THE GATHERING STORM
The year of 1778 marked a terrible epoch in the annals of our
Revolution. Sir John and Guy Johnson, with the Butlers and other native
Tories of New York State, had vigorously co-operated with Brant, Queen
Esther and Gi-en-gwa-tah, whose united influence gave almost the entire
strength of the Six Nations to the British. With all these unnatural
combinations at work on the frontier—with Brant perpetrating his
barbarities on one hand, Sir John Johnson sweeping down from his refuge
in Canada, devastating wherever he went, and the regular army too busily
occupied on the seaboard for any hope of succor from that source, the
isolated towns and villages of what was then the “far west” became the
scenes of the most ruthless system of warfare ever perpetrated among
civilized nations.
But all the cruelties that had commenced in 1777 were nothing compared
to those now in preparation, when the savages were ready to take up arms
in masses, after their own ruthless fashion, and the exiled Royalists,
driven out from their homes, had become more vindictive, if possible,
than their savage allies.
The Valley of Wyoming was that year peculiarly exposed. Its strongest
men were serving in the general army, but those who were left not only
foresaw the peril which lay before them, but prepared against it to the
extent of their ability. Wintermoot’s Fort was nothing less than a
stronghold of the enemy, and the resort of Tories who had fled or
wandered from the interior of New York, for the real natives of the
valley were true patriots, almost to a man.
With prompt energy these men went to work, strengthening their defences.
Block-houses, already made, were put in repair; stockades were planted,
new forts were built, till the river above and below Wintermoot’s Fort
was, to every possible extent, fortified against the common enemy.
But this military work was done in connection with the usual
agricultural labor. While forts were building, seed was put into the
earth, and on the first of July, 1778, every acre of land as yet
redeemed from the wilderness was rich with a springing harvest.
Each farmer, as he worked, held himself ready for military duty. Ready
to seize his axe or scythe at the blast of a horn, or the summon of a
conch-shell, in the hand of an old woman or child, if peril threatened
either, and lay down life, if need was, in their defence. In those days
men carried their muskets to the meadow, or plough-field, regularly as
they went to work.
The women of Wyoming rose and took their places bravely upon the
hearthstone, ready to defend the children who clung to their garments,
when the son or father fell upon the door-step. They worked like their
husbands; impending danger gave them quick knowledge, and women whose
ideas of chemistry had never gone beyond the ash-leech and cheese-press
fell to manufacturing saltpetre. They tore up the floors of their
cabins, dug up the earth, put it in casks, and, mingling the water,
drained through with ash-lye, boiled it above their fires, and when the
compound grew cold in their wash-tubs, saltpetre rose to the top, and
thus a supply of gunpowder was obtained. Nor did the women of Wyoming
stop here. While the young men were carried off to the Continental army,
and old silver headed men were left to till the earth and muster in
companies for defence, delicate women and fair young girls took to the
field and worked, side by side, with the old men, whose strength was
scarcely greater than their own. It was a brave, beautiful sight, which
the American woman of our twentieth century will do wisely to remember.
That doomed valley might well be on the alert. The Six Nations had
receded entirely from the solemn pledges of neutrality and, in
connection with Brant, the Johnsons, and Colonel John Butler, were
fighting upon the upper waters of the Susquehanna. Many of the Tories
from about Wintermoot’s Fort had fled to them with complaints of harsh
treatment from the patriot Whigs. In vain these doomed people had
petitioned Congress for help. Then, as now, Congress was slow to act,
while the enemy was prompt and terrible.
Thus lay the Valley of Wyoming when our story returns to it.
The first signal of the mustering storm came suddenly one afternoon,
about the first of July, when Walter Butler, whom every one had thought
a close prisoner at Albany, appeared at the head of eight or ten mounted
savages, and, with his young Indian wife galloping by his side, swept up
the valley towards Wintermoot’s Fort.
The very hardihood of this appearance among his bitterest enemies
probably secured his safety, for, before the astonished inhabitants
could realize the amount of his audacity, and while the glitter of her
rich Indian dress was before their eyes, his cavalcade thundered into
the fort, and a clamorous shout from those within attested the
satisfaction with which he was received.
A long wooden bridge at this time connects Wilkesbarre with the Kingston
side of the Susquehanna; a spacious and most excellent hotel stands on
the sweep of the road where it winds over from the former place, and
engine-whistles may be heard shrieking almost every hour as some train
rushes fiercely up the valley, dashing over coal beds, sweeping across
the broad river, at its juncture, and away where the Indian war-trail
was first laid along the Lackawanna; but, in 1778, there was neither
bridge nor hotel, unless a low log-house, fronted by a magnificent elm,
and made of consequence by a log-stable, a huge haystack and a shingle
roof, might be called such. A public house it certainly was intended to
be, for a rudely painted sign hung groaning and creaking among the thick
leaves of the elm, and the chickens which congregated about the haystack
were always seen to flutter and creep away into hiding-places whenever a
traveller was seen to emerge from the shaded road which leads across the
Wilkesbarre mountains, a kind of timidity seldom observed at private
houses, except at the approach of a travelling minister or a
schoolmaster who boards about.
There was little of refinement, but everything essential to comfort, in
the interior of Aunt Polly’s tavern, for to that respected female the
log-building with its sign belonged. Two small square rooms, separated
by a board partition, were divided off from the kitchen; one was the
dormitory of Aunt Polly herself, while the other, which served the
chance wayfarer as bed-chamber, dining and sitting-room, had the usual
furniture of splint chairs, a small looking-glass, surmounted by a tuft
of fresh asparagus—a fireplace filled with white-pine tops, a bed decked
with sheets of the whitest homespun, and a coverlid of blue and white
yarn, woven in what Aunt Polly called orange quarters, and doors and
windows.
Later in the evening which witnessed Walter Butler’s return, a gentleman
was impatiently pacing this little room, and more than once he opened
the door which led to the kitchen, to hurry Aunt Polly in her
preparations for supper. This restless impatience in her guest put Aunt
Polly somewhat out of patience.
“She was doing as fast as she could,” she said, “and she did hate to be
driv.”
Still, at each interruption, the good lady dipped an unfortunate
chicken, with more desperate energy, into the kettle of hot water that
stood on the hearth before her, and tore away the dripping plumage,
handful after handful, with a zeal which might have satisfied the most
hungry traveller that ever claimed hospitality at her door. An iron pot,
filled with potatoes, and a tea-kettle hung, like a brace of martyrs, in
the blazing fire, and everything was in fair progress for a comfortable
meal when the young man entered the kitchen, as if weary of remaining
alone, and began to chat with Aunt Polly while she dissected the
unfortunate fowl after it came out, clean and featherless, from the hot
bath in which she had plunged it.
“I see you keep everything clean and snug as usual, Aunt Polly,” he
said, looking about the apartment where, however, might be observed
greater marks of confusion than was common with the thrifty old maid.
“Nothing to brag of,” replied Polly, shaking her head and looking at the
loom which stood in one corner with a web of rag carpeting rolled on the
cloth beam. A quill wheel and a rickety pair of swifts were crowded
against the heavy posts, the one unhanded, and the other with a few
threads of tow-yarn tangled among the sticks, and a skein of cut rags
falling heavily around them. “I don’t know how it is, Captain Butler,
but you al’es make me fling everything to sixes and sevens when you
come. Now, I meant to have wove a yard on that are carpet afore
night—anybody else would have took up with a cold bite; but you’re awful
dainty about victuals, captain, and al’es was.”
“Well, never mind that, Polly; you know I am always willing to pay for
what I have. But, tell me, is there no news stirring in the valley? I
see you have got a new fort over the river—who commands there?”
“Who but Edward Clark, your old schoolmate; though I rather think that
there won’t be much watch kept up there this week—the captain’s got
better fish to fry. You hain’t forgot how reg’lar he went a-sparking to
old Mother Derwent’s, have you?”
As Aunt Polly received no answer she busied herself stirring the
simmering members of the fowl with a large wooden spoon, while her
auditor began to pace the floor with a brow that grew darker and a step
that became heavier each instant.
The landlady wiped the perspiration from her face and looked rather
inquisitively at him.
“Why, what has come over you?” she said; “you look as black as a
thunder-cloud all tu once.”
“This week. Did you say that Edward Clark and Jane Derwent were to be
married so soon?”
“Yes—they’ll have a wedding on the island afore Sunday, or I’ll lose my
guess.”
“What day and hour—do you know the hour?”
“Why, no—I don’t s’pose they’re particular to a minute.”
“So the rebel dog thinks to have Jane Derwent at last, does he!”
exclaimed Butler, pausing angrily in his walk, and bending his flushed
brow on the landlady; then turning away he muttered between his teeth:
“By the Lord that made me, I will spoil his fun this once!”
“Lard a-marcy! how mad you look,” said Aunt Polly. “You a’most make my
hair stand on end—but the first sight of you was enough for that; why,
we all thought you were dead and hung long ago.”
“And were rejoiced at it, I dare say?”
“Can’t pretend to answer for the men folks, not al’es knowing exactly
where to find ’em, but for my part, men’s too scarce in this region for
us women folks to want ’em hung.”
“But I dare say your precious patriots, as they call themselves, would
hang me high as Haman if they had the chance, which I don’t intend to
give ’em, though I was fool enough to come here.”
“Why, they haven’t any right to touch you, captain. York State laws
ain’t good for nothing here, are they?”
“None, that I would not answer back with a shower of bullets,” answered
Butler, fiercely; “so, once for all, keep quiet about my being here, or
anything I have said; it will prove the worse for you if you don’t.”
“Why, how you talk—there ain’t no mischief a-brewing agin the valley, is
there, captain? Edward Clark would not be persuaded to leave the fort,
if it was to get married, if he thought so.”
Butler paid no attention to her question, but made a rapid succession of
inquiries about the family on Monockonok Island, and craftily gathered
from the old maid a pretty accurate account of the military force now in
the valley. At last a noise from without, which Aunt Polly evidently did
not hear, made him start and listen. He took out his watch, and hastily
replacing it, muttered something in an undertone, and left the house,
regardless of the supper which he had been so impatient for a few
minutes before.
“I wish to gracious Sim White was here; I rather guess my hay will
suffer if the captain feeds his own hoss,” said the old maid, as the
door closed; “the feller thinks no more of a peck of oats than if it was
cut-straw. I wish he’d make haste tho’, the victuals is purty near done,
and I begin to feel kinder hungry myself. Oh, I’d a’most forgot—these
Tory fellers al’es want tea—just to spite us, I reckon; but a tavern is
a tavern, and while my sign swings on that are elm-tree, travellers
shall have just what they ask for when I’ve got it.”
With these words Aunt Polly opened a rude closet, took out a small tin
canister containing the unpopular herb, and filling the little round
top, smoothed it off with her finger, and “put the tea to drawing.” Then
spreading a snowy tablecloth in the best room, she placed thereon the
nicely cooked fowl, the smoking potatoes, a plate of bread and a ball of
golden butter, and gave the finishing touch to her table by saucers of
preserved crab-apples and wild plums placed on each corner. After all
was ready, she seated herself by a little waiter, scarcely larger than a
good-sized snuffer-tray, and as she placed and replaced the milk-cup and
sugar-bowl, muttered her impatience for the return of her guest.
“I wonder what on ’arth keeps him so—I could ’a’ foddered my whole stock
afore this. Walter Butler didn’t use to be so long tending his horse
afore he eat, himself. Dear me, the gravy is gitting thick about the
chickens—the fried cabbage is stun cold, and the tea’ll be drawn to
death! I do wish—oh, here he comes!”
The old maid brightened as she heard footsteps coming through the
kitchen, and snatching up the tea-pot, she began pouring out the
half-cold beverage into the little earthenware cups which were only
produced to regale the Tory guests who graced her house.
“Do come along, and set to, captain—your supper is gitting stun cold,”
she said, without raising her eyes from the tea-cups. “I’ve been
awaiting this ever so long.”
“I hope that I have made no mistake, my good woman,” replied a strange
voice from the door, in answer to her hospitable invitation; “I supposed
this to be a public house.”
Aunt Polly set down the tea-pot, her hands dropped to her lap, and her
eyes grew large with astonishment; a tall, stately gentleman stood in
the doorway, where she had last seen her younger guest; he was evidently
of higher rank, and of far more dignified and lofty carriage than any
person who had ever before sought the shelter of her roof. His hat was
in his hand, and a few grey hairs silvered the dark locks about his high
forehead. The expression of his face was that of stern decision, yet
there was a softness in his smile as he observed the astonished
landlady, which made it almost winning. He advanced into the room with a
courteous ease, which Aunt Polly could feel much better than understand.
“I hope I am not mistaken—at least, you will not refuse me a portion of
this tempting dish?” he said, laying his hat and riding-whip on the bed.
By this time Aunt Polly had recovered her speech. “There is no mistake,
this is a tavern that advertises feed for man and hoss, and does all it
promises,” she said, with an accession of pompous hospitality; “so set
by, and help yourself to such as there is. I’ve kept public house here
these ten years. Don’t stand to be axed, if you want supper—it’s all
ready, I began to think that I had cooked it for nothing. You take tea I
s’pose from the looks of your coat.”
The stranger seated himself at the table, and took the proffered cup.
“You have prepared for other guests?” he observed as she arose to get
another cup and saucer from the closet.
“Yes—Captain Butler will be in purty soon, I reckon; but there’s no
calculating when.”
The stranger looked up with a degree of interest when the name was
pronounced. “Is it of Captain Walter Butler you speak?” he inquired.
“Yes, his name’s Walter, and an awful smart feller he is, too—but the
worst sort of a Tory. Do you know him? if I may be so bold.”
“Can you tell me how he escaped from confinement, and by what means he
reached the valley?” inquired the stranger, without seeming to heed her
question.
Aunt Polly broke into a crackling laugh, one of those sharp
cachinnations which sometimes frightened her poultry from the roost.
“How did he escape? I only wondered how anybody managed to keep him.
Why, he’s a fox, an eel, a weasel. Of all them Hudson and Mohawk Valley
chaps that hive at Wintermoot’s Fort he’s the cutest. They says he’s
made lots of money lately in making believe he married one of the
handsomest little squaws that you ever sot eyes on; some say that he is
married in rale downright ’arnest; but I don’t believe all I hear—it’s
been a kind of Indian scrape—a jumping over the broomstick, I s’pose. He
rode through the valley with her this afternoon as bold as a lion,
followed by a lot of wild Injuns. The hull biling on ’em may be a-coming
down on us, for all I know.”
“But the mother of this Indian girl—is she in the valley?”
“Catharine Montour? is that the person you want to ask about? ’cause if
it is, I saw that identical woman once, and a rale, downright lady she
is. I’ve got the gold guinea she gave me in my puss yet.”
“And you saw her?”
“Yes, with these two eyes, and that’s more than most folks can say. She
came out on Gineral Washington and I—that’s my hoss, sir, not the
commander-in-chief—jest as the angel stood before Balaam. At first I
thought that I was struck dumb, and the gineral’d have to speak for me,
whether or no.”
“But the lady—how did she look? changed, older—was she beautiful?” cried
the man, while a quiver of agitation ran through his voice—up to this
time so calm and measured.
“Harnsome? I suppose you mean by all that. Wal, yes, I should carculate
that a’most any one would ’a’ called that lady harnsome enough for
anything. She wasn’t so young, mebby, as she had been; but, marcy on us!
no queen on her throne ever looked grander.”
“And did she seem happy—content?”
“Wal, that’s difficult saying; wimmen don’t tell out all that’s in their
bosom at once. She looked sort of anxious, but there’s no telling what
it was about; but if you stay in these parts long, and my out-room is
empty if you want it—you’ll likely as not see her yourself; when the
young Injun gal is here, Catharine Montour can’t be far off. The hull
tribe camped under Campbell’s Ledge a year or two ago, and held a grand
council with the Injuns about the Wind Gap. I hope they won’t come for
anything wuss the next time.”
“And did you converse with this lady?”
“Yes; I reckon what was said atween us might ’a’ been considered
convarsing. She sent a message to Mary Derwent, and I carried it. The
talk was purty much all about that.”
“And this is all you can tell me of her?” said the stranger, in a tone
of bitter disappointment, which interested the old maid more and more in
his behalf.
“It is all I know, sartainly; but if you want to hear more about her,
the Injun missionary’ll tell you all about her. He was up to the camp
when they held that council-fire, and talked with her face to face——”
“And where can this missionary be found?”
“Well, jest now, that would be hard to say; he’s been in the valley, off
and on, all last year; but a month or two ago he went away to
Philadelphia to tell the Congress and Gineral Washington to send our own
sojers back to take care of us, if they can’t afford nothing more. But
he ought to be back about this time, and I shouldn’t wonder if you found
him at his old place, in Toby’s Eddy. He’s got a cabin down there, in
the very spot where the rattlesnake scared off the Injuns when they went
to kill Mr. Zin—Zin—Zin——”
“Zinzendorf, probably that is the name,” said the traveller, smiling
gravely. “I remember the circumstance. So, you think it possible that I
might find the minister at Toby’s Eddy? Can you tell me what direction
to take?”
“Keep on down stream till you come to a spot where the river gives a
bend like this.” Here Aunt Polly bent her elbow into an angle, which she
endeavored in vain to torture into a curve which should describe that
magnificent crescent formed in the banks of the Susquehanna, and known
as Toby’s Eddy.
“When you reach the spot, you’ll know it by the great sycamore trees
with their white balls; ask somebody to show you the missionary’s cabin.
You couldn’t miss it if you tried.”
The stranger thanked her gravely, and laying a piece of gold on the
table went out quietly as he had entered.
Aunt Polly started up, and going to the back door, cried vigorously
across the bed of young cabbages for Sim White, the hired man, who had
lived with her all winter, to hurry up and bring out the gentleman’s
critter. But while the words were on her lips she heard the tramp of a
horse, and running to the front window saw her guest riding at a brisk
pace down the river.
“Well, if this don’t beat all creation,” said the old maid, laying the
guinea in her palm, and examining it on both sides with delight. “I
wonder who on ’arth he can be!”
Muttering these words, the landlady drew forth her shot-bag from a
corner cupboard, and after examining the gold pieces already there, with
loving curiosity, laid her new treasure beside it.
“Now, there’s luck in that,” she said, tying the shot-bag up with a grim
smile. “I wonder what’ll come next. It never rains but it storms. The
gold has come, and now I must take a run on something else. I wonder
where Sim White has hid himself. If Captain Butler don’t want this ’ere
chicken, I don’t know any one that has a better right to it than Sim.”
As she was covering the dish, to set it down by the fire, Aunt Polly
happened to glance towards the back window, and there, much to her
surprise, she saw the face of her hired man, Sim White, peering
curiously in.
“There now, if that ain’t too much,” she said, flushing to the eyes with
the force of a new discovery that had just dawned upon her. “If the
critter ain’t getting jealous arter all; well, now, I never did! He
thought that grand-looking gentleman a beau of mine. Just as likely as
not—well, I won’t let him know that I ketched him peeking, anyhow.”
Aunt Polly busied herself about the fire—acting upon this generous
resolution, till the door softly opened, and Sim thrust his head
cautiously in, and gave a sharp look around the room. Aunt Polly smiled
with grim satisfaction, and began to punch the fire vigorously, though
she could not resist the temptation to cast side glances towards the
door all the time.
“Where is he?—hush! speak in a whisper—where is the eternal rascal gone
to? I’ve got a dozen stout fellows out in the yard, armed to the teeth
with scythes and pitchforks, and a beautiful halter hitched to a beam in
the barn, all ready. I shan’t trust to the law this time; it ain’t worth
a towstring, or his hash’d ’a’ been settled long ago—come, speak out,
where is he?”
Now, Aunt Polly was rather pleased with the idea of Sim’s jealousy; but
when it took this ferocious form, and she thought of her guests being
strung up one by one to a beam in her own barn, the whole thing began to
take a form that she did not quite relish.
“Mr. White,” said she, with great dignity, “what do you mean? Can’t I
speak to a traveller in my own kitchen, but you must talk of scythes and
pitchforks, and halters, too?”
Sim did not answer, but went peering about the kitchen, opening closets
and looking under tables, until he landed in the out-room, where his
search was continued still more vigilantly. At last he opened the door
of Aunt Polly’s bedroom and stepped in. The white valance in front of
the bed was in motion; his eyes began to glisten. He had no doubt that
the object of his search was there. Daintily lifting the edge of the
valance between his thumb and forefinger, he stooped and looked under.
It was only to meet the glaring green eyes of Aunt Polly’s cat, who had
inadvertently disturbed the valance, and thus led Sim White into a
dilemma; for as he dropped the muslin, and was about to rise from his
stooping position, Aunt Polly stood before him, towering in wrathful
indignation.
“Mr. Simon White, what do you mean?”
“I mean to find out if that eternal scamp is hid away in this ’ere house
or not,” answered Sim, looking desperately around the little apartment.
“He’s my prisoner. I took him myself at German Flats just afore I come
here to live. If them fools in Albany have let him loose, I’ll tighten
him up again in short order.”
“Who on ’arth are you talking about?”
“Why, that Butler, to be sure; only let me lay my hands on him, that’s
all.”
“Why, Captain Butler went off an hour ago,” said Polly, in accents of
deep mortification.
“Which way?”
“I don’t know; he slid off without saying good-bye! I was just saving
his supper for you.”
“And I’ve had all this trouble for nothing, consarn the fellow!”
“Come now, ain’t you a’most ready to go out?” said Aunt Polly, sliding
up to the bed, where her nightcap crowned one of the posts. Snatching it
off and dexterously concealing it behind her, she muttered to herself:
“I wouldn’t ’a’ cared so much if it had only had a ruffled border.” Then
she added, rather tartly: “Come, the chicken’ll be stun cold.”
Sim turned and followed her to the kitchen. He was terribly disappointed
at the failure of his attempt to regain his prisoner, and sent away the
farmers, who had gladly rallied to his aid, with a crestfallen look,
which was more than equalled by Aunt Polly’s downcast countenance. She
was unusually cross all the evening, poured any quantity of water into
the tea-pot, set away the preserves before Sim had tasted them, and
altogether acted in a very unaccountable manner indeed.