Complete weird tales of.., p.1128
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1128
Our Fonda’s Bush Company presented a most mortifying spectacle as Godfrey and I came up. Joe Scott stood facing the slovenly single rank which he had contrived to parade in the gathering dusk; and he was arguing with the men while they talked back loudly.
There was a hubbub of voices, angry arguments, some laughter which sounded more sinister to me than the cursing.
Then Charlie Cady and John Howell of Sacandaga left the ranks, refusing to listen to Scott, and withdrew a little distance, where they stood sullenly in their defiance.
Elias Cady called out that he would not march to the Hall to take Sir John, and he, also, left the ranks.
Then, and despite Joe Scott’s pleading, Phil Helmer and his sullen son, John, walked away and joined the Cadys, and called on Andrew Bowman to do the like.
Dries wavered; but Baltus Weed and Eugene Grinnis left the company.
Which so enraged me that I, also, forgot all discipline and duty, and shook my rifles at the mutineers.
“You Tory dogs!” I said, “we’re well purged of you, and I for one thank God that we now know you for what you are!”
Godfrey, a stark, fierce figure in his blackened buckskins, went out in front of our single rank and called to the malcontents:
“Pull foot, you swine, or I’ll mark you!”
And, “Pull foot!” shouted Nick Stoner, “and be damned to you! Why do you loiter! Do you wait for a volley in your guts!”
At that, Balty Weed turned and ran toward the woods; but the others moved more slowly and sullenly, not exactly menacing us with their rifles, but carrying them conveniently across the hollow of their left arms.
In the increasing darkness I heard somebody sob, and saw Joe Scott standing with one hand across his eyes, as though to close from his sight such a scene of deep disgrace.
Then I went to him. I was trembling and could scarce command my voice, but gave him a salute and stood at attention until he finally noticed me.
“Well, John,” said he, “this is like to be the death of me.”
“Sir; will you order the drums to beat a march?”
“Do you think the men will march?”
“Yes, sir — what remains of them.”
He came slowly back, motioning what was left of the company to close up. I could not hear what he said, but the men began to count off, and their voices were resolute enough to hearten all.
So presently Nick Stoner, who acted as fife-major, blew lustily into his fife, playing the marching tune, which is called “The Little Red Foot”; and the drums beat it; and we marched in column of fours to take Sir John at his ancestral Hall, if it chanced to be God’s will.
* * *
CHAPTER IX
STOLE AWAY
JOHNSON HALL WAS a blaze of light with candles in every window, and great lanterns flaring from both stone forts which flanked the Hall, and along the new palisades which Sir John had built recently for his defense.
All gates and doors stood wide open, and officers in Continental uniform and in the uniform of the Palatine Regiment, were passing in and out with a great clanking of swords and spurs.
Everywhere companies of regular infantry from Colonel Dayton’s regiment of the New York Line were making camp, and I saw their baggage waggons drive up from the town below and go into park to the east of the Hall, where cattle were lying in the new grass.
An officer of the Palatine Regiment carrying a torch came up to Joe Scott, where our little company stood at ease along the hedge fence.
“What troops are these, sir?” he inquired, indicating us with a nervous gesture.
And when he was informed:
“Oho!” said he, “there should be material for rangers among your farmer-militia. Pick me two men for Colonel Dayton who live by rifle and trap and who know the wilderness from Albany to the Lakes.”
So our captain told off Nick Stoner and me, and we stepped out of the ranks into the red torch-glow.
“Thank you, sir,” said the Palatine officer to our Captain. And to us: “Follow me, lads.”
He was a brisk, handsome and smartly uniformed officer of militia; and his cheerful demeanor heartened me who had lately witnessed such humiliations and disgrace.
We followed him through the stockade gate and into the great house, so perfectly familiar to me in happier days.
Excepting for the noise and confusion of officers coming and going, there was no disorder within; the beautiful furniture stood ranged in stately symmetry; the pictures hung on the walls; but I saw no silver anywhere, and all the candlesticks were pewter.
As we came to the library, an officer in the uniform of a colonel of the Continental Line turned from a group of men crowded around the centre table, on which lay a map. Nick Stoner and I saluted his epaulettes.
He came close to us and searched our faces coolly enough, as a farmer inspects an offered horse.
“This is young Nick Stoner, of Fonda’s Bush, sir,” said the Palatine officer.
“Oh,” said the Colonel drily, “I have heard of the Stoner boys. And what may be your name?” he inquired, fastening his piercing eyes on mine.
“John Drogue, sir.”
“I have heard of you, also,” he remarked, more drily still.
For a full minute, it seemed to me, he scrutinized me from head to foot with a sort of curiosity almost brutal. Then, on his features a fine smile softened what had seemed insolence. With a glance he dismissed the Palatine, motioned us to follow him, and we three entered the drawing-room across the hall, which was lighted but empty.
“Mr. Drogue,” said he, “I am Colonel Dayton; and I have in my personal baggage a lieutenant’s commission for you from our good Governor, procured, I believe, through the solicitation of our mutual and most excellent friend, Lord Stirling.”
I stood astonished to learn of my preferment, never dreaming nor even wishing for military rank, but perfectly content to carry the sack of a private soldier in this most just of all wars. And as for Billy Alexander remembering to so serve me, I was still more amazed. For Lord Stirling was already a general officer in His Excellency’s new army, and I never expected him to remember me amid the desperate anxieties of his new position.
“Mr. Drogue,” said Dayton, “you, I believe, are the only example among the gentry of Tryon County who has openly embraced the cause of our thirteen colonies. I do not include the Albany Patroon; I speak only of the nobility and gentry of this county.... And it took courage to turn your back upon your own caste.”
“It would have taken more to turn against my own countrymen, sir.”
He smiled. “Come, sir, were you not sometime Brent-Meester to Sir William?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you should know the forest, Mr. Drogue.”
“I do know it.”
“So General Schuyler has informed me.”
He clasped his gloved hands behind his back and began to pace to and fro, his absent glances on the window candles. Presently he halted:
“Sir John is fled. Did you know it?” he said abruptly.
I felt the hot shame burn my face to the roots of my hair.
“Broke his parole of honour and gone off,” added Dayton. “Where do you suppose he is making for with his Tories and Highlanders?”
I could scarcely speak, so mortified was I that a gentleman of my own class could have so foully conducted. But I made out to say that Sir John, no doubt, was traveling toward Canada. “Certainly,” said the Colonel; “but which route?”
“God knows, sir. By the Sacandaga and the Lakes, no doubt.”
“Could he go by Saratoga and the top o’ the Hudson?”
“It is a pathless wilderness.”
“Yes. And still I think the rogue went that way. I have rangers out looking for signs of him beyond Ballston. Also, I sent half a battalion toward the Sacandaga. Of course Albany Royalists warned him of my coming; I couldn’t prevent that, nor could Schuyler, no, nor the very devil himself!
“And here am I at the Hall, and the fox stole away to the Canadas. And what now to do I know not.... Do you?”
He shot the question in my face point blank; and I stood dumb for a minute, striving to collect and marshall any ideas that might bear upon so urgent a matter.
“Colonel,” said I, “unless the British hold Champlain, Sir John would scarcely risk a flight in that direction. No. He would prefer to plunge into the wilderness and travel by Oswegatchi.”
“Do you so believe, Mr. Drogue?”
I considered a moment more; then:
“Yet, if Guy Johnson’s Indians have come down toward the Sacandaga to protect him — knowing that he had meant to flee — —”
I looked at Dayton, then turned to Nick.
“What think you, Nick?” I demanded.
“By God,” he blurted out, “I am of that mind too! Only a madman would attempt the wilderness by Oswegatchi; and I wager that Sir John is already beyond the Sacandaga and making for the Canadas on the old Mohawk war-trail!”
Colonel Dayton laid one hand on my shoulder:
“Mr. Drogue,” said he, “we have militia and partizans more than sufficient in Tryon. What we need are more regulars, too; but most of all, and in this crisis, we need rangers. God alone knows what is coming upon Tryon County from the North, — what evil is breeding there, — what sinister forces are gathering to overwhelm these defenceless settlements.
“We have scarcely a fort on this frontier, scarcely a block house. Every town and village and hamlet north of Albany is unprotected; every lonely settler is now at the mercy of this unknown and monstrous menace which is gathering like a thundercloud in the North.
“Regular regiments require time to muster; the militia have yet to prove their worth; partizans, minute men, alarm companies — the value of all these remains a question still. Damn it, I want rangers! I want them now!”
He began to stride about the room again in his perplexity, but presently came back to where we stood.
“How many rifles in your company from Fonda’s Bush?” he demanded.
I blushed to tell him, and further confessed what had occurred that very evening in the open fields before Johnstown.
“Well,” said he coolly, “it is well to be rid of vermin. Now you should pick your men in safety, Mr. Drogue. And if none will volunteer — such as have families or are not fit material for rangers — you are authorized to go out into the wilderness and recruit any forest-running fellow you can persuade.”
He drove one gloved hand into the palm of the other to emphasize what he said:
“I want real rangers, not militia! I want young men who laugh at any face old Death can pull at them! I want strong men, keen men, tough men, rough men.
“I want men who fear God, if that may be, or who fear the devil, if that may be; but who fear nothing else on earth!”
He shot a look at Nick, “ — like that boy there!” he exclaimed— “or I am no judge of men! And like yourself, Mr. Drogue, when once they blood you! Come, sir; can you find a few such men for me, and take full charge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A pledge!” he exclaimed, beating his gloved palms. “And when you can collect a dozen — the first full dozen — I want you to stop the Iroquois trail at the Sacandaga. That’s where you shall chiefly operate — along the Sacandaga and the mountains northward! That’s where I expect trouble. There lies this accursed war-trail; and along it there is like to be a very bloody business!”
He turned aside and stood smiting his hands softly together, his preoccupied eyes regarding the candles.
“A very bloody business,” he repeated absently to himself. “Only rangers can aid us now.... Help us a little in this dreadful crisis.... Until we can recruit — build forts — —”
An officer appeared at the open door and saluted.
“Well, sir,” inquired Dayton sharply.
“Lady Johnson is not to be discovered in the town, sir.”
“What? Has Lady Johnson run away also? Does the poor, deluded woman imagine that any man in my command would offer insult to her?”
“It is reported, sir, that Lady Johnson said some very bitter things concerning us. It is further reported that Lady Johnson is gone in a great rage to the hunting lodge of the late Sir William, as there were already family servants there at last accounts.”
“Where’s this place?” demanded Dayton, turning to me.
“The summer house on the Vlaie, sir.”
“Very well. Take what men you can collect and go there instantly, Mr. Drogue, and place that foolish woman under arrest!”
A most painful colour burnt my face, but I saluted in silence.
“The little fool,” muttered Dayton, “to think we meant to insult her!” And to me: “Let her remain there, Mr. Drogue, if she so desires. Only guard well the house. I shall march a battalion of my regiment thither in the morning, and later I shall order a company of Colonel Livingston’s regiment to Fish House. And then we shall see what we shall see,” he added grimly to the officer in the doorway, who smiled in return.
There ensued a silence through which, very far away, we heard the music of another regiment marching into the town, which lay below us under the calm, high stars.
“That’s Livingston, now!” said Colonel Dayton, briskly; and went out in a hurry, his sword and spurs ringing loudly in the hall. And a moment later we heard him ride away at a gallop, and the loud clatter of horsemen at his heels.
I pulled a bit of jerked venison from my sack and bit into it. Nick Stoner filled his mouth with cold johnnycake.
And so, munching our supper, we left the Hall, headed for the Drowned Lands to make prisoner an unhappy girl who had gone off in a rage to Summer House Point.
* * *
CHAPTER X
A NIGHT MARCH
THE VILLAGE OF Johnstown was more brightly lighted than I had ever before seen it. Indeed, as we came out of the Hall the glow of it showed rosy in the sky and the distant bustle in the streets came quite plainly to our ears.
Near the hedge fence outside the Hall we came upon remnants of our militia company, which had just been dismissed from further duty, and the men permitted to go home.
Some already were walking away across the fields toward the Fonda’s Bush road, and these all were farmers; but I saw De Luysnes and Johnny Silver, the French trappers, talking to old man Stoner and his younger boy; and Nick and I went over to where they were gathered near a splinter torch, which burned with a clear, straight flame like a candle.
Joe Scott, too, was there, and I told him about my commission, whereupon he gave me the officer’s salute and we shook hands very gravely.
“There is scarce a handful remaining of our company,” said he, “and you had best choose from us such as may qualify for rangers, and who are willing to go with you. As for me, I can not go, John, because I have here a letter but just delivered from Honikol Herkimer, calling me to the Canajoharie Regiment.”
It appeared, also, that old man Stoner had already enlisted with Colonel Livingston’s regiment, and his thirteen-year-old boy, also, had been taken into the same command as a drummer.
Dries Bowman shook his head when I appealed to him, saying he had a wife and children to look after, and would not leave them alone in the Bush.
None could find fault with such an answer, though his surly tone troubled me a little.
However, the two French trappers offered to enlist in my company of Rangers, and they instantly began to strap up their packs like men prepared to start on any journey at a moment’s notice.
Then Godfrey Shew, of Fish House, said to me very simply that his conscience and his country weighed more together than did his cabin; and that he was quite ready to go with me at once.
At that, Joe de Golyer, of Varick’s, fetched a laugh and came up in the torch-light and stood there towering six foot eight in his greasy buckskins, and showing every hound’s tooth in his boyish head.
“Give me my shilling, John,” quoth he, “for I, also, am going with you. I’ve a grist-mill and a cabin and a glebe fair cleared at Varick’s. But my father was all French; I have seen red for many a day; and if the King of England wants my mill I shall take my pay for it where I find it!”
Silver began to grin and strut and comb out his scarlet thrums with dirty fingers.
“Enfin,” said he, with both thumbs in his arm-pits, “we shall be ver’ happee familee in our pretee Bush. No more Toree, no more Iroquois! Tryon Bush all belong to us.”
“All that belongs to us today,” remarked Godfrey grimly, “is what we hold over our proper rifles, Johnny Silver!”
Old man Stoner nodded: “What you look at over your rifle sight is all that’ll ever feed and clothe you now, Silver.”
“Oh, sure, by gar!” cried Silver with his lively grin. “Deer in blue coat, man in red coat, même chose, savvy? All good game to Johnee Silver. Ver’ fine chasse! Ah, sacré garce!” And he strutted about like a cock-partridge, slapping his hips.
Nick Stoner burst into a loud laugh.
“Ours is like to be a rough companionship, John!” he said. “For the first shot fired will hum in our ears like new ale; and the first screech from the Iroquois will turn us into devils!”
“Come,” said I with a shiver I could not control.
I shook hands with Joe Scott; Nick took leave of his big, gaunt father. We both looked at Dries Bowman, but he had turned away in pretense of firing the torch.
“Good-bye, Brent-Meester!” cried little Johnny Stoner in his childish treble, as we started down the stony way toward the town below.
* * *
Johnstown streets were full of people and every dwelling, shop, and tavern lighted brightly as we came into the village.
Mounted troopers of the Albany Horse guarded every street or clattered to and fro in search, they told us, of hidden arms and supplies. Soldiers of the regiments of Colonels Dayton and Livingston, too, were to be seen everywhere, some guarding the jail, some encamped before the Court House, others occupying suspected dwellings and taverns notorious as Tory nests.
