April was near its end. The hills were turning green, albeit we
could see, here and there on the high ledge above us, little
patches of snow--the fading footprints of winter. Day and night we
could hear the wings of the wild fowl roaring in the upper air as
they flew northward. Summer was coming,--the summer of 1812,--and
the war with the British. The President had called for a hundred
thousand volunteers to go into training for battle. He had also
proclaimed there would be no more whipping in the ranks. Then my
father told me that, since I could have no peace at home, I should
be off to the war and done with it.
We were working near the road that day Thurst Miles came galloping
out of the woods, waving his cap at us. We ran to meet him--my
father and I and the children. He pulled up a moment, his horse
lathered to the ears.
"Injuns!" he shouted. "Git out o' here quick 'n' mek fer the
Corners! Ye 'll be all massacreed ef ye don't."
Then he whacked the wet flank of his horse with a worn beech bough,
and off he went.
We ran to the house in a great panic. I shall never forget the
crying of the children. Indians had long been the favorite bugbear
of the border country. Many a winter's evening we had sat in the
firelight, fear-faced, as my father told of the slaughter in Cherry
Valley; and, with the certainty of war, we all looked for the red
hordes of Canada to come, in paint and feathers.
"Ray," my father called to me, as he ran, "ketch the cow quick an'
bring 'er 'long."
I caught her by the horn and brought her to the door quickly.
Mother was throwing some clothes into a big bundle. Father met me
with a feather bed in his arms. He threw it over the back of the
cow and bound it on with a bed-cord. That done, he gave me the
leading-rope to tie about her horns. The hoofs of the flying horse
were hardly out of hearing when we were all in the road. My mother
carried the baby, and my father his sword and rifle and one of the
little ones. I took the three older children and set them on the
feather bed that was bound to the back of the cow. They clung to
the bed-cord, their hair flying, as the old cow ran to keep up with
us, for at first we were all running. In a moment we could hear
the voices of people coming behind. One of the women was weeping
loudly as she ran. At the first cross-road we saw Arv Law and his
family coming, in as great a hurry as we, Arv had a great pike-pole
in his hand. Its upper end rose twenty feet above his head.
"What ye goin' t' dew with thet?" my father asked him.
"Goin' t' run it through the fust Injun I see," said he. "I 've
broke the lock o' my gun."
There was a crowd at Jerusalem Four Corners when we got there.
Every moment some family was arriving in a panic--the men, like my
father, with guns and babies and baskets. The women, with the
young, took refuge at once in the tavern, while the men surrounded
it. Inside the line were youths, some oddly armed with slings or
clubs or cross-guns. I had only the sword my father gave me and a
mighty longing to use it. Arv Law rested an end of his pike-pole
and stood looking anxiously for "red devils" among the stumps of
the farther clearing. An old flint-lock, on the shoulder of a man
beside him, had a barrel half as long as the pole. David Church
was equipped with axe and gun, that stood at rest on either side of
him.
Evening came, and no sign of Indians. While it was growing dusk I
borrowed a pail of the innkeeper and milked the cow, and brought
the pail, heaped with froth, to my mother, who passed brimming cups
of milk among the children. As night fell, we boys, more daring
than our fathers, crept to the edge of the timber and set the big
brush-heaps afire, and scurried back with the fear of redmen at our
heels. The men were now sitting in easy attitudes and had begun to
talk.
"Don't b'lieve there's no Injuns comin'," said Bill Foster. "Ef
they wus they 'd come."
"'Cordin' t' my observation," said Arv Law, looking up at the sky,
"Injuns mos' gen'ally comes when they git ready."
"An' 't ain't when yer ready t' hev 'em, nuther," said Lon
Butterfield.
"B'lieve they come up 'n' peeked out o' the bushes 'n' see Arv with
thet air pike-pole, 'n' med up their minds they hed n't better run
up ag'in' it," said Bill Foster. "Scairt 'em--thet's whut's th'
matter."
"Man 'et meks light o' this pole oughter hev t' carry it," said
Arv, as he sat impassively resting it upon his knee.
"One things sure," said Foster; "ef Arv sh'u'd cuff an Injun with
thet air he 'll squ'sh 'im."
"Squ'sh 'im!" said Arv, with a look of disgust. "'T ain't med t'
squ'sh with, I cal'late t' p'int it at 'em 'n' jab."
And so, as the evening wore away and sleep hushed the timid, a
better feeling came over us. I sat by Rose Merriman on the steps,
and we had no thought of Indians. I was looking into her big hazel
eyes, shining in the firelight, and thinking how beautiful she was.
And she, too, was looking into my eyes, while we whispered
together, and the sly minx read my thoughts, I know, by the look of
her.
Great flames were now leaping high as the timber-tops at the edge
of the clearing. A dead spruce caught fire as we were looking.
The flames threw over it a lacy, shimmering, crackling net of gold.
Then suddenly it burst into a red, leaping tower. A few moments,
and the cavern of the woods, along the timber side, was choked with
fire. The little hamlet had become a spring of light in the
darkness. We could see the stumps and houses far afield, as if it
had been noonday. Suddenly we all jumped to our feet. A wild yell
came echoing through the woods.
"There they be!" said Asher Eastman, as he cocked his gun. "I tol'
ye so."
As a matter of fact, he had told us nothing of the kind. He was
the one man who had said nothing.
Arv Law stood erect, his pike-pole poised in both hands, and we
were all ready for action. We could hear the rattle of many hoofs
on the road. As soon as the column showed in the firelight, Bill
Foster up with his musket and pulled the trigger. I could hear the
shot scatter on stump and stone. Every man had his gun to his eye.
"Wait till they come nearer," said Asher Eastman.
The Indians had halted. Far behind them we could hear the wild
hallooing of many voices. In a moment we could see those on
horseback go galloping off in the direction whence they had come.
Back in the house a number of the women were praying. My mother
came out, her face whiter than I had ever seen it before, and
walked to my father, and kissed him without ever saying a word.
Then she went back into the house.
"Scairt?" I inquired, turning to Rose, who now stood beside me.
"I should think I was," she whispered. "I 'm all of a tremble."
"If anything happens, I 'd like something to remember you by."
"What?" she whispered.