THE FIRST SKIRMISH
The vague rumors that had reached the inhabitants of Wyoming, no one
could exactly tell how, filling each household with alarm, were not
without foundation. A force of eleven hundred strong, under the command
of Colonel John Butler, consisting of Tory Rangers, a detachment of
Johnson’s Royal Greens, and six hundred savages, picked warriors from
the Shawnee and Seneca tribes, had already crossed Genesee county. They
had embarked from Tioga Point in canoes, which were abandoned at the
mouth of Bowman’s Creek, where the whole body was encamped on the second
of July.
Queen Esther, Gi-en-gwa-tah, and two or three Seneca chiefs commanded
the savage forces. Catharine Montour was in the army, for she had been
warned by one of the Indians who had aided in Walter Butler’s escape
from Albany that he had proceeded at once to Wyoming with his wife, and
would await the appearance of his father at Wintermoot’s Fort.
The hopes of seeing her child, and a harassing terror lest that angel
girl on Monockonok Island might come to harm in the savage warfare
impending over the valley, had forced her into scenes from which her
very soul revolted, and she opened her eyes with terror as each day
carried the fearful war-whoop of her tribe nearer and nearer that
peaceful region.
From the encampment at Bowman’s Creek scouts were sent forward, and a
small detachment of warriors swept down the river in the night, headed
by Queen Esther’s youngest son, a handsome brave, who, eager to earn the
first eagle’s plume in the coming fight—having won this privilege from
the grim queen and his lofty brother—set forth on his errand of blood.
Like a flock of redbirds on the water, the chief and his warriors
floated down the Susquehanna, each with a rifle at his feet, and a
tomahawk or a sharp knife glittering in his girdle.
Their persons glowed with war-paint; their sinewy arms bent to the oars.
Now and then, as they passed through the sloping mountains, a faint
whoop broke on the waters, betraying their impatience for contest.
But as they reached the rocky jaws of the Susquehanna all was still as
death; no flock of birds ever flitted over that stream more silently.
About a mile above Fort Jenkins they took to the shore. This fort was in
the hands of the patriots, and the chief thirsted to strike a leading
blow in the contest. Instead of proceeding to Wintermoot’s Fort, he drew
his warriors from the river, and clearing the stockades like a pack of
wolves, took the fort by surprise.
But brave men lay waiting behind those rough logs—old men of cool
courage and nerves of iron. Three of their number fell dead in front of
the fort, where, unconscious of danger, they had been conversing in the
starlight. The savages rushed on to complete their work, but they were
met with a blaze of musketry, so sudden and furious that half a dozen
stalwart forms fell upon the men they had murdered. Then the crack of a
single rifle—a shrill cry—the youngest son of Queen Esther leaped into
the air, and fell dead upon the sward he had been so eager to bathe with
blood.
The skirmish had not lasted half an hour when that band of savages
retreated, under shelter of the night, and laying the body of their
chief in a canoe, floated down the river with a low, monotonous
death-chant, which was lost in the deep solitude of the woods. When they
came opposite Wintermoot’s they again lifted their chief and bore him
among them into the fort, still wailing out that mournful death-song.
The garrison was aroused; armed men came out and bore the body of the
dead brave into the inclosure.
Tahmeroo, who lay awake, waiting the return of her husband, heard the
death-wail of her tribe, and followed the sound, pale with apprehension.
A group of warriors sat upon the earth, with their faces buried in their
robes; the death-song was hushed, but the silence of those stout hearts
was more solemn even than the mournful voices had been.
In the centre of this group she saw the prostrate form of a chief, with
his gorgeous war-robes lying in heavy masses around him. The Indian girl
held her breath and crept forward, looking fearfully down into the face
of the dead. It was her father’s brother! She asked no questions, but
crouched down on the earth among those silent warriors, and was still as
the dead she mourned.
After a little, a young warrior rose from the circle and went out; no
one spoke, no one looked up; but they all knew that he was departing to
bear to Queen Esther tidings of her son’s death.
Slowly and with mournful steadiness the lone savage crept up the river;
he broke the profound stillness of the mountains with the death-cry as
he passed along; the lonely whip-poor-will answered him from the woods;
and between the pauses of its melancholy wail the sleepless owl hooted
him for not dying instead of his chief. It was daybreak when he reached
the encampment at Bowman’s Creek. Queen Esther was lying awake in her
tent; indeed no one could tell if the old woman ever slept; come upon
her at any time in the night—no matter with what tidings—and she was
sure to meet you with those vigilant glances that seemed never to relax
an instant. When the warrior lifted the mat from her tent, and stood so
solemnly in the light of her dying fire, she prolonged that look, till
it seemed to cut into him like steel. All at once a gleam of cruel
trouble shot into the glance; those stony features moved, and a spasm of
agony locked them closer than before. The smoky light could not alone
have left those shadows on her face; they were the color of ashes.
He laid the tomahawk, red at the edge, the keen scalping-knife, and the
rifle that had belonged to her son down at the old queen’s feet. There
was a rustle under her robes, as of dry boughs in winter, and her head
drooped slowly forward on her bosom, while her fierce eyes gleamed down
on the implements of death colder and sharper than they.
The following morning Aunt Polly rose at an early hour and went
vigorously about her multifarious duties, preparing breakfast for
herself and Sim, helping to milk the cows, and setting the house in
order generally.
Thoughts of much importance were evidently weighing with great force
upon Aunt Polly’s mind, for all through breakfast she was very
absent-minded, though her manner to Sim was unusually gentle—even
bordering on tenderness.
“Now, Sim,” she said, when he rose from the table, “have Gineral
Washington saddled by the time I get the dishes washed, for I’m going
right over to the island.”
“So Jane Derwent and Clark are really goin’ to be married?”
“And it’s the best thing for ’em! When a man has made up his mind to ask
a woman to have him, what’s the use of putting it off till the Day of
Judgment? He may as well speak up at once.”
Sim assented with a dubious shake of the head; and with his thoughts
reverting to the fickle Betsy, remarked sententiously that women were
onsartin creeturs.
“Some on ’em,” replied Aunt Polly, “but not all! I like a woman that can
make up her own mind; but, just mind this, Mr. White, if a man wants a
wife that’s good for anything he mustn’t marry a little fool of fifteen
or sixteen—no gal is fit to get married under thirty-five.”
Sim nodded his head.
“Did you ever see my settin’ out, Sim? If it hasn’t been used long afore
this, it wasn’t for want of offers.”
Sim never had seen this wonderful setting out, and Aunt Polly promised
to show it to him at some future time. Finally he sauntered away about
his work, and Aunt Polly began clearing up the table. When everything
was in order, she sat down before the loom, in which was the unfinished
rag carpet that she had promised to Jane Derwent as a wedding present.
She unrolled from the ponderous beam the yards which were completed and
looked at them admiringly.
“There never was a neater carpet,” she said, “never; that orange in the
warp is as bright as a guinea, and I never see a purtier blue. I don’t
believe, arter all, it would fit any room in Edward Clark’s new house,
and I don’t see what Jane wants of it; young folks shouldn’t begin life
by being extravagant.”
She folded the carpet slowly up, regarding it with covetous eyes.
“I guess,” she continued, slowly, “I’ll look out a counterpane for her;
she’ll like it just as well, and it’s a better wedding present; folks
can get along without a carpet, but they must have bed kiverin’.”
She went up to a spare chamber, and opened the chest of drawers in which
were safely packed the various articles appertaining to her own
much-lauded “setting out.” There were piles of linen and bed-clothes,
all getting yellow from disuse; from the latter she selected a blue and
white yarn counterpane and spread it over the bed.
“Wal, that is dreadful purty! I kinder hate to part with it; mother
helped me make it, and I don’t feel as if ’twould be exactly right to
give it away. I’ll give Janey a pair of sheets and ruffled pillow-cases
instead.”
She took out the sheets and pillow-cases, smoothing down the ruffles and
admiring their fineness. They looked more elegant than ever, and Aunt
Polly decided that the sheets alone would be present enough, so she
refolded the pillow-cases and put them back in the drawer, where they
had formerly reposed. Still she was not satisfied, and wavered a long
time between a woolen blanket and the sheets; but Jane’s bridal stock
was doomed to want both. Aunt Polly’s eye fell upon a roll of articles
which seemed intended for the decoration of a baby’s cradle; even in her
chaste solitude the old maid fingered them with decorous hesitation.
She unrolled the bundle and took up two patch-work quilts exactly alike,
and pieced from gorgeous scraps of calico by her own fair hands. She
compared and measured them, to see that there was no difference, and
finally chose the one that proved a fraction of an inch narrower than
the other.
“It’s big enough,” she murmured, absently; “it’ll cover a child a year
old, and that’s as much as any one could reasonably ask for.”
Having made her decision, she seemed more at ease in her mind, laid the
other things carefully away, sprinkled fresh lavender over them, and
turned the key once more upon her treasures, taking up the quilt with a
jerk and hastening down stairs, as if she feared to remain longer, lest
she should lock that up too.
Before Sim brought General Washington out of the barn, Aunt Polly was in
readiness. She had heroically picked her finest bell-necked squash, and
stood on the stoop in front of her house, her monstrous poke bonnet
sitting up on her head, with a defiant air, and grasping in her hand
that enormous vegetable, which might have been scooped out as a
drinking-cup for one of the giants of the olden time.
At length Sim appeared, leading the old white horse up to the stump
which served as a mounting-block, on which Aunt Polly established
herself, with her skirts held closely about her, as if she were
preparing for a dive.
“Gineral Washington looks like a picter,” she said, regarding the old
horse admiringly. “Wal, I always did say, Sim White, that you could
curry a horse better than any other man in Wyoming; why, the old feller
shines like a looking-glass; I can’t bear a man that is careless with a
horse; I wouldn’t marry him if he had ten bags of golden guineas, for if
he can’t treat a dumb creetur well, what would he do to a wife?”
“Are you going to Mother Derwent’s right off?” Sim asked, somewhat
heedless of Aunt Polly’s remark.
“Yes, I am; I want to see that they’ve got everything all right. Now,
make the Gineral side up, and help me on.”
The old maid rested one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other
upon Sim’s shoulder, who put his stalwart arm about her waist, and
before she could make any resistance, if she had felt so inclined,
lifted her to her seat.
“Wal, if I ever!” she exclaimed, indignantly, though the corners of her
mouth worked with suppressed pleasure. “I never did see such a man—ain’t
you ashamed?—get away now—suppose anybody had come by and seen you!”
“You see I couldn’t help it, Aunt Polly.”
“Aunt Polly!” shrieked the old maid, in anger and defiance. “Miss
Carter, ef _you_ please—that’s my name! You’re a mannerly feller, ain’t
you? Pretty age you are, to be calling me such a name! Get away with
you, and if that garden ain’t all weeded afore I get back you needn’t
expect many good words from me.”
“Now don’t get into a passion,” said Sim, either really anxious to
mollify her, or impelled by a desire to escape his task; “I didn’t mean
no harm; the boys and gals call you so.”
“Wal, you ain’t a boy, nor a gal neither; there’s grey in your hair,
plain enough to be seen!”
“Now, don’t be mad,” said Sim, catching hold of her bridle, as she
manifested some intention of riding away; “I’ll never let my tongue slip
again; come, Miss Carter!”
The old maid put her hand on his shoulder, and said, with her blandest
smile:
“Put the squash in my lap, Sim, and hang the bundle on the horn; you may
call me Polly—I don’t mind that, though I don’t know,” she added, with
virtuous reflection, “whether it’s just the thing afore people are
married.”
“It can’t do no hurt,” returned Sim, sagely turning his tobacco over in
his mouth, “even if they don’t intend to get married.”
“Yes, it can!” retorted the spinster. “No man shall ever call me Polly
that don’t want to marry me right out, now, I tell you!”
Sim retreated a little, and did not exhibit that eagerness to pronounce
the euphonious syllable which Aunt Polly seemed to expect, and she
chirruped to General Washington with renewed displeasure.
“Are you a-coming up to the wedding?” she asked, sharply.
“I s’pose so; Edward Clark wanted me to play the fiddle for them to
dance a little.”
“Wal, I jest wish you wouldn’t go—it makes it very unpleasant for me.”
“Why on ’arth shouldn’t I go, Miss Carter?”
“They all laugh at me so,” said Aunt Polly, with interesting confusion.
“What do they laugh at you for—’cause I choose to fiddle?”
“Your actions, I suppose,” she replied, indignantly; “’tain’t likely
I’ve told ’em all the things you’ve said to me. If I had, I know my
friends would insist on my settling things right off—but I’m hard to
coax, very hard, Sim.”
Her hand went down on his arm again, and this time Sim rather took it of
his own accord.
“Are you?” he said, doubtfully; “I guess not very hard—be you,
Aun—Polly?”
“Oh, Sim, you shouldn’t have spoken out so sudden—women is sensitive
creeturs. Wal, I don’t know; I wouldn’t say yes to any other man, as
plenty of ’em could tell you from experience; but since it’s you, Sim,
there, just let out that stirrup-leather a trifle.”
She gathered the skirts decorously around her feet while Sim performed
this duty, and rested her hand on his shoulder in settling herself
again. Sim looked a little puzzled, and somewhat unappreciative of the
honor Aunt Polly had bestowed upon him; but he passed it off with better
grace than could have been expected, and even called her outright by her
baptismal appellation.
“I’m goin’ now,” said the old maid, crimsoning with delight. “I shall
have to get some of the gals to come and stay a while with me. It
wouldn’t be proper for us to be alone in the house, you know. I guess
we’ll have to hurry things, too, on their account; for they can’t none
of ’em stay away from home long. Good-bye, Sim; never mind the
garding—good-bye. Get up, Gineral Washington. Come over early, Sim—and
oh, you’ll find some new gingerbread in the stone crock. I’ve put out a
nice dinner for you. Good-bye, Sim.”
She rode off, and left Sim standing in the road, buried in deep thought.
“Wal,” he said at length, putting a fresh morsel of tobacco in his
mouth, and speaking aloud, “she seems to think it’s all settled; and I
don’t know as I much mind, either way. I’d kind o’ like to show Betsy
Willets, too, that I don’t care a rush for her marryin’ Jim
Davis—consarn her! The old maid’s worth having, any way; this is just as
good a farm as there is in all Wyoming, and the tavern stand ain’t so
bad as it might be. A feller might go farther and fare worse. Besides,
’tain’t manners, dad used to say, to look a gift horse in the mouth—so,
if she’s suited, let it go.”
Sim gave his head a philosophical shake and turned towards the barn,
whistling Yankee Doodle as he went. There were a few tremulous
variations now and then, which threatened to subside into Old Hundred,
as an image of the faithless Betsy would present itself; but Sim solaced
his mind by glancing about the neat, thrifty-looking premises, and fell
to whistling harder than before, conscientiously repeating the parts
which he had slurred over with a firmness that would have satisfied Aunt
Polly herself.
The old maid rode on up towards the river, and as she reached the turn
of the highway, leading to Forty Fort she spied, in advance of her, a
troop of soldiers on horseback and on foot, proceeding towards the fort.
“What on airth!” exclaimed Aunt Polly, urging General Washington on;
“what are they about?”
She rode without hesitation towards the little band, and discovering an
acquaintance in the leader, called out:
“Why, Captain Slocum, what’s up now?”
“Nothing very important, Miss Carter,” he replied. “There were some men
shot at Fort Jenkins last night, and Walter Butler, with a troop of
Injuns, is in the valley. We must be on our guard.”
“Aint a-going to have a fight to-day, are we?”
“I can’t tell; it may come any minute.”
“Wal, do your duty, Captain Slocum; do your duty!” said Aunt Polly,
assuming the tone in which she had heard revolutionary speeches
delivered. “Wyoming expects every man of ye to stand up to the mark—take
care of the widows, the orphans, and perticlarly of such young females
as haven’t yet secured their natral protectors.”
“We will do our best, Miss Carter,” returned the captain, concealing a
smile, and glancing reprovingly towards his men, who looked more amused
than moved by Aunt Polly’s eloquence.
“I know you will; I can trust you, captain,” replied the old maid,
approvingly, as if she felt that a great responsibility rested upon her
shoulders. “If you want a hoss, captain, send for Gin’ral Washington,
you’re welcome to him; the old feller has stood fire too many training
days to be afraid of Tories or Injuns ither.”
“Thank you; if we have occasion, I’ll send for him,” said the captain,
trying to move on, a manœuvre difficult to execute, for Aunt Polly had
stationed herself directly in front of the troop.
“Do; and oh, captain,” checking the general, as he seemed inclined to
give way to the soldiers, “if you want a treat for your men, I’ve got a
keg of Jamaica spirits in my cellar that’s a leetle ahead of anything
you’ve tasted lately—you’re welcome to it.”
“That is very kind of you,” replied Slocum, while his men listened with
lively interest; but he had rashly interrupted Aunt Polly.
“Let ’em drink all they want,” she said. “I know you’re too much of a
man to cheat me out of a gill, captain. I can trust you—Sim White’ll
show you where it is.”
“Forward, men!” exclaimed the commander; “we’re losing time here.”
“Law bless me, don’t run over a body!” cried Aunt Polly; “the Gin’ral
and I ain’t Tories, captain.”
But the men pushed on, heedless of her expostulations, and the old maid
was forced to give way.
“Don’t forget the rum!” she shrieked after them. “You and I’ll settle
for it to-morrow, captain.”
She rode on without farther interruption until she came opposite the
island. She dismounted with the bell-necked squash under her arm, took a
small bundle carefully off the saddle, loosened the girth a little, and
sent the general up the bank with a pat of her hand. A vigorous and
prolonged call speedily brought Mary Derwent out of the house, and in a
few moments her little canoe had reached the shore where Aunt Polly
stood.
“You see, Mary, I’ve come over early,” she said; “I thought you’d have
lots to do. Here, ketch this bundle; handle it carefully, it’s something
for Janey. I guess I wish I’d taken the saddle across, too, for it might
be stolen by some of them rascally Tories.”
“Are they around again?” Mary asked, anxiously.
“Yes, so Captain Slocum told me. I met him and his men a-goin’ to Forty
Fort. I told ’em their duty, and they looked quite sober about it.”
“I fear that terrible times are coming,” said Mary, sadly; “the Valley
has never been in such confusion as it is now. Edward Clark could only
stay with us a few moments last night, and won’t be back till evening.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Aunt Polly. “’Tisn’t proper for him to come
till the minister does. I never was married myself, but I know what
ought to be done as well as anybody—there’s nothing like being prepared,
one never knows when an offer may pop up.”
She looked very meaningly at Mary, but the poor girl was too anxious and
troubled to take notice of the peculiarity of the old maid’s manner.
“Don’t say a word to trouble grandma and Jane,” she said, when they
reached the island; “it will do no good.”
“Of course not; when did you ever know me to speak the wrong word at the
wrong minute? Give me that squash, Mary; handle it keerful—that’s it.”
She walked towards the house, and Mary, having secured the canoe,
followed at a slower pace. Within the little kitchen there was a savor
of chickens roasting, and various other eatables preparing for the
evening. Mother Derwent was frying doughnuts when Aunt Polly entered,
and she wiped her floury hands on her checked apron, in order to return
her friendly greeting with due cordiality.
“Wal, Jane,” said the old maid, turning to Jane, who was rolling out
pie-crust with great diligence; “how do you do? You see, we all have to
come to it, first or last—but, law! the thought takes away my breath. I
never can bear it as you do.”
“Why, Aunt Polly, do you think of getting married, too?” said Jane,
laughing.
“Stranger things than that have happened,” returned the spinster. “Men
are sich determined critters, there ain’t no getting rid of them when
once they get sot on a thing—a body has to say yes, whether or no.”
“Who is the man that torments you so much?” Jane inquired, laughing
merrily.
“No, you don’t—you can’t surprise no secrets out of me!” Aunt Polly
turned away her face in pretended confusion, to Jane’s great amusement;
at length she recovered, and taking the squash from the table, where she
had placed it, she held it towards the old lady.
“How are you off for pies, Miss Derwent?”
“Wal, pretty well; we’ve got lots of strawberries and raspberries, and
some dried pumpkin.”
“Dried punken!” repeated the old maid, with awful disdain; “jest try
that are squash; dried punken, indeed! This’ll just finish you up—now
get me a knife, and I’ll have it sliced in short order.”
The day wore on in busy employment for all, though Mary’s heart was full
of evil forebodings, which she did not breathe aloud, and she heard
little of the running stream of talk which Aunt Polly kept up all the
while her hands were so actively employed.
At length the old maid drew Jane mysteriously into the inner room, and
pointed to a bundle laying on the bed.
“There’s a present for you, Janey,” she whispered; “don’t say nothing
about it. You’re just as welcome as can be.”
Before Jane could express her thanks, Aunt Polly had untied the package,
and held up before the astonished girl a small patch-work baby quilt,
valuable as a curiosity, and with a rising sun in gay colors forming the
centre.
“I knew I couldn’t give you nothing more useful, nor purtier,” she
continued, complacently, while Jane stood looking at her in confused
surprise. “’Tain’t no common quilt—that was a part of my own settin’
out; I pieced it with these two hands. I’ve got another jest like it,
only the middle is pink and blue; but I had to keep that,” sinking her
voice to a whisper, “for ’tain’t best to leave oneself quite destitute.”
Jane tried to murmur something, but between suppressed mirth and
confusion she was dumb.
“You see, it’s so much better for you than that carpet we talked about,
that ain’t near done, and I’m so slow; besides, young folks oughtn’t to
cosset themselves up with such things. Scrubbing floors is the
wholesomest work you can have, and I really think carpets are unhealthy;
they make you ketch cold every time you go into the air.”
Jane expressed her perfect satisfaction with the gift, and Aunt Polly
fell into a confidential conversation with her, and before they returned
to the kitchen had revealed her intended marriage with Sim White, under
promise of proposed secrecy. Jane was faithful to her pledge, but as
Aunt Polly, in the course of the afternoon, was closeted with Mary and
the old grandmother, each in her turn, and confided the interesting news
to both, under the same vow of solemn silence, Jane’s fidelity did not
meet with its due reward.
Before four o’clock everything was prepared, and the whole house set in
order.
“Wal,” said Aunt Polly, glancing with pride at the rows of pies and huge
piles of doughnuts and cakes; “if anybody wants nicer fixin’s than
these, let them get ’em up, that’s all. If ever I get married—not that I
say I’m goin’ to—but if I ever should, I won’t have no stingy
doin’s—good eatin’ and plenty of it’ll be had, now I tell you.”
At last Mary escaped, to obtain a few quiet moments for reflection; and
Jane retired to the other room, to give the finishing touches to the
simple bridal attire spread out upon the coverlet. Aunt Polly and
Grandmother Derwent sat down in front of the door, to indulge in a quiet
chat, and when the girls were fairly out of sight, Aunt Polly took
sundry surreptitious pinches of snuff from the old lady’s box, by no
means with the air of a novice, but like a woman refreshing herself
after a season of rigid self-denial.