Complete weird tales of.., p.777
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 777
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.”
