At dawn the birds’ outburst was like the loud outrush of a torrent filling the waking world; at twilight scores of unseen whippoorwills put on their shoes and shouted in whistling whisper voices to one another across the wastes of night like the False Faces gathering at a secret tryst.

  If the whole Northland languished, drooping and drowsy in the heat, the very air, too, seemed heavy with the foreboding gloom of dreadful rumours.

  Every day came ominous tidings from North, from West, from South of great forces uniting to march hither and crush us. And the terrible imminence of catastrophe, far from arousing and nerving us for the desperate event, seemed rather to confuse and daze our people, and finally to stupefy all, as though the horror of the immense and hellish menace were beyond human comprehension.

  Men laboured on the meagre defences of the county as though weighted by a nightmare — as though drowsing awake and not believing in their ghostly dream.

  And all preparation went slow — fearfully slow — and it was like dragging a mass of chained men, whose minds had been drugged, to drive the militia to the drill ground or force the labourers to the unfinished parapets of our few and scattered forts.

  Men still talked of the Sacandaga Block House as though there were such a refuge; but there was none unless they meant the ruins at Fish House or the unburned sheep-fold at Summer House Point, or the Mayfield defenses.

  There remained only one fort of consequence south of the Lakes — Fort Stanwix, now called Schuyler, and that was far from finished, far from properly armed, garrisoned, and provisioned.

  Whatever else of defense Tryon County possessed were merest makeshifts — stone farmhouses fortified by ditch, stockade, and bastions; block-houses of wood; nothing more.

  Fragments of our two regular regiments were ever shifting garrison — a company here, a battalion there. A few rangers kept the field; a regiment of Herkimer’s militia, from time to time, took its turn at duty; a scout or two of irregulars and Oneida Indians haunted the trail toward Buck Island — which some call Deer Island, and others speak of as Carleton Island, and others still name it Ile-aux-Chevreuil, which is a mistake.

  But any name for the damned spot was good enough for me, who had been there in years past, and knew how strong it could be made to defy us and to send out armed hordes to harass us on the Mohawk.

  And at that instant, under Colonel Barry St. Leger, the Western flying force of the enemy was being marshalled at Buck Island.

  Our scouts brought an account of the forces already there — detachments of the 8th British regulars, the 34th regulars, the regiment of Sir John, called the Royal New Yorkers by some, by others the Greens — (though our scouts told us that their new uniforms were to be scarlet) — the Corps of Chasseurs, a regiment of green-coats known as Butler’s Rangers, a detachment of Royal Artillery, another of Highlanders, and, most sinister of all, Brant’s Iroquois under Thayendanegea himself and a number of young officers of the Indian Department, with Colonel Claus to advise them.

  This was the flying force that threatened us from the West, directed by Burgoyne.

  From the South we were menaced by the splendid and powerful British army which held New York City, Long Island, and the lower Hudson, and stood ready and equipped to march on a straight road right into Albany, cleaning up the Hudson, shore and stream, on their way hither.

  But our most terrible danger threatened us from the North, where General Burgoyne, with a superb army and a half thousand Iroquois savages, had been smashing his way toward us through the forests, seizing the lakes and the vessels and forts defending them, outmanœuvring our General St. Clair; driving him from our fortress of Ticonderoga with loss of all stores and baggage; driving Francis out of Skenesborough and Fort Anne, and destroying both posts; chasing St. Clair out of Castleton and Hubbardton, destroying two-thirds of Warner’s army; driving Schuyler’s undisciplined militia from Fort Edward, toward Saratoga.

  Every day brought rumours or positive news of disasters in our immediate neighbourhood. We knew that St. Leger, Sir John, Walter Butler, and Brant had left Buck Island and that Burgoyne was directing the campaign planned for the most hated army that ever invaded the Northland. And we learned the horrid details of these movements from Thomas Spencer, the Oneida who had just come in from that region, and whose certain account of how matters were swiftly coming to a crisis at last seemed to galvanize our people into action.

  I was now, in August, well enough to take the field with a scout, and I applied for active duty and was promised it; but no orders came, and I haunted the Johnstown Fort impatiently, certain that every man who rode express and who went galloping through the town must bring my marching orders.

  Precious days succeeded one another; I fretted, fumed, sickened with anxiety, deemed myself forgotten or perhaps disdained.

  Then I had a shock when General Herkimer, ignoring me, sent for my Saguenay, but for what purpose I knew not, only that old Block’s loud-voiced son-in-law, Colonel Cox, desired a Montagnais tracker.

  The Yellow Leaf came to me with the courier, one Barent Westerfelt, who had brought presents from Colonel Cox; and I had no discretion in the matter, nor would have exercised any if I had.

  “Brother,” said I, taking him by both hands, “go freely with this messenger from General Herkimer; because if you were not sorely needed our brother Corlear had not ordered an express to find and fetch you.”

  He replied that he made nothing of the presents sent him, but desired to remain with me. I patiently pointed out to him that I was merely a subaltern in the State Rangers and unattached, and that I must await my turn of duty like a good soldier, nor feel aggrieved if fortune called others first.

  Still he seemed reluctant, and would not go, and scowled at the express rider and his sack of gew-gaws.

  “Brother,” said I, “would you shame me who, as you say, found you a wild beast and have taught you that you are a real man?”

  “I am a man and a warrior,” he said quickly.

  “Real men and warriors are known by their actions, my younger brother. When there is war they shine their hatchets. When the call comes, they bound into the war-trail. Brother, the call has come! Hiero!”

  The Montagnais straightened his body and threw back his narrow, dangerous head.

  “Haih!” he said. “I hear my brother’s voice coming to me through the forests! Very far away beyond the mountains I hear the panther-cry of the Mengwe! My axe is bright! I am in my paint. Koué! I go!”

  * * *

  He left within the hour; and I had become attached to the wild rover of the Saguenay, and missed him the more, perhaps, because of my own sore heart which beat so impotently within my idle body.

  That Herkimer had taken him disconcerted and discouraged me; but there was a more bitter blow in store for a young soldier of no experience in discipline or in the slow habit of military procedure; for, judge of my wrath when one rainy day in August comes Nick Stoner to me in a new uniform of the line, saying that Colonel Livingston’s regiment lacked musicians, and he had thought it best to transfer and to ‘list and not let opportunity go a-glimmering.

  “My God, Jack,” says he, “you can not blame me very well, for my father is drafted to the same regiment, and my brother John is a drummer in it. It is a marching regiment and certain to fight, for there be three Livingstons commanding of it, and who knows what old Herkimer can do with his militia, or what the militia themselves can do?”

  “You are perfectly right, Nick,” said I in a mortified voice. “I am not envious; no! only it wounds me to feel I am so utterly forgotten, and my application for transfer unnoticed.”

  Nick took leave of us that night, sobered not at all by the imminence of battle, for he danced around my chamber in Burke’s Inn, a-playing upon his fife and capering so that Penelope was like to suffocate with laughter, though inclined to seriousness.

  We supped all together in my chamber as we had so often gathered at Summer House, but if I were inclined to gloomy brooding, and if Penelope seemed concerned at parting with a comrade, Nick permitted no sad reflexions to disturb us whom he was leaving behind.

  He made us drink a very devilish flip-cup, which he had devised in the tap-room below with Jimmy Burke’s aid, and which filled our young noddles with a gaiety not natural.

  He sang and offered toasts, and played on his fife and capered until we were breathless with mirth.

  Also, he took from his new knapsack a penny broadside, — witty, but like most broadsides of the kind, somewhat broad, — which he had for thrippence of a pedlar, the same being a parody on the Danbury Broadside; and this he read aloud to us, bursting with laughter, while standing upon his chair at table to recite it:

  THE EXPEDITION TO JOHNSTOWN

  (In search of provisions)

  Scene — New York City

  (Enter General Sir Wm. Howe and Mrs. —— , preceded by Fame in cap and bells, flourishing a bladder.)

  Fame (speaks)

  “Without wit, without wisdom, half stupid, half drunk, And rolling along arm-in-arm with his Punk, Comes gallant Sir William, the warrior (by proxy) To harangue his soldiers (held up by his Doxy)!”

  Sir Wm. (speaks)

  “My boys, I’m a-going to send you to Tryon, To Johnstown, where you’ll get as groggy as I am! By a Tory from there I have just been informed That there’s nobody there, so the town shall be stormed! For if nobody’s there and nobody near it, My army shall conquer that town, never fear it!”

  (Enter Joe Gallopaway, a refugee Tory)

  Joe

  “Brave soldiers, go fight that we all may get rich!”

  Regular Soldiers

  “We’ll fetch you a halter, you * * * * ! Get out! And go live in the woods upon nuts, Or we’ll give you our bayonets plump in your guts! Do you think we are fighting to feed such a crew As Butler, Sir John, Mr. Singler and you?”

  (Enter Sir John Johnson)

  Sir John

  “Come on, my brave boys! Now! as bold as a lion! And march at my heels to the County called Tryon; My lads, there’s no danger, for this you should know, That I’d let it alone if I thought it was so! So point all your noses towards the Dominion And we’ll all live like lords is my honest opinion!”

  Scene — Buck Island Trail

  (Enter Fame, Sir John, and his Royal Greens)

  Fame

  “In cunning and canting, deceit and disguise, In breaking parole by inventing cheap lies, Sir John is a match for the worst of his species, But in this undertaking he’ll soon go to pieces. He’ll fall to the rear, for he’d rather go last, Crying, ‘Forward, my boys! Let me see you all past! For his Majesty’s service (so reads my commission) Requires I push forward the whole expedition!”

  Sir John

  “I care not a louse for the United States, — For General Schuyler or General Gates! March forward, my lads, and account for each sinner, While Butler, St. Leger, and I go to dinner. For plenty’s in Tryon of eating and drinking, Who’d stay in New York to be starving and stinking.” March over the Mohawk! March over, march over, You’ll live like a parcel of hogs in sweet clover!”

  Scene — Outside Fort Stanwix

  (A council of war. At a distance the new American flag flying above the bastions)

  Sir John

  “I’m sorry I’m here, for I’m horribly scared, But how did I know that they’d all be prepared? The fate of our forray looks darker and darker, The state of our larder grows starker and starker, I fear that a round-shot or one of their carkers May breech my new breeches like poor Peter Parker’s! Oh, say, if my rear is uncovered, what then!—”

  (Enter Walter Butler in a panic)

  Butler

  “Held! Schuyler is coming with ten thousand men!”

  (A canon shot from the Fort)

  Sir John (falls flat)

  “I’m done! A cannon ball of thirty pound Has hit me where Sir Peter got his wound. I’m done! I’m all undone! So don’t unbutt’n’m; But say adieu for me to Clairette Putnam!”

  (Enter a swarm of surgeons)

  Surgeons

  “Compose yourself, good sir — forget your fright; We promise you you are not slain outright. The wound you got is not so mortal deep But bleeding, cupping, patience, rest, and sleep, With blisters, clysters, physic, air and diet Will set you up again if you’ll be quiet!”

  Sir John

  “So thick, so fast the balls and bullets flew, Some hit me here, some there, some thro’ and thro’, Beneath my legs a score of hosses fell, Shot under me by twice as many shell; And though my soldiers falter and beseech, Forward I strode, defiant to the breech, And there, as History my valour teaches, I fell as Cæsar fell, and lost — my breeches! His face lay in his toga, in defeat, So let me hide my face within my seat, My requiem the rebel cannons roar, My duty done, my bottom very sore. Tell Willett he may keep his flour and pork, For I am going back to dear New York.”

  (Exit on a litter to the Rogue’s March)

  * * *

  “If we fight at Stanwix,” says Penelope, “God send the business end as gaily as your broadside, Nick!”

  And so, amid laughter, our last evening together came to an end, and it was time to part.

  Nick gave Penelope a hearty smack, grinned broadly at me, seized my hands and whispered: “What did I tell you of the Scotch girl of Caughnawaga, who hath a way with her which is the undoing of all innocent young men?”

  “Idiot!” said I fiercely, “I am not undone in such a manner!” Like two bear-cubs we clutched and wrestled; then he hugged me, laughed, and broke away.

  “Farewell, comrades,” he cried, snatching sack and musket from the corner. “If I can not fife the red-coats into hell to the Rogue’s March, or my brother John drum them there to the Devil’s tattoo, then my daddy shall persuade ’em thither with musket-music! Three stout Stoners and three lanky Livingstons, and all in the same regiment! Hurrah!”

  And off and down the tavern stairs he ran, clattering and clanking, and shouting out a fond good-bye to Burke, who had forgiven him the goat.

  Standing in the candle-light by the window, where a million rainwashed stars twinkled in the depthless ocean of the night, I rested my brow against the cool, glazed pane, lost in most bitter reflexion.

  Penelope had gone to her chamber; behind me the dishevelled table stood, bearing the candles and the débris of our last supper; a nosegay of bright flowers — Nick’s parting token — lay on the floor, where they had fallen from Penelope’s bosom.

  After a while I left the window and sat down, taking my head between my hands; and I had been sitting so for some time in ugly, sullen mood, when a noise caused me to look up.

  Penelope stood by the door, her yellow hair about her face and shoulders, and still combing of it while her brown eyes regarded me with an odd intentness.

  “Your light still blazed from your window,” she said. “I had some misgiving that you sat here brooding all alone.”

  I felt my face flush, for it had deeply humiliated me that she should know how I was offered no employment while others had been called or permitted to seek relief from inglorious idleness.

  She flung the bright banner of her hair over her right shoulder, caressed the thick and shining tresses, and so continued combing, still watching me, her head a little on one side.

  “All know you to be faithful, diligent and brave,” said she. “You should not let it chafe your pride because others are called to duty before you are summoned. Often it chances that Merit paces the ante-chamber while Mediocrity is granted audience. But Opportunity redresses such accidents.”

  “Opportunity,” I repeated sneeringly, “ — where is she? — for I have not seen or heard of that soft-footed jade who, they say, comes a-knocking once in a life-time; and thereafter knocks at our door no more.”

  “Oh, John Drogue — John Drogue,” said she in her strange and wistful way, “you shall hear the clear summons on your door very soon — all too soon for one of us, — for one of us, John Drogue.”

  Her brown eyes were on me, unabashed; by touch she was dividing the yellow masses of her hair into two equal parts. And now she slowly braided each to peg them for the night beneath her ruffled cap.

  When she had braided and pegged her hair, she took the night-cap from her apron pocket and drew it over her golden head, tying the tabs under her chin.

  “It is strange,” she said with her wistful smile, “that, though the world is ending, we needs must waste in sleep a portion of what time remains to us.... And so I am for bed, John Drogue.... Lest that same tapping-jade come to your door tonight and waken me, also, with her loud knocking.”

  “Why do you say so? Have you news?”

  “Did I not once foresee a battle in the North? And men in strange uniforms?”

  “Yes,” said I, smiling away the disappointment of a vague and momentary hope.

  “I think that battle will happen very soon,” she said gravely.

  “You said that I should be there, — with that pale shadow in its shroud. Very well; only that I be given employment and live to see at least one battle, I care not whether I meet my weird in its winding-sheet. Because any man of spirit, and not a mouse, had rather meet his end that way than sink into dissolution in aged and toothless idleness.”

  “If you were not a very young and untried soldier,” said she, “you would not permit impatience to ravage you and sour you as it does. And for me, too, it saddens and spoils our last few days together.”

  “Our last few days? You speak with a certainty — an authority — —”

  “I know the summons is coming very soon.”

  “If I could but believe in your Scottish second-sight — —”

  “Would you be happy?”

  “Happy! I should deem myself the most fortunate man on earth! — if I could believe your Scottish prophecy!”

  She came nearer, and her eyes seemed depthless dusky in her pale face.

 

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