Part 69 (1/2)

I shouted for him to come back, but when he obeyed he had two Mohawk scalps,[29] and came reluctantly, glancing down at Campbell where he lay still breathing on the muddy road, and darting an uncertain glance at me.

[Footnote 29: In October, 1919, the author talked to a farmer and his son, who, a few days previously, while digging sand to mend the Johnstown road at this point, had disinterred two skeletons which had been buried there. From the shape of the skulls, it is presumed that the remains were Indian.]

But I told him with an oath that it would be an insult to me if he touched a white man's hair in my presence; and he opened the gate and came inside like a great, sullen dog from whom I had s.n.a.t.c.hed a bone of his own digging.

Very cautiously we retreated through the orchard to the house, entered, and climbed again to the roof.

And from there we saw that, in our absence, the boat had been rowed to our landing, and that its occupants were now somewhere on the mainland, doubtless preparing to a.s.sault the place as soon as dusk offered them sufficient cover.

Well, the game was nearly up now. Our people should have arrived by this time at Mayfield with sheep, cattle, and waggon. We had remained here to the limit of safety, and there was no hope of aid in time to save our skins or this house from destruction.

The sun was low over the forest when, at length, we crept out of the house and stole down to our canoe.

We made no sound when we embarked, and our craft glided away under the rushes, driven by cautiously-dipped paddles which left only silent little swirls on the dark and gla.s.sy stream.

Up Mayfield Creek we turned, which, above, is not fair canoe-water save at flood; but now the spring melting filled it brimfull, and a heavy current set into Vlaie Water so that there was labour ahead for us; and we bent to it as dusk fell over the Drowned Lands.

It was not yet full dark when, over my shoulder, I saw a faint rose light in the north. And I knew that Summer House was on fire.

Then, swiftly the rosy light grew to a red glow, and, as we watched, a great conflagration flared in the darkness, mounting higher, burning redder, fiercer, till, around us, vague smouldering shadows moved, and the water was touched with ashy glimmerings.

Summer House was all afire, and the infernal light touched us even here, painting our features and the paddle-blades, and staining the dark water with a prophecy of blood.

It was a long and irksome paddle, what with floating trees we encountered and the stream over its banks and was.h.i.+ng us into sedge and brush and rafts of weed in the darkness. Again and again, checked by some high dam of drifted windfall, we were forced to make a swampy carry, waist high through bog and water.

Often, so, we were forced to rest; and we sat silent, panting, skin-soaked in the chilly night air, gazing at the distant fire, which, though now miles away, seemed so near. And I could even see trees black against the blaze, and smoke rolling turbulently, and a great whirl of sparks mounting skyward.

It was long past midnight when I hailed the picket at the grist-mill and drove our canoe sh.o.r.eward into the light of a lifted lantern.

”Is Nick Stoner in?” I called out.

”All safe!” replied somebody on sh.o.r.e.

A dark figure came down to the water and took hold of our bow to steady us.

”Summer House and Fish House are burned,” said I, climbing out stiffly.

”Aye,” said the soldier, ”and what of Fonda's Bush, Mr. Drogue?”

”What!” I exclaimed, startled.

”Look yonder,” said he.

I scarce know how I managed to stumble up the bushy bank. And then, when I came out on level land near the block house, I saw fire to the southeast, and the sky crimson above the forest.

”My G.o.d!” I stammered, ”Fonda's Bush is all afire!”

There was a red light toward Frenchman's Creek, too, but where Fonda's Bush should lie a vast sea of fire rose and ebbed and waxed and faded above the forest.