THE BATTLE OF CHEMUNG
Toward sundown we hailed our bullock guard below the ruins of Old
Chemung, and passed forward through the army to the throat of the pass,
where the Rifles lay.
The artillery was already in a sorry mess, nine guns stalled and an
ammunition wagon overturned in the ford. And I heard the infantry
cursing the drivers and saying that we had lost thousands of
cartridges. Stewart's bullock-guard was in a plight, too, forty head
having strayed.
At the outlet to the pass Major Parr met us, cautioning silence. No
fires burned and the woods were very still, so that we could hear in
front of us the distant movement of men; and supposed that the enemy
had come down to Chemung in force. But Major Parr told us that our
scouts could make nothing of these incessant noises, reporting only a
boatload of Sir John Johnson's green-coated soldiers on the river, and
a few Indians in two canoes; and that he had no knowledge whether Sir
John, the two Butlers, McDonald, and Brant lay truly in front of us, or
whether these people were only a mixed scalping party of blue-eyed
Indians, Senecas, and other ragamuffin marauders bent on a more distant
foray, and now merely lingering along our front over night to spy out
what we might be about.
Also, he informed us that a little way ahead, on the Great Warrior
trail, lay an Indian town which our scouts reported to be abandoned;
and said that he had desired to post our pickets there, but that orders
from General Hand had prevented that precaution until the General
commanding arrived at the front.
Some few minutes after our appearance in camp, and while we were eating
supper, there came a ruddy glimmer of torches from behind us, lighting
up the leaves overhead; and Generals Sullivan, Clinton, Hand, and Poor
rode up and drew bridle beside Major Parr, listening intently to the
ominous sounds in front of us.
And, "What the devil do you make of it, Major?" says Sullivan, in a low
voice. "It sounds like a log-rolling in March."
"My scouts give me no explanation," says Parr grimly. "I think the
rascals are terrified."
"Send Boyd and that young interpreter," said Sullivan curtly.
So, as nobody could understand exactly what these noises indicated, and
as headquarters' scouts could obtain no information, Lieutenant Boyd
and I, with my Indians, left our supper of fresh roast corn and beans
and went forward at once. We moved out of the defile with every
precaution, passing the throat of the rocky pass and wading the little
trout-brook over which our trail led, the Chemung River now lying
almost south of us. Low mountains rose to the north and west, very dark
and clear against the stars; and directly ahead of us we saw the small
Indian town surrounded by corn fields; and found it utterly deserted,
save for bats and owls; and not even an Indian dog a-prowling there.
A little way beyond it we crossed another brook close to where it
entered the river, opposite an island. Here the Chemung makes a great
bend, flowing in more than half a circle; and there are little hills to
the north, around which we crept, hearing always the stirring and
movements of men ahead of us, and utterly unable to comprehend what
they were so busily about.
Just beyond the island another and larger creek enters the river; and
here, no longer daring to follow the Seneca trail, we turned southwest,
slinking across the river flats, through the high Indian grass, until
we came to a hardwood ridge, from whence some of these sounds proceeded.
We heard voices very plainly, the splintering of saplings, and a
heavier, thumping sound, which the Mohican whispered to us was like
hewn logs being dragged over the ground and then piled up. A few
moments later, Tahoontowhee, who had crept on ahead, glided up to us
and whispered that there was a high breastwork of logs on the ridge,
and that many men were cutting bushes, sharpening the stems, and
planting them to screen this breastwork so that it could not be seen
from the Seneca trail north of us, along which lay our army's line of
march. A pretty ambuscade, in truth! But Braddock's breed had passed.
Silently, stealthily, scarcely breathing, we got out of that dangerous
place, recrossed the grassy flats, and took to the river willows the
entire way back. At the mouth of the pass, where my battalion lay
asleep, we found Major Parr anxiously awaiting us. He sent Captain
Simpson back with the information.
Before I could unlace my shirt, drag my pack under my head, and compose
myself to sleep, Boyd, who had stretched himself out beside me, touched
my arm.
"Are you minded to sleep, Loskiel?"
"I own that I am somewhat inclined that way," said I.
"As you please."
"Why? Are you unwell?"
He lay silent for a few moments, then:
"What a mortifying business was that at the Tioga fort," he said under
his breath. "The entire garrison saw it, did they not, Loskiel? Colonel
Shreve and all?"
"Yes, I fear so,"
"It will be common gossip tomorrow," he said bitterly. "What a
miserable affair to happen to an officer of Morgan's!"
"A sad affair," I said.
"It will come to her ears, no doubt. Shreve's batt-men will carry it
down the river."
I was silent.
"Rumour runs the woods like lightning," he said. "She will surely hear
of this disgraceful scene. She will hear of it at Easton.... Strange,"
he muttered, "strange how the old truths hold!... Our sins shall find
us out.... I never before believed that, Loskiel--not in a wilderness,
anyway.... I had rather be here dead and scalped than have had that
happen and know that she must hear of it one day."
He lay motionless for a while, then turned heavily on his side, facing
me across the heap of dead leaves.
"Somehow or other," he said, "she heard of that miserable
business--heard of it even at Otsego.... That is why she would not
marry me, Loskiel. Did you ever hear the like! That a man must be so
utterly and hopelessly damned for a moment's careless folly--lose
everything in the world for a thoughtless moonlight frolic! Where lies
the justice in such a judgment?"
"It is not the world that judges you severely. The world cares little
what a man's way may be with a maid."
"But--Lana cares. It has ended everything for her."
I said in a low voice:
"You ended everything for Dolly Glenn."
"How was I to know she was no light o' love--this camp tailoress--this
silly little wench who--but let it go! Had she but whimpered, and
seemed abashed and unfamiliar with a kiss---- Well, let it go.... But I
could cut my tongue out that I ever spoke to her. God! How lightly
steps a man into a trap of his own contriving!... And here I lie
tonight, caring not whether I live or die in tomorrow's battle already
dawning on the Chemung. And yonder, south of us, in the black
starlight, drift the batteaux, dropping down to Easton under the very
sky that shines above us here.... If Lana be asleep at this moment I do
not know.... She tells me I have broke her heart--but yet will have
none of me.... Tells me my duty lies elsewhere; that I shall make
amends. How can a man make amends when his heart lies not in the
deed?... Am I then to be fettered to a passing whim for all eternity?
Does an instant's idle folly entail endless responsibility? Do I merit
punishment everlasting for a silly amourette that lasted no longer than
the July moon? Tell me, Loskiel, you who are called among us blameless
and unstained, is there no hope for a guilty man to shrive himself and
walk henceforward upright?"
"I can not answer you," I said dully. "Nor do I know how, of such a
business, a man may be shriven, or what should be his amends.... It all
seems pitiful and sad to me--a matter perplexing, unhappy, and far
beyond my solving.... I know it is the fashion of the times to regard
such affairs lightly, making of them nothing.... Much I have heard,
little learned, save that the old lessons seem to be the truest; the
old laws the best. And that our cynical and modern disregard of them
make one's salvation none the surer, one's happiness none the safer."
I heard Boyd sigh heavily, where he lay; but he said nothing more that
I heard; for I slept soon afterward, and was awakened only at dawn.
Everywhere in the rocky pass the yawning riflemen were falling in and
calling off; a detail of surly Jersey men, carrying ropes, passed us,
cursing the artillery which, it appeared, was in a sorry plight again,
the nine guns all stalled behind us, and an entire New Jersey brigade
detailed to pull them out o' the mud and over the rocks of the
narrowing defile.
Boyd shared my breakfast, seeming to have recovered something of his
old-time spirits. And if the camp that night had gossiped concerning
what took place at Tioga Fort, it seemed to make no difference to his
friends, who one and all greeted him with the same fellowship and
affection that he had ever inspired among fighting men. No man, I
think, was more beloved and admired in this Western army, by officers
and men alike; for in him were naturally combined all those brilliant
qualities of daring, fearlessness, and gaiety in the face of peril,
which endear, and which men strive to emulate. In no enterprise had he
ever failed to perform the part allotted him; never had he faltered in
the hundred battles fought by Morgan's veteran corps; never had he
seemed dismayed. And if sometimes he did a little more than he was
asked to do, his superior officers forgave this handsome, impetuous
young man--the more readily, perhaps, because, so far, no disaster had
befallen when he exceeded the orders given him.
My Indians had eaten, and were touching up their paint when Major Parr
came up, wearing a magnificent new suit of fringed buckskins, and
ordered us to guide the rifle battalion. A moment later our conch-horn
boomed out its thrilling and melodious warning. Far in the rear I heard
the drums and bugle-horns of the light infantry sounding the general.
As we went forward in the early daylight, the nature of the ambuscade
prepared for us became very plain to me; and I pointed out to Major
Parr where the unseen enemy rested, his right flank protected by the
river, his left extending north along the hog-bank, so that his lines
enveloped the trail on which we marched, threatening our entire army in
a most cunning and evil manner. Truly there was no fox like Butler in
the Northland!
All was very still about us as we marched; the river mist hung along
the woods; a few birds sang; the tops of the Indian corn rustled.
Toward eight o'clock the conch-horn blew; our riflemen halted and
deployed in perfect silence, facing the unseen works on the wooded
ridge ahead. Another division of troops swung to the left, continuing
the movement to the river in splendid order, where they also halted and
formed a line of battle, facing north. And still the unseen enemy gave
no sign; birds sang; the mist drifted up through the trees.
From where we lay we could see our artillery horses straining,
plunging, stumbling up a high knoll in the centre of our line, while
Maxwell's division halted and extended behind our riflemen to support
the artillery, and Clinton's four splendid New York regiments hurried
forward on a double, regiment after regiment dropping their packs
behind our lines and running north through the open woods, their
officers all finely mounted and cantering ahead, swords drawn.
A few moments later, General Sullivan passed along our front on
horseback, and drew bridle for a moment where Boyd and I were standing
at salute.
"Now is your opportunity, young gentlemen," he said in a low voice. "If
you would gain Catharines-town and destroy Amochol before we drive this
motley Tory army headlong through it, you should start immediately. And
have a care; Butler's entire army and Brant's Mohawks are now
intrenched in front of us; and it is a pitched battle we're facing--God
be thanked!"
He spurred forward with a friendly gesture toward us, as we saluted;
and his staff officers followed him at a canter while our riflemen
turned their heads curiously to watch the brilliant cavalcade.
"Where the devil are their log works?" demanded Major Parr, using his
field glasses. "I can see naught but green on that ridge ahead."
Boyd painted at the crest; but our Major could see nothing; and I
called to Timothy Murphy and Dave Elerson to climb trees and spy out if
the works were still occupied.
Murphy came down presently from the dizzy top of a huge black-walnut
tree, reporting that he had been able to see into the river angle of
their works; had for a while distinguished nothing, but presently
discovered Indians, crouched motionless, the brilliancy of their paint,
which at first he had mistaken for patches of autumn leaves, betraying
them when they moved.
"Now, God be praised!" said Major Parr grimly. "For we shall this day
furnish these Western-Gate Keepers with material for a Condolence Feast
such as no Seneca ever dreamed of. And if you gentlemen can surprise
and destroy Amochol, it will be a most blessed day for our unhappy
country."
General Hand, in his patched and faded uniform of blue and buff, drew
his long, heavy sword and walked his horse over to Major Parr.
"Well, sir," he said, "we must amuse them, I suppose, until the New
Yorkers gain their left. Push your men forward and draw their fire,
Major."
There came a low order; the soft shuffle of many mocassined feet;
silence. Presently, ahead of us, a single rifle-shot shattered the
stillness.
Instantly a mighty roar of Tory musketry filled the forest; and their
Indians, realizing that the ambuscade had been discovered, came leaping
down the wooded ridge, yelling and firing all along our front; and our
rifles began to speak quicker and quicker from every rock and tuft and
fallen log.
"Are we to miss this?" said Boyd, restlessly. "Listen to that firing!
The devil take this fellow Amochol and his Eries! I wish we were yonder
with our own people. I wish at least that I could see what our New
Yorkers are about!"
Behind us, Boyd's twenty riflemen stood craning their sunburnt necks;
and my Indians, terribly excited, fairly quivered where they crouched
beside us. But all we could see was the rifle smoke sifting through the
trees, and early sunshine slanting on the misty river.
The fierce yelling of the unseen Mohawks and Senecas on the wooded
ridge above us had become one continuous and hideous scream, shrill and
piercing above the racket of musketry and rifle fire; sometimes the
dreadful volume of sound surged nearer as though they were charging, or
showing themselves in order to draw us into a frontal attack on their
pits and log breastworks; but always after a little while the yelping
tumult receded, and our rifle fire slackened while the musketry from
the breastworks grew more furious, crashing out volley on volley, while
the entire ridge steamed like a volcano in action. Further to the north
we heard more musketry break out, as our New York regiments passed
rapidly toward Butler's left flank. And by the running fire we could
follow their hurried progress.
"Hell!" said Boyd, furiously, flinging his rifle to his shoulder. "Come
on, Loskiel, or we'll miss this accursed Amochol also." And he gave the
signal to march.
As we skirted the high knoll where our artillery was planted, the first
howitzer shot shook the forest, and my Indians cringed as they ran
beside me. High towering rose the shell, screaming like a living thing,
and plunged with a shriek into the woods on the ridge, exploding there
with a most infernal bang.
Up through the trees gushed a very fountain of smoke, through which we
could dimly see dark objects falling; but whether these were the limbs
of trees or of men we could not tell.
Crash! A howitzer hurled its five and a half inch shell high into the
sunshine. Boom! Another shot from a three-pounder. Bang! The little
cohorn added its miniature bellow to the bigger guns, which now began
to thunder regularly, one after another, shaking the ground we trod.
The ridge was ruddy with the red lightning of exploding shells. Very
far away in the forest we could hear entire regiments, as they climbed
the slopes, cheering above the continuous racket of musketry; the
yelling of the Senecas and Mohawks grew wavering, becoming ragged and
thinner.
It was hard for us all, I think, to turn our backs on the first real
battle we had seen in months--hard for Boyd, for me, and for our twenty
riflemen; harder, perhaps, for our Indians, who could hear the yells of
their most deadly enemies, and who knew that they were within striking
distance at last.
As we marched in single file, I leading with my Indians, I said aloud,
in the Iroquois tongue:
"If in this Battle of the Chemung the Mountain Snake be left writhing,
yet unless we crush his head at Catharines-town, the serpent will live
to strike again. For though a hundred arrows stick in the Western
Serpent's body, his poison lies in his fangs; his fangs are rooted in
his head; and the head still hisses at God and man from the shaggy
depths of Catharines-town. It is for us of the elect to slay him
there--for us few and chosen ones honoured by this mandate from our
commander. Why, then, should the thunder of Proctor's guns arouse in us
envy for those who join in battle? Let the iron guns do their part; let
the men of New York, of Jersey, of Virginia, of New Hampshire, of
Pennsylvania, do the great part allotted them. Let us in our hearts
pray God to speed them. For if we do our part as worthily, only then
shall their labour be not in vain. Their true title to glory is in our
keeping, locked inevitably with our own. If we fail, they have failed.
Judge, therefore, O Sagamore, judge, you Yellow Moth, and you
Oneidas--Grey-Feather, with your war-chief's feather and your Sachem's
ensign, Tahoontowhee, chieftain to be--judge, all of you, where the
real glory lies--whether behind us in the rifle smoke or before us in
the red glare of Amochol's accursed altar!"
They had been listening to every word as I walked beside them. The
Mohican made answer first:
"It was hard for us to leave the Chemung, O Loskiel, my brother--with
the dog-yelps at the Sinako and Mowawaks insulting our ears. But it was
wiser. I, a Sagamore, say it!"
"It is God's will," said the Yellow Moth. But his eyes were still red
with his fierce excitement; and the distant cannonade steadily
continued as we marched.
"I am Roya-neh!" said the Grey-Feather. "What wisdom counsels I
understand, He who would wear the scaly girdle must first know where
the fangs lie buried.... But to hear the Antouhonoran scalp-yelp, and
to turn one's back, is very hard, O my friend, Loskiel."
The Night-Hawk controlled his youthful features, forcing a merry smile
as my eye fell on him.
"Koue!" he exclaimed softly. "I have made promise to my thirsty
hatchet, O Loskiel! Else it might have leaped from its sheath and
bitten some one."
"A good hatchet and a good dog bite only under orders," I said. "My
younger brother's hatchet has acquired glory; now it is acquiring
wisdom."
Boyd came up along the line, his deerskin shirt open to the breastbone,
the green fringe blowing in the hill wind.
Far below us in the river valley sounded the uproar of the battle--a
dull, confused, and distant thunder--for now we could no longer hear
the musketry and rifle fire, only the boom-booming of the guns and the
endless roar of echoes.
Here on a high hill's spur, with a brisk wind blowing in our faces, the
heavy rumble of forest warfare became deadened; and we looked out over
the naked ridge of rock, across the forests of this broken country,
into a sea of green which stretched from horizon to horizon, accented
only by the silver glimmer of lakes and the low mountain peaks east,
west, and south of us.
Below us lay a creek, its glittering thread visible here and there. The
Great Warrior trail crossed it somewhere in that ravine.
I drew the Mohican aside.
"Sagamore," said I, "now is your time come. Now we depend on you. If it
lay with us, not one white man here, not one Indian, could take us
straight to Catharines-town; for the Great Warrior trail runs not
thither. Are you, then, confident that you know the way?"
"I know the way, Loskiel."
"Is there then a trail that leads from the Great Warrior trail below?"
"There are many."
"And you know the right one?"
"I have spoken, brother."
"I am satisfied. But we must clearly mark the trail for our surveyors
and for the army."
"We will mark it," he said meaningly, "so that no Seneca dog can ever
mistake which way we passed."
I did not exactly understand him, but I nodded to Boyd and he gave the
signal, and we began the descent through the warm twilight of an open
forest that sloped to the creek a thousand feet below us.
Down and down we went, partly sliding, and plowing up the moss and
leaves knee-deep, careless how we left our trail, as there was none to
follow, save the debris of a flying army or the flanking scouts of a
victorious one.
Below us the foaming rifles of the creek showed white in the woodland
gloom, and presently we heard its windy voice amid rocks and fallen
trees, soughing all alone through leafy solitudes; and its cool, damp
breath mounted to us as we descended.
The Indians dropped prone to slake their thirst; the riflemen squatted
and used their cups of bark or leather, pouring the sweet, icy water
over their cropped heads and wrists.
"Off packs!" said Boyd quietly, and drew a bit of bread and meat from
his beaded wallet. And so the Mohican and I left them all eating by the
stream, and crossed to the western bank. Here the Sagamore pointed to
the opposite slope; I gave a low whistle, and Boyd looked across the
water at me.
Then I drew my hatchet and notched a tree so that he saw what I did; he
nodded comprehension; we went on, notching trees at intervals, and so
ascended the slope ahead until we arrived at the top.
Here the forest lay flat beyond, and the Great Warrior trail ran
through it--a narrow path fifteen inches wide, perhaps, and worn nearly
a foot deep, and patted as hard as rock by the light feet of
generations--men and wild beasts--which had traversed it for centuries.
North and south the deeply graven war trail ran straight through the
wilderness. The Mohican bent low above it, scrutinizing it in the
subdued light, then stepped lightly into it, and I behind him.
For a little way we followed it, seeing other and narrower trails
branching from it right and left, running I knew not whither--the
narrow, delicate lanes made by game--deer and bear, fox and hare--all
spreading out into the dusk of the unknown forest.
Presently we came to a trail which seemed wet, as though swampy land
were not far away; and into this the Mohican turned, slashing a great
scar on the nearest tree as he entered it.
There was a mossy stream ahead, and the banks of it were dark and soft.
Here we rested high and dry on the huge roots of an oak, and ate our
midday meal.
In a little while the remainder of our party came gliding through the
trees, Boyd ahead.
"Is this the Catharines-town trail?" he asked. "By God, they'll never
get their artillery through here. Mark it, all the same," he added
indifferently, and seated himself beside me, dropping his rifle across
his knees with a gesture of weariness.
"Are you tired?" I asked.
He looked up at me with a wan smile.
"Weary of myself, Loskiel, and of a life lived too lightly and now nigh
ended."
"Nigh ended!" I repeated.
"I go not back again," he said, sombrely.
I glanced sharply at him, where he sat brooding over his rifle; and
there was in his face an expression such as I had never before seen
there--something unnatural that altered him altogether, as death alters
the features, leaving them strangely unfamiliar. And even as I looked,
the expression passed. He lifted his eyes to mine, and even smiled.
"There is," he said, "a viewless farm which companions even the
swiftest on the last long trail, a phantom-pilot which leads only
toward that Shadowed Valley of endless rest. In my ears all day--close,
close to my ear, I have heard the whisper of this unseen
ghost--everywhere I have heard it, amid the din of the artillery, on
windy hill-tops, in the long silence of the forest, through the noise
of torrents in lost ravines, by flowing rivers sparkling in the
sun--everywhere my pilot whispers to me. I can not escape, Loskiel;
whatever trail I take, that is the trail; whichever way I turn, that is
the way. And ever my phantom pilots me--forward or back, aside or
around--it is all one to him and to me, for at the end of every trail I
take, nearer and nearer draw I to mine end."
I had heard of premonitions before a battle; had known officers and
soldiers to utter them--brave men, too, yet obsessed by the conviction
of their approaching death. Sometimes they die; sometimes escape, and
the premonition ends forever. But until the moment of peril is passed,
or they fall as they had foretold, no argument will move them, no
assurance cheer them. But our corps had been in many battles during the
last three years, and I had never before seen Boyd this way.
He said, brooding on his rifle:
"The one true passion of my life has been Lana Helmer. It began
ignobly; it continues through all this pain and bewilderment, a pure,
clean current, running to the deep, still sea of dreams.... There it is
lost; I follow it no further.... And were I here today as upright and
as stainless as are you, Loskiel, still I could follow it no further
than that sea of dreams. Nor would my viewless pilot lead me elsewhere
than to the destiny of silence that awaits me; and none the less would
I hear his whisper in my ears.... My race is run."
I said: "Is it vain to appeal to your reason when your heart is heavy?"
"Had I another chance," he said, "I would lighten the load of sin I
bear--the heavy load I bear with me into the unknown."
"God gives us all our chance."
"He gave me my last chance at Tioga Fort. And I cursed it in my heart
and put it aside."
"One day you will return,"
"Never again, Loskiel.... I am no coward. I dare face the wrath to
come. It is not that; but--I am sorry I did not spare when I might have
been more generous.... The little thing was ignorant.... Doves mate
like that.... And somewhere--somehow--I shall be required to answer for
it all--shall be condemned to make amends.... I wonder how the dead
make their amends?... For me to burn in hell avails her nothing.... If
she thought it she would weep uncomforted.... No; there is a justice.
But how it operates I shall never understand until it summons me to
hear my sentence."
"You will return and do what a contrite heart bids you to do," I said.
"If that might be," he said gently, "that would I do--for the child's
sake and for hers."
"Good God!" I said under my breath.
"Did you not surmise it?"
"No."
"Well, then, now you know how deeply I am damned.... God gave me a last
chance. There was a chaplain at the fort."
"Kirkland."
"Yes, Gann went forward.... But--God's grace was not within me.... And
to see her angered me--that and the blinding hurt I had when Lana
left--heart-broken, wretched, still loving me, but consigning me to my
duty.... So I denied her at the bridge.... And from that moment has my
unseen pilot walked beside me, and I know he leads me swiftly to my
end."
I raised my troubled eyes and glanced toward my Indians. They had
stripped great squares of bark from half a dozen trees, and were busily
painting upon them, in red and blue, insulting signs and symbols--a
dead tree-cat, scalped, and full of arrows; a snake severed into
sections; a Seneca tied to a post and a broken wampum belt at his feet.
And on every tree they had also painted the symbol of their own clans
and nation--pointed stones and the stars of the Pleiades; a witch-wolf
and an enchanted bear; a yellow moth alighted on a white cross; a
night-hawk, perfectly recognizable, soaring high above a sun, setting,
bisecting the line of the horizon.
Every scalp taken was duly enumerated and painted there, together with
every captured weapon. Such a gallery of art in the wilderness I had
never before beheld.
Boyd's riflemen sat around, cross-legged on the moss, watching the
Indians at their labour--all except Murphy and Elerson, who, true to
their habits, had each selected a tree to decorate, and were hard at
work with their hunting knives on the bark.
On Murphy's tree I read: "To hell with Walter Butler."
Elerson, who no doubt had scraped the outlines of this legend with his
knife-point before Murphy carved it, had produced another message on
his own tree, not a whit more complimentary: "Dam Butler, Brant,
Hiakotoo, and McDonald for bloody rogues and murtherin' rascals all!"
They were ever like this, these two great overgrown boys, already
celebrated so terribly in song and legend. And the rank and file of
Morgan's resembled them--brave to a fault, innately lawless, of scant
education save what the forest had taught them, headstrong, quick to
anger, quick to forgive, violent in every emotion through the entire
gamut from love to hatred.
Boyd rose, glanced quietly at me, then made his signal. And in a few
moments the riflemen were on the trail again, spotting it wherever a
new path led away, trotting steadily forward in single file, my Indians
ranging wide on either flank.
Late in the afternoon we came to the height of land, where the little
water-courses all ran north; and here we halted, dropped packs, and the
men sat down while the Sagamore and I once more went forward to the
headwaters of a stream, beside which the narrow and swampy trail ran
due north. And here the nature of the country changed entirely, for
beyond it was all one vast swamp, as still and dark as death.
A little way along this blackish stream Mayaro halted, and for a while
stood motionless, his powerful arms folded, gazing straight in front of
him with the half-closed eyes of a dreaming wolf.
Never had I looked upon so sinister a country or a swamp so vast and
desolate. It seemed more black than dusky, and the gloom lay not in the
obscure light of thick-set spruce, pine, and hemlock, but in the
shaggy, monstrous, and forbidding growth which appeared to be soiled
with some common dye, water, earth, tree-trunks, foliage--all wore the
same inky livery, and seemed wrought of rusty iron, so still the huge
trees stood, with every melancholy branch a-droop.
Sign of life there was none; the current of the narrow stream ran like
smooth oil; nor was its motion visible where it wound between soft,
black banks of depthless swamp through immemorial shadows.
The Mohican's voice came to me, low in the silence, sounding dull and
remote; nor did his dreaming eyes move in their vague intensity.
"This is the land of Amochol," he said. "Here, through these viewless
shades, his sway begins, as this stream begins, whose source is
darkness and whose current moves slowly like thick blood. Here is the
haunt of witch and sorcerer--of the hag Catrine, of the Wyoming Fiend,
of Amochol--of Amochol! Here run the Andastes, hunting through the dusk
like wolves and foxes--running, smelling, listening, ever hunting. Here
slink the Cat-People under a moon which is hidden forever by this
matted forest roof. This is the Dark Empire, O Loskiel! Behold!"
A slight shudder chilled me, but I said calmly enough:
"Where lies Catharines-town, O Sagamore?"
"This thick, dark stream runs through it."
"Through Catharines-town?"
"Aye."
"And then?"
"Along the vast chain of inland seas--first into the Lake of the
Senecas, then to that of the Cayugas, fed by Owasco, by Onondaga, by
Oneida, until it is called Oswego, and flows north by the great fort
into the sea Ontario."
"And where lies Catharines-town?"
"Nine miles beyond us, northward."
"And the trail?"
"None, Loskiel, save for the maze of game trails where long leaps are
made from tussock to swale, from root to rotting log across black pools
of mud, and quivering quicksands whose depths are white as snow under
the skin of mud, set with tarnished rainbow bubbles."
"But--those who come after us, Mayaro! The army--the wagons, horses,
artillery, cattle--nay, the men themselves! How are they to pass?"
He pointed east, then west: "For six miles, flanking this swamp, run
ridges of high hills northward. By these must the army march to
Catharines-town, the pioneers opening a road for the artillery. This
you shall make plain to Boyd presently, for he must march that way,
marking plain the trail north on the eastern ridge of hills, then west.
Thus shall Boyd move to cut off Amochol from the lake, while you and I
and the Oneidas and the Yellow Moth must thread this swamp and comb it
clean to head him from the rivers south of us."
"Is there a path along the ridge?"
"No path, Loskiel. So Boyd shall march by compass, slowly, seeking over
the level way, and open woods, with the artillery and wagons ever in
his thoughts. Six miles due north shall he march; then, where the hills
end a swamp begins--thick, miry, set with maple, brier, and tamarack.
But through this he must blaze his trail, and the pioneers who are to
follow shall lay their wagon-path across felled trees, northward still,
across the forests that border the flats of Catharines-town; and then,
still northward for a mile; and so swing west, severing the lake trail.
Thus we shall trap Amochol between us."
Slowly we walked back together to the height of land, where our little
party lay looking down at the dark country below. I sat down beside
Boyd, cleared from the soil the leaves for a little space, drew my
knife, and with its point traced out the map.
He listened in silence, while I went over all that the Sagamore had
taught me; and around us squatted our Indians, motionless, fiercely
intent upon my every word and gesture.
"Today is Sunday," I said. "By this hour, Butler's people should be in
headlong flight. Our army will not follow them at once, because it will
take all day tomorrow for our men to destroy the corn along the
Chemung. But on Tuesday our army will surely march, laying waste the
Indian towns and fields. Therefore, giving them ample time for this,
they should arrive at this spot on Wednesday."
"I have so calculated," said Boyd, listlessly.
"But Wednesday is the first day of September; and if we are to strike
Amochol at all it must be done during the Onon-hou-aroria. And that
ends on Tuesday. Therefore, must you move within the hour. And by
tomorrow evening you shall have blazed your hill-trail and shall be
lying with your men beside the stream and across the lake trail, north
of Catharines-town."
He nodded.
"Tonight," said I, "I and my Indians lie here on this height of land,
watching the swamp below, that nothing creep out of it. On Monday
morning, we move through it, straight northward, following the stream,
and by Monday night we scout to Catharines-town."
"That is clear," he said, lifting his handsome head from his hands.
"And the signal should come from me. Listen, Loskiel; you shall expect
that signal between midnight of Monday and dawn."
He rose, and I stood up; and for a moment we looked each other steadily
in the eye. Then he smiled faintly, shaking his head:
"Not this time, Loskiel," he said in a low voice. "My spectral pilot
gives no sign. Death lies beyond the fires of Catharines-town. I know,
Loskiel--I know."
"I also," said I in a low voice, taking his outstretched hand, "for you
shall live to make material amends as you have made them spiritually.
Only the act of deep contrition lies between you and God's swift
pardon. It were a sin to doubt it."
But he slowly shook his head, the faint smile lingering still. Then his
grip closed suddenly on my hand, released it, and he swung on his heel.
"Attention!" he said crisply. "Sling packs! Fall in! Tr-r-rail arms!
March!"