Complete weird tales of.., p.1152
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1152
I saw and recognized Colonels Vrooman and Zielie, Majors Becker and Eckerson, and Larry Schoolcraft, the regimental adjutant; and, sitting upon their transport waggon, Dirck Larraway, Storm Becker, Jost Bouck of Clavarack, and Barent Bergen of Kinderhook.
So, in the morning sunshine, marched the 15th N. Y. Militia, carrying in its ranks the flower of the district’s manhood and the principal defenders of the Schoharie Valley.
Very soberly I turned away into the woods.
For it was a strange and moving and dreadful sight I had beheld, knowing personally almost every man who was marching there toward the British fire, and aware that practically every soldier in those sturdy ranks had a brother, or father, or son, or relative of some description in the ranks of the opposing party.
Here, indeed, were the seeds of horror that civil war sprouts! For I think that only the Hager family, and perhaps the Beckers, were all mustered in our own service. But there were Tory Vroomans, Swarts, Van Dycks, Eckersons, Van Slycks — aye, even Tory Herkimer, too, which most furiously saddened our brave old General Honikol.
Well, I took to the forest as I say, but it was so thick and the travelling so wearisome, that I bore again to the left, and presently came out along the clearings and pasture fences.
Venturing now to travel the highway for a little way, and being stopped by nobody, I became more confident; and when I saw a woman washing clothes by the Schoharie Creek, I did not trouble to avoid her, but strode on.
She heard me coming, and looked up over her shoulder; and I saw she was a notorious slattern of the Valley, whose name, I think, was Staats, but who was commonly known as Rya’s Pup.
“Aha!” says she, clearing the unkempt hair from her ratty face. “What is Forbes o’ Culloden doing in Schoharie? Sure,” says she, “there must be blood to sniff in the wind when a Northesk bloodhound comes here a-nosing northward!”
“Well, Madame Staats,” said I calmly, “you appear to know more about Culloden than do I myself. Did that great loon, McDonald, tell you all these old-wives’ tales?”
“Ho-ho!” says she, her two hands on her hips, a-kneeling there by the water’s edge, “the McDonalds should know blood, too, when they smell it.”
“You seem to be friends with that outlaw. And do you know where he now is?” I asked carelessly.
“If I do,” says the slut, with an oath, “it is my own affair and none of the Forbes or Drogues or such kittle-cattle either; — mark that, my young cockerel, and journey about your business!”
“You are not very civil, Madame Staats.”
“Why, you damned rebel,” says she, “would you teach me manners?”
“God forbid, madam,” said I, smiling. “I’d wear gray hairs ere you learned your a-b-c.”
“You’ll wear no hair at all when McDonald is done with you,” she cries, and bursts into laughter so shocking that I go on, shivering and sad to see in any woman such unkindness.
* * *
About noon I saw Lawyer’s Tavern; and from the fences north of the house I secretly observed it for a long while before venturing thither.
John Lawyer, whatever his political complexion, welcomed me kindly and gave me dinner.
I asked news, and he gave an account that Brick House was now but a barracks full of Tories and Schoharie Indians, led by Sethen and Little David or Ogeyonda, a runner, who now took British money and wore scarlet paint.
“We in this valley know not what to do,” said he, “nor dare, indeed, do aught save take protection from the stronger party, as it chances to be at the moment, and thank God we still wear our proper hair.”
And, try as I might, I could not determine to which party he truly belonged, so wary was mine host and so fearful of committing himself.
* * *
The sun hung low when I came to the Wood of Brakabeen; and saw the tall forest oaks, their tops all rosy in the sunset, and the great green pines wearing their gilded spires against the evening sky.
Dusk fell as I traversed the wood, where, deep within, a cool and ferny glade runs east and west, and a small and icy stream flows through the nodding grasses of the swale, setting the wet green things and spray-drenched blossoms quivering along its banks.
And here, suddenly, in the purple dusk, three Indians rose up and barred my way. And I saw, with joy, my three Oneidas, Tahioni the Wolf, Kwiyeh the Screech-owl, Hanatoh the Water-snake, all shaven, oiled, and in their paint; and all wearing the Tortoise and The Little Red Foot.
So deeply the encounter affected me that I could scarce speak as I pressed their extended hands, one after another, and felt their eager, caressing touch on my arms and shoulders.
“Brother,” they said, “we are happy to be chosen for the scout under your command. We are contented to have you with us again.
“We were told by the Saguenay, who passed here on his way to the Little Falls, that you had recovered of your hurts, but we are glad to see for ourselves that this is so, and that our elder brother is strong and well and fit once more for the battle-trail!”
I told them I was indeed recovered, and never felt better than at that moment. I inquired warmly concerning each, and how fortune had treated them. I listened to their accounts of stealthy scouting, of ambushes in silent places, of death-duels amid the eternal dusk of shaggy forests, where sunlight never penetrated the matted roof of boughs.
They shewed me their scalps, their scars, their equipment, accoutrement, finery. They related what news was to be had of the enemy, saying that Stanwix was already invested by small advance parties of Mohawks under forester officers; that trees had been felled across Wood Creek; that the commands of Gansevoort and Willett occupied the fort on which soldiers still worked to sod the parapets.
Of McDonald, however, they knew nothing, and nothing concerning Burgoyne, but they had brazenly attended the Iroquois Federal Council, when their nation was summoned there, and saw their great men, Spencer and Skenandoa treated with cold indifference when the attitude of the Oneida nation was made clear to the Indian Department and the Six Nations.
“Then, brother,” said Tahioni sadly, “our sachems covered themselves in their blankets, and Skenandoa led them from the last Onondaga fire that ever shall burn in North America.”
“And we young warriors followed,” added Kwiyeh, “and we walked in silence, our hands resting on our hatchets.”
“The Long House is breaking in two,” said the Water-snake. “In the middle it is sinking down. It sags already over Oneida Lake. The serpent that lives there shall see it settling down through the deep water to lie in ruins upon the magic sands forever.”
After a decent silence Tahioni patted the Little Red Foot sewed on the breast of my hunting shirt.
“If we all are to perish,” he said proudly, “they shall respect our scalps and our memory. Haih! Oneida! We young men salute our dying nation.”
I lifted my hatchet in silence, then slowly sheathed it.
“Is our Little Maid of Askalege well?” I asked.
“Thiohero is well. The River-reed makes magic yonder in the swale,” said Tahioni seriously.
“Is Thiohero here?” I exclaimed.
Her brother smiled: “She is a girl-warrior as well as our Oneida prophetess. Skenandoa respects and consults her. Spencer, who worships your white God and is still humble before Tharon, has said that my sister is quite a witch. All Oneidas know her to be a sorceress. She can make a pair of old moccasins jump about when she drums.”
“Where is she now?”
“Yonder in the glade dancing with the fire-flies.”
I walked forward in the luminous dusk, surrounded by my Oneidas. And, of a sudden, in the swale ahead I saw sparks whirling up in clouds, but perceived no fire.
“Fire-flies,” whispered Tahioni.
And now, in the centre of the turbulent whirl of living sparks, I saw a slim and supple shape, like a boy warrior stripped for war, and dancing there all alone amid the gold and myriad greenish dots of light eddying above the swale grass.
Swaying, twisting, graceful as a thread of smoke, the little sorceress danced in a perfect whirlwind of fire-flies, which made an incandescent cloud enveloping her.
And I heard her singing in a low, clear voice the song that timed the rhythm of her naked limbs and her painted body, from which the cinctured wampum-broidered sporran flew like a shower of jewels:
“Wood o’ Brakabeen, Hiahya! Leaves, flowers, grasses green, Dancing where you lean Above the stream unseen, Hiahya! Dance, little fireflies, Like shooting stars in winter skies; Dance, little fireflies, As the Oneida Dancers whirl, Where silver clouds unfurl, Revealing a dark Heaven And Sisters Seven. Hiahya! Wood o’ Brakabeen! Hiahya! Grasses green! You shall tell me what they mean Who ride hither, Who ‘bide thither, Who creep unseen In red coats and in green; Who come this way, Who come to slay! Hiahya! my fireflies! Tell me all you know About the foe! Where hath he hidden? Whither hath he ridden? Where are the Maquas in their paint, Who have forgotten their Girl-Sainte? Hiahya! I am The River-Reed! Hiahya! All things take heed! Naked, without drum or mask I do my magic task. Fireflies, tell me what I ask!...”
“He-he!” chuckled The Water-snake, “Thiohero is quite a witch!”
We seated ourselves. If the Little Maid of Askalege, whirling in her dance, perceived us through her veil of living phosphorescence, she made no sign.
And it was a long time before she stood still, swayed outward, reeled across the grass, and fell face down among the ferns.
As I sprang to my feet Tahioni caught my arm.
“Remain very silent and still, my elder brother,” he said gravely.
For a full hour, I think, the girl lay motionless among the ferns. The cloud of fire-flies had vanished. Rarely one sparkled distantly now, far away in the glade.
The delay, in the darkness, seemed interminable before the girl stirred, raised her head, slowly sat upright.
Then she lifted one slim arm and called softly to me:
“Nai, my Captain!”
“Nai, Thiohero!” I answered.
She came creeping through the herbage and gathered herself cross-legged beside me. I took her hands warmly, and released them; and she caressed my arms and face with velvet touch.
“It is happiness to see you, my Captain,” she said softly.
“Nai! Was I not right when I foretold your hurt at the fight near the Drowned Lands?”
“Truly,” said I, “you are a sorceress; and I am deeply grateful to you for your care of me when I lay wounded by Howell’s house.”
“I hear you. I listen attentively. I am glad,” she said. “And I continue to listen for your voice, my Captain.”
“Then — have you talked secretly with the fire-flies?” I asked gravely.
“I have talked with them.”
“And have they told you anything, little sister?”
“The fire-flies say that many green-coats and Maquas have gone to Stanwix,” she replied seriously, “and that other green-coats, — who now wear red coats, — are following from Oswego.”
I nodded: “Sir John’s Yorkers,” I said to Tahioni.
“Also,” she said, “there are with them men in strange uniforms, which are not American, not British.”
“What!” I exclaimed, startled in spite of myself.
“Strange men in strange dress,” she murmured, “who speak neither English nor French nor Iroquois nor Algonquin.”
Then, all in an instant, it came to me what she meant — what Penelope had meant.
“You mean the Chasseurs from Buck Island,” said I, “the Hessians!”
But she did not know, only that they wore gray and green clothing and were tall, ruddy men — taller for the odd caps they wore, and their long legs buttoned in black to the hips.
“Hessians,” I repeated. “Hainault riflemen hired out to the King of England by their greedy and contemptible German master and by that great ass, George Third, shipped hither to stir in us Americans a hatred for himself that never shall be extinguished!”
“Are their scalps well haired?” inquired Tahioni anxiously.
It seemed a ludicrous thing to say, and I was put to it to stifle my sudden mirth.
“They wear pig-tails in eel-skins, and stiffened with pomade that stinks from New York to Albany,” said I.
Then my mood sobered again; and I thought of Penelope’s vision and wondered whether I was truly fated to meet my end in combat with these dogs of Germans.
* * *
The Screech-owl had made a fire. Also, before my arrival he had killed an August doe, and a haunch was now a-roasting and filling my nostrils with a pleasant odour.
We spread our blankets and ate our parched corn, watching our meat cooking.
“And McDonald?” I inquired of Thiohero, who sat close to me and rested her head on my shoulder while eating her parched com.
“My fire-flies tell me,” said she gravely, “that the outlaws travel this way, and shall hang on the Schoharie in ambush.”
“When?”
“When there is a battle near Stanwix.”
“Oh. Shall McDonald come to Brakabeen?”
“Yes.”
I gazed absently at the fire, slowly chewing my parched corn.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVIII
OYANEH!
THE PROBLEM WHICH I must now solve staggered me. How was it possible, with my little scout of five, to discover McDonald’s approach and also find Sir John’s line of communication and penetrate his purpose?
On a leaf of my carnet I made a map which was shaped like an immense right-angle triangle, its apex Fort Stanwix in the west; its base Schoharie Creek; the Mohawk River its perpendicular; its hypothenuse my bee’s-flight to Oneida.
The only certain information I possessed was that Sir John and St. Leger had sailed from Buck Island to Oswego, and from there were marching somewhere. I guessed, of course, that they were approaching the Mohawk by way of Oneida Lake; yet, even so, they might have detached McDonald’s outlaws and sent them to Otsego; or they might be coming upon us in full force from that same direction, with flanking war parties flung out toward Stanwix to aid their strategy.
One thing, however, seemed almost certain, and that was the direction their waggons must take from Oneida Lake; for I did not think Sir John would attempt Otsego in any force after his tragic dose of a pathless wilderness the year before.
I saw very plainly, however, that I must now give up any attempt to scout for McDonald’s painted demons on the Schoharie until I had discovered Sir John’s objective and traced his line of communications. And I realized that I must now move quickly.
There were only two logical methods left open to me to accomplish this hazardous business with my handful of scouts. The easier way was instantly to face about, secure two good canoes at Schoharie, make directly for the Mohawk River, and follow it westward by water day and night.
But the surer way to run across Sir John’s trail — and perhaps McDonald’s — was to take to the western forests, follow the hypothenuse of the great triangle, and, travelling lightly and swiftly northwest, headed straight for Oneida Lake.
This was what, finally, I decided to attempt as I lay on my blanket that night; and I was loath to leave the Schoharie and ashamed to turn tail to McDonald’s ragamuffins, when the entire district was in so great distress, and Brakabeen farms a rat’s nest of disloyal families.
But there seemed to be no other way to conduct if I obeyed my orders, too; — no better method of discovering McDonald and of devising punishment for him, even though in the meanwhile he should carry fire and sword through Schoharie, — perhaps menace Schenectady, — perhaps Albany itself.
No, there was no other choice; and finally I realized this, after a night passed in agonized indecision, and asking God’s guidance to aid my inexperience in this so terrible a crisis.
At dawn my Indians began to paint.
After we had eaten a bowl of samp I called them around me, shewed them the map I had made in my carnet, told them what I had decided, and invited opinions from everybody. I added that there now was no time for any customary formalities of deliberation so dear to all Indians: I told them that Tharon and God were one; and that our ancestors understood and approved what we were about to do.
Then I laid a handful of dry sticks upon the ground, pretended that this was a fire; warmed my hands at it; lighted an imaginary pipe; puffed it and passed it around in pantomime.
Still employing symbols to reassure these young Oneida warriors concerning time-honoured formalities which they dared not disregard, I drew a circle in the air with my finger, cut it twice with an imaginary horizontal line to indicate a sunrise and a sunset, then turned to Tahioni and bade him answer my speech of yesterday after a night’s deliberation.
The young warrior replied gravely that he and his comrades had consulted, and were of one mind with me. He said that it was with sorrow that they turned their backs on McDonald, who was a great villain and who surely would now be coming to Schoharie to murder and destroy; but that it did no good to sever the tail of a snake. He said that the fanged head of the Tory Serpent was somewhere east of Oneida Lake; that if we scouted swiftly and thoroughly in that direction we could very soon surmise where the poisonous head was about to strike, by discovering and then observing the direction in which the body of the serpent was travelling.
One by one I asked my young men for an opinion: the youthful warriors were unanimous.
Then I turned and gazed fearfully at Thiohero, knowing well enough that these other adolescents would obey her blindly, and in dread lest her own dreams should sway her judgment and counsel her to advise us to some folly. She was their prophetess; there was nothing to do without her sanction. I could not order these Oneidas; I could only attempt to use them through their own instincts and personal loyalty to myself.
The early sun gilded the painted body of their sorceress, making of her clan ensign and the Little Red Foot two brilliant and jewelled symbols.
