Complete weird tales of.., p.1122
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1122
Accustomed to the society of Sir William’s drawing room, this Canienga Chief was utterly conversant with polite usage, and entirely qualified to maintain any conversation addressed to him. Always he had been made much of by ladies — always, when it did not too greatly weary him, was he the centre of batteries of bright eyes and the object of gayest solicitation amid those respectable gatherings for which, in Sir William’s day, the Hall was so justly celebrated.
That was the modest and civil student and gentleman, Joseph Brant.
But in the forest he was a painted spectre; in battle a flame! He was a war chief: he never became Royaneh; but he possessed the wisdom of Hendrik, the eloquence of Red Jacket, the terrific energy of Hiakatoo.
We, of Tryon, were aware of all these things. Our ears were listening for the dread wolf cry of the Iroquois in their paint; our eyes were turned in dumb expectation toward our Provincial Congress of New York; toward our dear General Schuyler in Albany; toward the Continental Congress now in solemn session; toward our new and distant hope shining clearer, brighter as each day ended — His Excellency the Virginian.
How long were Sir John and his people to be left here in County Tryon to terrorize all friends to liberty, — to fortify Johnstown, to stop us about our business on the King’s highway, to intrigue with the Mohawks, the Oneidas, the Cayugas, the Onondagas, the Senecas, the Tuscaroras?
Guy Johnson tampered with the River Indians at Poughkeepsie, and we knew it. He sent belts to the Shawanese, to the Wyandottes, to the Mohicans. We knew it. He met the Delaware Sachems at a mongrel fire — God knows where and by what authority, for the Federal Council never gave it! — and we stopped one of his runners in the Bush with his pouch full o’ belts and strings; and we took every inch of wampum without leave of Sir John, and bade the runner tell him what we did.
We wrote to Albany; Albany made representations to Sir John, and the Baronet replied that his show of armed force at the Hall was solely for the reason that he had been warned that the Boston people were laying plans to invade Tryon and make of him a prisoner.
I think this silly lie was too much for Schuyler, for all now knew that war must come. Twelve Colonies, in Congress assembled, had announced that they had rather die as free people than continue to live as slaves. Very fine indeed! But what was of more interest to us at Fonda’s Bush, this Congress commissioned George Washington as Commander in Chief of a Colonial Army of 20,000 men, and prepared to raise three millions on bills of credit for the prosecution of the war!
Now, at last, the cleavage had come. Now, at last, Sir John was forced into the open.
He swore by Almighty God that he had had no hand in intriguing against the plain people of Tryon: and while he was making this oath, Guy Johnson was raising the Iroquois against us at Oswego; he was plotting with Carleton and Haldimand at Montreal; he had arranged for the departure of Brant with the great bulk of the Mohawk nation, and, with them, the fighting men of the Iroquois Confederacy. Only the Western Gate Keepers remained, — the fierce Senecas.
And so, except for a few Tuscaroras, a few lukewarm Onondagas, a few of the Lenape, and perhaps half — possibly two-thirds of the Oneida nation, Guy Johnson already had swung the terrible Iroquois to the King.
And now, secretly, the rats began to leave for the North, where, behind the Canada border, savage hordes were gathering by clans, red and white alike.
Guy Johnson went on pretense of Indian business; and none dare stop the Superintendent for Indian affairs on a mission requiring, as he stated, his personal appearance at Oswego.
But once there he slipped quietly over into Canada; and Brant joined him.
Colonel Claus sneaked North; old John Butler went in the night with a horde of Johnstown and Caughnawaga Tories. McDonald followed, accompanied by some scores of bare-shinned Tory Mc’s. Walter Butler disappeared like a phantom.
But Sir John remained behind his stockade and swivels at the Hall, vowing and declaring that he meditated no mischief — no, none at all.
Then, in a fracas in Johnstown, that villain sheriff, Alexander White, fired upon Sammons, and the friends to liberty went to take the murderous Tory at the jail.
Frey was made sheriff, which infuriated Sir John; but Governor Tryon deposed him and reappointed White, so the plain people went again to do him a harm; and he fled the district to the mortification of the Baronet.
But Sir John’s course was nearly at an end: and events in the outer world set the sands in his cloudy glass running very swiftly. Schuyler and Montgomery were directing a force of troops against Montreal and Quebec, and Sir Guy Carleton, Governor General of Canada, was shrieking for help.
St. John’s surrendered, and the Mohawk Indians began fighting!
Here was a pretty pickle for Sir John to explain.
Suddenly we had news of the burning of Falmouth.
* * *
On a bitter day in early winter, an Express passed through Fonda’s Bush on snow-shoes, calling out a squad of the Mohawk Regiment of District Militia.
Nick Stoner, Andrew Bowman, Joe Scott, and I answered the summons.
Snow-shoeing was good — a light fall on the crust — and we pulled foot for the Kingsborough trail, where we met up with a squad from the Palatine Regiment and another from the Flatts.
But scarce were we in sight of Johnstown steeples when the drums of an Albany battalion were heard; and we saw, across the snow, their long brown muskets slanting, and heard their bugle-horn on the Johnstown road.
* * *
I saw nothing of the affair at the Hall, being on guard at St. John’s Church, lower down in the town. But I saw our General Schuyler ride up the street with his officers; and so knew that all would go well.
All went well enough, they say. For when again the General rode past the church, I saw waggons under our escort piled with the muskets of the Highland Battalion, and others heaped high with broad-swords, pistols, swivels, and pikes. And on Saturday, the twentieth of January, when our tour of duty ended, and our squads were dismissed, each to its proper district, all people knew that Sir John Johnson had given his parole of honor not to take up arms against America; not to communicate with the Royalists in Canada; not to oppose the friends of liberty at home; nor to stir from his Baronial Hall to go to Canada or to the sea, but with liberty to transact such business as might be necessary in other parts of this colony.
And I, for one, never doubted that a son of the great Sir William would keep his word and sacred parole of honour.
* * *
CHAPTER IV
TWO COUNTRY MICE
IT WAS LATE in April, and I had boiled my sap and had done with my sugar bush for another year. The snow was gone; the Kennyetto roared amber brilliant through banks of melting ice, and a sweet odour of arbutus filled all the woods.
Spring was in the land and in my heart, too, and when Nick Stoner galloped to my door in his new forest dress, very fine, I, nothing loath, did hasten to dress me in my new doe-skins, not less fine than Nick’s and lately made for me by a tailor-woman in Kingsborough who was part Oneida and part Dutch.
That day I wore a light, round cap of silver mole fur with my unshorn hair, all innocent of queue or powder, curling crisp like a woman’s. Of which I was ashamed and eager to visit Toby Tice, our Johnstown barber, and be trimmed.
My new forest dress, as I say, was of doe-skin — a laced shirt belted in, shoulder-caped, cut round the neck to leave my throat free, and with long thrums on sleeve and skirt against need.
Trews shaped to fit my legs close; and thigh moccasins, very deep with undyed fringe, but ornamented by an infinite pattern of little green vines, made me brave in my small mirror. And my ankle moccasins were gay with Oneida devices wrought out of porcupine quills and beads, scarlet, green, purple, and orange, and laid open at the instep by two beaded flaps.
I saddled my mare, Kaya, in her stall, which was a log wing to my house, and presently mounted and rode around to where Nick sat his saddle a-playing on his fife, which he carried everywhere with him, he loving music but obliged to make his own.
“Lord Harry!” cried he on seeing me so fine. “If you are not truly a Viscount then you look one!”
“I would not change my name and health and content,” said I, “for a king’s gold crown today.” And I clinked the silver coins in my pouch and laughed. And so we rode away along the Johnstown road.
He also, I think, was dying for a frolic. Young minds in trouble as well as hard-worked bodies need a holiday now and then. He winked at me and chinked the shillings in his bullet-pouch.
“We shall see all the sights,” quoth he, “and the Kennyetto could not quench my thirst today, nor our two horses eat as much, nor since time began could all the lovers in history love as much as could I this April day.... Were there some pretty wench of my own mind to use me kindly.... Like that one who smiled at us — do you remember?”
“At Christmas?”
“That’s the one!” he exclaimed. “Lord! but she was handsome in her sledge! — and her sister, too, Jack.”
“I forget their names,” said I.
“Browse,” he said, “ — Jessica and Betsy. And they live at Pigeon-Wood near Mayfield.”
“Oho!” said I, “you have made their acquaintance!”
He laughed and we galloped on.
Nick sang in his saddle, beating time upon his thigh with his fife:
“Flammadiddle! Paddadiddle! Flammadiddle dandy! My Love’s kisses Are sweet as sugar-candy! Flammadiddle! Paddadiddle! Flammadiddle dandy! She makes fun o’ me Because my legs are bandy — —”
He checked his gay refrain:
“Speaking of flamms,” said he, “my brother John desires to be a drummer in the Continental Line.”
“He is only fourteen,” said I, laughing.
“I know. But he is a tall lad and stout enough. What will be your regiment, Jack?”
“I like Colonel Livingston’s,” said I, “but nobody yet knows what is to be the fate of the district militia and whether the Mohawk regiment, the Palatine, and the other three are to be recruited to replace the Tory deserters, or what is to be done.”
Nick flourished his flute: “All I know,” he said, “is that my father and brother and I mean to march.”
“I also,” said I.
“Then it’s in God’s hands,” he remarked cheerfully, “and I mean to use my ears and eyes in Johnstown today.”
We put our horses to a gallop.
* * *
We rode into Johnstown and through the village, very pleased to be in civilization again, and saluting many wayfarers whom we recognized, Tory and Whig alike. Some gave us but a cold good-day and looked sideways at our forest dress; others were marked in cordiality, — men like our new Sheriff, Frey, and the two Sammonses and Jacob Shew.
We met none of the Hall people except the Bouw-Meester, riding beside five yoke of beautiful oxen, who drew bridle to exchange a mouthful of farm gossip with me while the grinning slaves waited on the footway, goads in hand.
Also, I saw out o’ the tail of my eye the two Bartholomews passing, white and stunted and uncanny as ever, but pretended not to notice them, for I had always felt a shiver when they squeaked good-day at me, and when they doffed hats the tops of their heads had blue marbling on the scalp under their scant dry hair. Which did not please me.
Whilst I chattered with the Bouw-Meester of seeds and plowing, Nick, who had no love for husbandry, practiced upon his fife so windily and with such enthusiasm that we three horsemen were soon ringed round by urchins of the town on their reluctant way to school.
“How’s old Wall?” cried Nick, resting his puckered lips and wiping his fife. “There’s a schoolmaster for pickled rods, I warrant. Eh, boys? Am I right?”
Lads and lassies giggled, some sucked thumbs and others hung their heads.
“Come, then,” cried Nick, “he’s a good fellow, after all! And so am I — when I’m asleep!”
Whereat all the children giggled again and Nick fished a great cake of maple sugar from his Indian pouch, drew his war-hatchet, broke the lump, and passed around the fragments. And many a childish face, which had been bright and clean with scrubbing, continued schoolward as sticky as a bear cub in a bee-tree.
And now the Bouw-Meester and his oxen and the grinning slaves had gone their way; so Nick and I went ours.
There were taverns enough in the town. We stopped at one or two for a long pull and a dish of meat.
Out of the window I could see something of the town and it seemed changed; the Court House deserted; the jail walled in by a new palisade; fewer people on the street, and little traffic. Nor did I perceive any red-coats ruffling it as of old; the Highlanders who passed wore no side-arms, — excepting the officers. And I thought every Scot looked glum as a stray dog in a new village, where every tyke moves stiffly as he passes and follows his course with evil eyes.
We had silver in our bullet pouches. We visited every shop, but purchased nothing useful; for Nick bought sweets and a mouse-trap and some alley-taws for his brother John — who wished to go to war! Oh, Lord! — and for his mother he found skeins of brightly-coloured wool; and for his father a Barlow jack-knife.
I bought some suekets and fish-hooks and a fiddle, — God knows why, for I can not play on it, nor desire to! — and I further purchased two books, “Lives of Great Philosophers,” by Rudd, and a witty poem by Peter Pindar, called “The Lousiad” — a bold and mirthful lampoon on the British King.
These packets we stowed in our saddle-bags, and after that we knew not what to do save to seek another tavern.
But Nick was no toss-pot, nor was I. And having no malt-thirst, we remained standing in the street beside our horses, debating whether to go home or no.
“Shall you pay respects at the Hall?” he asked seriously.
But I saw no reason to go, owing no duty; and the visit certain to prove awkward, if, indeed, it aroused in Sir John no more violent emotion than pain at sight of me.
With our bridles over our arms, still debating, we walked along the street until we came to the Johnson Arms Tavern, — a Tory rendezvous not now frequented by friends of liberty.
It was so dull in Johnstown that we tied our horses and went into the Johnson Arms, hoping, I fear, to stir up a mischief inside.
Their brew was poor; and the spirits of the dozen odd Tories who sat over chess or draughts, or whispered behind soiled gazettes, was poorer still.
All looked up indifferently as we entered and saluted them.
“Ah, gentlemen,” says Nick, “this is a glorious April day, is it not?”
“It’s well enough,” said a surly man in horn spectacles, “but I should be vastly obliged, sir, if you would shut the door, which you have left swinging in the wind.”
“Sir,” says Nick, “I fear you are no friend to God’s free winds. Free winds, free sunshine, free speech, these suit my fancy. Freedom, sir, in her every phase — and Liberty — the glorious jade! Ah, gentlemen, there’s a sweetheart you can never tire of. Take my advice and woo her, and you’ll never again complain of a breeze on your shins!”
“If you are so ardent, sir,” retorted another man in a sneering voice, “why do you not go courting your jade in Massachusetts Bay?”
“Because, sir,” said I, “our sweetheart, Mistress Liberty, is already on her joyous way to Johnstown. It is a rendezvous, gentlemen. Will it please you to join us in receiving her?”
One man got up, overturning the draught board, paid his reckoning, and went out muttering and gesticulating.
“A married man,” quoth Nick, “and wedded to that old hag, Tyranny. It irks him to hear of fresh young jades, knowing only too well what old sour-face awaits him at home with the bald end of a broom.”
The dark looks cast at us signalled storms; but none came, so poor the spirit of the company.
“Gentlemen, you seem melancholy and distrait,” said I. “Are you so pensive because my Lord Dunmore has burned our pleasant city of Norfolk? Is it that which weighs upon your minds? Or is the sad plight of Tommy Gage distressing you? Or the several pickles in which Sir Guy Carleton, General Burgoyne, and General Howe find themselves?”
“Possibly,” quoth Nick, “a short poem on these three British warriors may enliven you:
“Carleton, Burgoyne, Howe, “Bow-wow-wow!”
But there was nothing to be hoped of these sullen Tories, for they took our laughter scowling, but budged not an inch. A pity, for it was come to a pretty pass in Johnstown when two honest farmers must go home for lack of a rogue or two of sufficient spirit to liven a dull day withal.
* * *
We stopped at the White Doe Tavern, and Nick gave the company another poem, which he said was writ by my Lord North:
“O Boston wives and maids draw near and see Our delicate Souchong and Hyson tea; Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or brown; If not, we’ll cut your throats and burn your town!”
Whereat all the company laughed and applauded; and there was no hope of any sport to be had there, either.
“Well,” said Nick, sighing, “the war seems to be done ere it begun. What’s in those whelps at the Johnson Arms, that they stomach such jests as we cook for them? Time was when I knew where I could depend upon a broken head in Johnstown — mine own or another’s.”
We had it in mind to dine at the Doe, planning, as we sat on the stoop, bridles in hand, to ride back to the Bush by new moonlight.
“If a pretty wench were as rare as a broken head in Johnstown,” he muttered, “I’d be undone, indeed. Come, Jack; shall we ride that way homeward?”
“Which way?”
“By Pigeon-Wood.”
“By Mayfield?”
“Aye.”
“You have a sweetheart there, you say?”
“And so, perhaps, might you, for the pain of passing by.”
“No,” said I, “I want no sweetheart. To clip a lip en passant, if the lip be warm and willing, — that is one thing. A blush and a laugh and ’tis over. But to journey in quest of gallantries with malice aforethought — no.”
