"IN THE VALLEY"
On the 24th of June, 1777, Major General Lord Stirling had disobeyed the
orders of His Excellency; and, in consequence, his flank was turned, he
lost two guns and 150 men.[44]
[Footnote 44: The British account makes it three guns and 200 men.]
It is the only military mistake that my Lord Stirling ever made; the
only lesson he ever had to learn in military judgment and obedience.
I was of his family for three years,--serving as one of his secretaries
and aids-de-camp.
I was present at the battle of Brandywine; I served under him at
Germantown in the fog, and at Monmouth; and never doubted that my Lord
Stirling was a fine and capable and knightly soldier, if not possibly a
great one.
Yet, perhaps, there was only one great soldier in that long and bloody
war of the American Revolution. I need not name His Excellency.
* * * * *
For nearly three years, as I say, I served as a member of Lord
Stirling's military family. The lights and shadows of those days of fire
and ice, of plenty and starvation, of joy and despair, of monstrous and
incredible effort, and of paralyzing inaction, are known now to all.
And the end is not yet--nor, I fear, very near to a finish. But we all
await our nation's destiny with confidence, I think;--and our own fate
with composure.
No man can pass through such years and remain what he was born. No man
can regret them; none can dare wish to live through such days again;
none would shun them. And how many months, or years, maybe, of fighting
still remain before us, no man can foretell. But the grim men in their
scare-crow regimentals who today, in the present year of 1780, are
closing ranks to prepare for future battles, even in the bitter
aftermath of defeat, seem to know, somehow, that this nation is
destined to survive.
* * * * *
From the month of August in 1777 to May, 1780, I had not seen Penelope;
I had asked for no leave to travel, knowing, by reason of my
confidential office and better than many others, how desperate was our
army's plight and how utterly every able-bodied man was needed.
In consequence, I had not seen my own Northland in all those months; I
had not seen Penelope. Letters I wrote and sent to her when opportunity
offered; letters came from her, and always written from Caughnawaga.
For it appeared that Douw Fonda had never consented to return to Albany;
but, by some miracle of God, the Valley so far had suffered no serious
harm. Yet, the terrible business at Wyoming renewed my every crudest
fear for the safety of Caughnawaga; and when, in the same year, a
Continental regiment of the Pennsylvania Line marched out from Schoharie
to destroy Unadilla, I, who knew the Iroquois, knew that their revenge
was certain to follow.
It followed in that very year; and Cherry Valley became a bloodsoaked
heap of cinders; and there, under Iroquois knife and hatchet, and under
the merciless clubbed muskets of the _blue-eyed_ Indians, many of my old
friends died--all of the Wells family save only one--old and young and
babies. What a crime was done by young Walter Butler on that fearful
day! And I sometimes wonder, now, what our generous but sentimental
young Marquis thinks of his deed of mercy when he saw and pitied Walter
Butler in an Albany prison, sick and under sentence of death, and
procured medical treatment for him and more comfortable quarters in a
private residence.
And Butler drugged his sentry and slipped our fingers like a rat and was
off in a trice and gone to his bloody destiny in the West!
Lord--Lord!--the things men do to men!
* * * * *
When Brant burned Minnisink I trembled anew for Caughnawaga; and
breathed freely only when our General Sullivan marched on Tioga with six
thousand men.
Yet, though he cleaned out the foul and hidden nests of the Iroquois
Confederacy, I, knowing these same Iroquois, knew in my dreading heart
that Iroquois vengeance would surely strike again, and this time at the
Valley.
Because, out of the Mohawk Valley, came all their chiefest woes;
Oriskany, which set the whole Six Nations howling their dead;
Stillwater; Unadilla; Tioga; The Chemung--these battles tore the
Iroquois to fragments.
The Long House, in ruins, rang with the frantic wailing of four fierce
nations. The Senecas screamed in their pain from the Western Gate; the
Cayugas and Onondagas were singing the death song of their nations; the
proud Keepers of the Eastern Gate, driven headlong into exile, gathered
like bleeding panthers on the frontier, their glowing gaze intent and
patient, watching the usurpers and marking them for vengeance and
destruction.
To me, personally, the conflict in my Northland had become unutterably
horrible.
Our battles in the Jerseys, in Pennsylvania, in Delaware, and farther
south, held for me no such horror and repugnance; for if the panoply of
war be dreadful, its pomp and circumstance make it endurable and to be
understood by human beings.
But to me there was something terrifying in secret ambush and ghastly
massacre amid the eternal twilight of the Northern wilderness, where
painted men stole through still places, intent on murder; where death
was swift and silent, where all must watch and none dared rest; where
children wept in their sleep, and mothers lay listening all night long,
and hollow-eyed men cut their corn with sickle in one hand and rifle in
the other.
We, in the Jerseys, watching red-coat and Hessian, heard of scalps taken
in the North from babies lying in their cradles--aye, the very watch-dog
at the gate was scalped; and painted Tories threw their victims over
rail fences to hang there, disembowelled, like dead game.
We heard terrible and inhuman tales of Simon Girty, of Benjy Beacraft,
of Billy Newbury--all old neighbours of mine, and now turned
child-killers and murderers of helpless women--all painted men, now,
ferocious and without mercy.
But these men had never been more than ignorant peasants and dull
tillers of the soil for thriftier masters. Yet they were no crueller
than others of birth and education. And what was I to think of Walter
Butler and other gentlemen of like condition,--officers who had
delivered Tom Boyd of Derry to the Senecas,--Colonel Paris to the
Mohawks!
The day we heard that Sergeant Newbury and Henry Hare were taken, I
thanked God on my knees. And when our General Clinton hung them both for
human monsters as well as spies, then I thanked God again.... And wrote
tenderly to Claudia, poor misguided girl!--condoling with her--not for
her grief and the death of Henry Hare[45]--but that the black disgrace
of it should so nearly touch and soil her.
[Footnote 45: In the writer's possession is a letter written by the
widow of Lieutenant Hare, retailing the circumstances of his execution
and praying for financial relief from extreme poverty. General Sir
Frederick Haldimand indorses the application in his own handwriting and
recommends a pension. The widow mentions her six little children.]
I have received, so far, no letter from Claudia in reply. But Lord
Stirling tells me that she reigns a belle in New York; and that she hath
wrought havoc among the Queen's Rangers, and particularly in De Lancy's
Horse and the gay cavalry of Colonel Tarleton.
I pray her pretty, restless wings may not be singed or broken, or
flutter, dying, in the web of Fate.
Nick Stoner's father, Henry, that grim old giant with his two earhoops
in his leathery ears, and with all his brawn, and mighty strength, and
the lurking scowl deep bitten betwixt his tiger eyes,--old Henry Stoner
is dead and scalped.
Nick, who is now fife-major, has writ me this in a letter full of oaths
and curses for the Iroquois who have done this shame to him and his.
For every hair on old Henry's mangled head, said he, an Iroquois should
spit out his death-yell. He tells me that he means to quit the army and
enter the business of tanning Iroquois hides to make boots and
moccasins; and says that Tim Murphy has knee moccasins as fine as ever
he saw, and made out o' leather skinned off an Indian's legs!
Faugh! Grief and shame have made Nick blood-mad.... Yet, I know not what
I should do, or how conduct, if she who is nearest to my heart should
ever suffer from an Indian.
* * * * *
This sweet April day, taking the air near Lord Stirling's marquee, I see
the first white butterflies a-fluttering like windblown bits o' paper
across the new grass.... In the North the woodlands should be soft with
snow; and, in warm places, perhaps the butterfly we call the beauty of
Camberwell may sit sipping the first drops o' maple sap.... And there
should be a scent of pink arbutus in the breeze, if winds be soft....
Lord--Lord--I am become sick for home.... And would see my glebe again
in Fonda's Bush; and hear the spring roaring of the Kennyetto between
melting banks.... And listen to the fairy thunder of the cock partridge
drumming on his log.
My neighbours are all dead or gone away, they say. My house is a heap of
wind-stirred ashes,--as are all houses in Fonda's Bush save only
Stoner's. My cleared land sprouts young forests; my fences are gone;
wolves travel my paths; deer pasture my hill; and my new orchard stands
dead and girdled by wood-mouse and rabbit.... And still I be sick for a
sight of it that was once my home,--and ever shall be while I possess a
handful of mother earth to call mine own.
It is near the end of April and I seem sick, but would not have Billy
Alexander think I mope.
I have a letter from Penelope. She lately saw a small scout on the
Mohawk, it being a part of M'Kean's corps; and she recognized and
conversed with several men who once composed my first war party--Jean de
Silver, Benjamin De Luysnes, Joe de Golyer of Frenchman's Creek, and
Godfrey Shew of Fish House.
They were on their way to Canada by way of Sacandaga, to learn what Sir
John might be about.... God knows I also desire very earnestly to know
what the sinister Baronet may be planning.
Penelope writes me that Tahioni the Wolf is dead in his glory; and that
Hiakatoo took his scalp and heart.... I suppose that is glory enough for
any dead young warrior, but the intelligence fills me with foreboding.
And Kwiyeh the Screech-owl is dead at Lake Desolation, and so is Hanatoh
the Water-snake, where some Praying Indians caught them in a canoe and
made a dreadful example of my two young comrades.... But at least they
were permitted to sing their death-songs, and so died happy--if that
indeed be happiness....
The Cadys, who were gone off to Canada, and John and Phil Helmer, have
been seen in green uniforms and red; and Adam Helmer has sworn an oath
to seek them, follow them, and slay them for the bloody turncoat dogs
they are. Lord, Lord, how hast Thou changed Thy children into creatures
of the wild to prey one upon another till all the Northland becomes once
more a desert and empty of human life!
It is May. I sicken for Penelope and for my home.
* * * * *
I am given a furlough! I asked it not. Lord Stirling dismisses me--with
a grin. Pretense of inspection covering the Johnstown district, and to
count the batteaux between Schenectady and the Creek of Askalege! Which
is but sheer nonsense; and I had as well spend the time a-telling of my
thumbs--which Lord Stirling knows as well as I is the pastime of an
idiot.... God bless him!
I am given a month, to arrange my personal affairs. I have asked for
nothing; and am given a month!... And stand here at the tent door all
a-tremble while my mare is saddled, not trusting my voice lest it break
and shame me before all....
I close my _carnet_ and strap it with a buckle.
* * * * *
I am on my way! Shad-bushes drop a million snowy petals in the soft May
breeze; dogwood is in bloom; orchards are become great nosegays of pink
and silver. Everywhere birds are singing.
And through this sweet Paradise I ride in my dingy regimentals; but my
pistols are clean and my leathers; and my sword and spurs are bright,
and chime gaily as I ride beside the great gray river northward, ever
northward to my sweetheart and my home.
I baited at Tarrytown. The next night I was at Poughkeepsie, where the
landlord was a low-Dutchman and a skinflint too.
I passed opposite to where Kingston lay in ashes, burned wantonly by a
brute. And after that I advanced but slowly, for roads were bad and folk
dour and suspicious--which state of mind I also shared and had no
traffic with those I encountered, and chose to camp in the woods, too,
rather than risk a night under the dubious roofs I saw, even though
invited.
Only near the military posts in the Highlands did I feel truly secure
until, one day at sunrise, I beheld the shining spires of Albany, and
hundreds of gilded weather-cocks all shining me a welcome.
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 debris 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.
When the mounted officer saw me he shouted through the dust-cloud that
Sir John had been at the Hall, seized his plate and papers, and a lot of
prisoners, and had murdered innocent people in Johnstown streets.
Tim Murphy and his comrade, Elerson, also came up, calling out to the
Johnstown men that they had come from Schoharie, and that both militia
and Continentals were marching to the Valley.
There was some cheering. I pushed my horse impatiently through the crowd
and up the hill. But a little way farther on the road was choked with
troops arriving on a run; and they had brought cohorns and their
ammunition waggon, and God knows what!--alas! too late to oppose or
punish the blood-drenched demons who had turned the Caughnawaga Valley
to a smoking hell.
Now, my horse was involved with all these excited people, and I,
exasperated, thought I never should get clear of the soldiery and
cohorns, but at length pushed a way through to the woods on my right,
and spurred my mare into them and among the larger elms and pines where
sheep had pastured, and there was less brush.
I could not see the great pine now, but thought I had marked it down;
and so bore again to the right, where through the woods I could see a
glimmer of sun along cleared land.
It was rocky; my horse slipped and I was obliged to walk him upward
among stony places, where moss grew green and deep.
And now, through a fringe of saplings, I caught a glimpse of the two
elms and the tall pine between.
"Penelope!" I cried. Then I saw her.
She was standing as once she stood the first time ever I laid eyes on
her. The sun shone in her face and made of her yellow hair a glory. And
I saw her naked feet shining snow white, ankle deep in the wet grass.
As though sun-dazzled she drew one hand swiftly across her eyes when I
rode up, leaned over, and swung her up into my arms. And earth and sky
and air became one vast and thrilling void through which no sound
stirred save the wild beating of her heart and mine.
Then, as from an infinite distance, came a thin cry, piercing our still
paradise.
Her arms loosened on my neck; we looked down as in a dream; and there
were the little Romeyn children in the grass, naked in their shifts, and
holding tightly to my stirrup.
And now we saw light horsemen leading their mounts this way, and the
poor Dominie's lady carried on a trooper's saddle, her bare foot
clinging to the shortened stirrup.
Other troopers lifted the children to their saddles; a great hubbub
began below us along the Schenectady highway, where I now heard drums
and the shrill marching music of an arriving regiment.
I reached behind me, unstrapped my military mantle, clasped it around
Penelope, swathed her body warmly, and linked up the chain. Then I
touched Kaya with my left knee--she guiding left at such slight
pressure--and we rode slowly over the sheep pasture and then along the
sheep-walk, westward until we arrived at the bars. The bars were down
and lay scattered over the grass. And thus we came quietly out into the
Johnstown road.
So still lay Penelope in my arms that I thought, at times, she was
asleep; but ever, as I bent over her, her dark eyes unclosed, gazing up
at me in tragic silence.
Cautiously we advanced along the Johnstown road, Kaya cantering where
the way was easy.
We passed ruined houses, still smoking, but Penelope did not see them.
And once I saw a dead man lying near a blackened cellar; and a dead
hound near him.
Long before we came in sight of Johnstown I could hear the distant
quaver of the tocsin, where, on the fort, the iron bell rang ceaselessly
its melancholy warning.
And after a while I saw a spire above distant woods, and the setting sun
brilliant on gilt weather-vanes.
I bent over Penelope: "We arrive," I whispered.
One little hand stole out and drew aside the collar of the cloak; and
she turned her head and saw the roofs and chimneys shining red in the
westering sun.
"Jack," she said faintly.
"I listen, beloved."
"Douw Fonda is dead."
"Hush! I know it, love."
"Douw Fonda is with God since sunrise," she whispered.
"Yes, I know.... And many others, too, Penelope."
She shook her head vaguely, looking up at me all the while.
"It came so swiftly.... I was still abed.... The guns awoke me.... And
the blacks screaming. I ran to the window of my chamber.
"A Continental soldier was driving an army cart toward the Johnstown
road. And I saw him jump out of his cart,[46] cut his traces, mount,
turn his horse, and gallop down the valley.... That was the first real
fear that assailed me, when I saw that soldier flee.... I went below
immediately; and saw Indians near the Fisher place.... But I could not
persuade Mr. Fonda to escape with me through the orchard.... He would
not go, Jack--he would not listen to me or to the Bouw-Meester, who also
had hold of him.
[Footnote 46: The gossipy, industrious, and diverting historian, Simms,
whose account of this incident would seem to imply that Penelope Grant
herself related it to him, gives a different version of her testimony.
The statement he offers is signed: "_Mrs. Penelope Fortes. Her maiden
name was Grant._" So Simms may have had it first hand.]
"And when we went into the library somebody fired through the window and
hit the Bouw-Meester.... I don't know what happened to him or where he
fell.... For the next moment the house was full of green-coats and
savages.... They led Mr. Fonda out of the house.... An Indian killed him
with a hatchet.... A green-coat took hold of me and said he meant to
cut my throat for a damned rebel slut! But an Indian pushed him away....
They disputed. An officer of the Indian Department came into the library
and told me to go out to the orchard and escape if I was able.
"Then a Tory neighbour of ours, Joseph Clement, came in and shouted out
in low Dutch: Laat de vervlukten rabble starven!'[47] ... A green-coat
clubbed his musket to slay me, but the Indian officer caught the gun and
called out to me: 'Run! Run, you yellow-haired slut!'
[Footnote 47: In Valley Dutch: "Let the accursed rebel die!"]
"But I dared not stir to pass by where Clement stood with his gun. I
caught up a heavy silver candle-stick, broke the window with two blows,
and leaped out into the orchard.... Clement ran around the house and I
saw him enter the orchard, carrying a gun and looking for me; but I lay
very still under the lilac hedge; and he must have thought I had run
down to the river, for he went off that way.
"Then I got to my feet and crept up the hill.... And presently saw Mrs.
Romeyn and the children toiling up the hill; and helped her carry
them.... All the morning we hid there and looked down at the burning
houses.... And after a long while the firing grew more distant.
"And then--and then--_you_ came! My dear lord!--my lover.... My own
lover who has come to me at last!"
AFTERMATH
I know not how it shall be with me and mine! In this year of our Lord,
1782, in which I write, here in the casemates at West Point, the war
rages throughout the land, and there seems no end to it, nor none likely
that I can see.
That horrid treason which, through God's mercy, did not utterly confound
us and deliver this fortress to our enemy, still seems to brood over
this calm river and the frowning hills that buttress it, like a low,
dark cloud.
But I believe, under God, that our cause is now clean purged of all
villainy, and all that is sordid, base, and contemptible.
I believe, under God, that we shall accomplish our freedom and recover
our ancient and English liberties in the end.
That dull and German King, who sits yonder across the water, can never
again stir in any American the faintest echo of that allegiance which
once all offered simply and without question.
Nor can his fat jester, my Lord North, contrive any new pleasantry to
seduce us, or any new and bloody deviltry to make us fear the wrath of
God's anointed or the monkey chatter of his clown.
For us, the last king has sat upon a throne; the last privilege has been
accorded to the last and noble drone; the last slave's tax has long been
paid.
Yet--and it sounds strange--_England_ still seems _home_ to us.... We
think of it as home.... It is in our blood; and I am not ashamed to say
it. And I think a hundred years may pass, and, in our hearts, shall
still remain deep, deep, a tenderness for that far, ocean-severed home
our grandsires knew as England.
I say it spite o' the German King, spite of his mad ministers, spite o'
British wrath and scorn and jibes and cruelty. For, by God! I believe
that we ourselves who stand in battle here are the true mind and heart
and loins of England, fighting to slay her baser self!
Well, we are here in the Highlands, my sweetheart-wife and I.... I who
now wear the regimentals of a Continental Colonel, and have a regiment
as pretty as ever I see--though it be not over-strong in numbers. But,
oh, the powder toughened line o' them in their patched blue-and-buff!
And their bright bayonets! Sir, I would not boast; and ask I pardon if
it seems so....
Below us His Excellency, calm, imperturbable, holds in his hand our
destinies, juggling now with Sir Henry Clinton, now with my Lord
Cornwallis, as suits his temper and his purpose.
The traitor, Arnold, ravages where he may; the traitor, Lee, sulks in
retreat; and Conway has confessed his shame; and the unhappy braggart,
Gates, now mourns his laurels, wears his willows, and sits alone, a
broken and preposterous man.
I think no day passes but I thank God for my Lord Stirling, for our wise
Generals Greene and Knox and Wayne, for the gallant young Marquis, so
loved and trusted by His Excellency.
But war is long--oh, long and wearying!--and a dismal and vexing
business for the most.
I, being in garrison at this fortress, which is the keystone of our very
liberties, find that, in barracks as in the field, every hour brings its
anxieties and its harassing duties.
Yet, thank God, I have some hours of leisure.... And we have leased a
pretty cottage within our works--and our two children seem wondrous
healthy and content.... Both have yellow hair. I wish they had their
mother's lovely eyes!... But, for the rest, they have her beauty and her
health.
And shall, no doubt, inherit all the beauty of her mind and heart.
* * * * *
Comes a soldier servant where I sit writing:
"Sir: Colonel Forbes' lady; her compliments to Colonel Forbes, and
desires to be informed how soon my Colonel will be free to drink a dish
of tea with my lady?"
"Pray offer my compliments and profound respect to my lady, Billy, and
say that I shall have the honour of drinking a dish of tea with my lady
within no more than five amazing minutes!"
And so he salutes and off he goes; and I gather up the sheaf of memoirs
I have writ and lock them in my desk against another day.
And so take leave of you, with every kindness, because Penelope should
not sit waiting.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Little Red Foot, by Robert W. Chambers