and thither in a hay field and setting every stack
aflame with their torches.
One o' the fellows was a drummer in the green uniform of Butler's
Rangers, and his drum was slung on his back. And I knew him. He was
Michael Reed of Fonda's Bush, and cousin to Nick Stoner.
And then, to my astonishment and rage, I saw Dries Bowman in his
farmer's clothes; and the other man was a huge German--one of their
chasseurs, who wore a stiff pig-tail that was greased, and a black
mustache, and waist-high spatter-dashes--a very barbarian in red and
blue and green; and grunting and puffing as he ran about in the hot
sunshine to set the hay-cocks afire with his torch.
I remember giving no command; we sprang out of the woods, trailing our
rifles in our left hands; and Bowman fired at me and, missing, started
to run; but I got him by his collar and knocked him over with my
gun-butt.
The Hessian chasseur instantly drew up and fired in our direction; and
Tahioni shot him dead in his tracks, where he fell heavily on his back
and lay in the grass with limbs outspread.
"You may take his scalp! I care not!" shouted I, watching my Oneidas,
who had got at Micky Reed and were striving to take him alive as I had
ordered.
But Reed had a big dragoon's pistol in his belt and would have used it
had not Kwiyeh killed him swiftly with his hatchet.
But I would not permit them to take Reed's scalp, and bade them despoil
the body quickly and bring the leather cross-belts and girdle to me.
Hanatoh ran up and caught Dries Bowman by the collar; and we jerked him
to his feet and dragged and hustled him into the woods. And here
despoiled him, pulling from his pockets a Royal Protection and a bundle
of papers, which revealed him as a spy sent down to preach treason in
Schoharie and carry what men he might corrupt as recruits to McDonald
and Sir John.
"That's enough to hang him!" I said sharply to Tahioni. "Link me up
those drummer's cross-belts!"
"What--what do you mean, John Drogue!" stammered the wretch. "Would you
murder an old neighbour?"
"That same old neighbour would have murdered me at Howell's house. And
now is come disguised in civilian clothing to Schoharie with a spy's
commission, to raise the district in arms against us."
"My God!" he shrieked, as Tahioni flung the leather halter about his
neck, "is it a crime if honest men stand by their King?"
"Not when they stand out in plain day and wear a red coat or a green,"
said I, flinging the leather halter over the oak tree's limb.
Hanatoh swiftly pinioned his arms and tied his wrists; I tossed the
halter's end to Kwiyeh. Tahioni also took hold of it.
"Hoist that spy!" I said coldly. And in a second more his feet were
kicking some half dozen inches above the ground.
My Oneidas fastened the halter to a stout bush; I was shaking all over
and felt sick and dizzy to hear him raling and choking in the leather
noose which was too stiff for the ghastly business.
But at that instant Tahioni shouted a shrill warning; I looked over my
shoulder and saw a great number of soldiers wearing red patches on their
hats, running across the burning hayfield to surround us.
Yet it needed better men than McDonald's to take me and my Oneidas in
Brakabeen Wood. We turned and plunged into the bush, leaving the
wretched spy[40] hanging to the oak, his convulsed body now spinning
dizzily round and round above the ground.
[Footnote 40: The historian, J. R. Simms, says that Benjamin De Luysnes
and his party strung up Dries Bowman, and then cut him down and let him
go with a warning. Simms also gives a different date to this affair. At
all events, it seems that Bowman was cut down in time to save his life.
Simms, by the way, spells De Luysnes' name De Line. Campbell mentions
Captain Stephen Watts as Major Stephen Watson. We all commit error.]
Looking back as I ran, I soon saw that the men who were chasing us had
little stomach for a pursuit which must presently lead to bush-fighting.
They shouted and halooed, but lagged as they arrived at the denser
woods; and they seemed to have no officers to encourage them, or if they
indeed possessed any I saw none.
Tahioni came fiercely to me, where I had halted, to watch the red-patch
soldiers, saying that we had now been out thirteen days and had taken
but three scalps. He said that to hang a man was not a proper vengeance
to atone the death of Thiohero; and wanted to know why my prisoners
should not be delivered to him and his Oneida comrades, who knew how to
punish their enemies.
Which speech so angered me that I had a mind to take him by the throat.
Only the sudden memory of our Red Foot clan-ship, and of Thiohero,
deterred me. Also, that was no way to treat any Indian; and to lose my
self-control was to lose the Oneidas' respect and my authority over
them.
"My brother, Tahioni," said I coldly, "should not forget that he is my
_younger_ brother.
"If Tahioni were older, and possessed of more wisdom and experience, he
would know that unless a chief asks opinions none should be offered."
The youth's eyes flashed at me and he stiffened under a rebuke that is
hard for any Iroquois to swallow.
"My younger brother," said I, "ought to know that I am not like an
officer of Guy Johnson's Indian Department, who delivers prisoners to
the Mohawks. I deliver no prisoner to any Indian. I obey my orders, and
expect my Indians to obey mine. They are free always to take Indian
scalps. The scalps of white men they take only if permitted by me."
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,[41] but would die a dog's death as
he deserved.
[Footnote 41: Angelica Vrooman sewed the winding sheet for Lieutenant
Wirt's body.]
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 panic seemed to seize McDonald's men, for their grotesque riders
suddenly whirled their horses and stampeded ventre-a-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 warrior. 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.
"Haih!" they exclaimed softly. "Nai Thiohero Oyaneh!"
Tahioni covered the fire. The Screech-owl marked us all with a coal
still warm.
Then, in silence, I led my people from the misty Wood of Brakabeen.