Part 94 (1/2)
But to me there was something terrifying in secret ambush and ghastly ma.s.sacre amid the eternal twilight of the Northern wilderness, where painted men stole through still places, intent on murder; where death was swift and silent, where all must watch and none dared rest; where children wept in their sleep, and mothers lay listening all night long, and hollow-eyed men cut their corn with sickle in one hand and rifle in the other.
We, in the Jerseys, watching red-coat and Hessian, heard of scalps taken in the North from babies lying in their cradles--aye, the very watch-dog at the gate was scalped; and painted Tories threw their victims over rail fences to hang there, disembowelled, like dead game.
We heard terrible and inhuman tales of Simon Girty, of Benjy Beacraft, of Billy Newbury--all old neighbours of mine, and now turned child-killers and murderers of helpless women--all painted men, now, ferocious and without mercy.
But these men had never been more than ignorant peasants and dull tillers of the soil for thriftier masters. Yet they were no crueller than others of birth and education. And what was I to think of Walter Butler and other gentlemen of like condition,--officers who had delivered Tom Boyd of Derry to the Senecas,--Colonel Paris to the Mohawks!
The day we heard that Sergeant Newbury and Henry Hare were taken, I thanked G.o.d on my knees. And when our General Clinton hung them both for human monsters as well as spies, then I thanked G.o.d again.... And wrote tenderly to Claudia, poor misguided girl!--condoling with her--not for her grief and the death of Henry Hare[45]--but that the black disgrace of it should so nearly touch and soil her.
[Footnote 45: In the writer's possession is a letter written by the widow of Lieutenant Hare, retailing the circ.u.mstances of his execution and praying for financial relief from extreme poverty. General Sir Frederick Haldimand indorses the application in his own handwriting and recommends a pension. The widow mentions her six little children.]
I have received, so far, no letter from Claudia in reply. But Lord Stirling tells me that she reigns a belle in New York; and that she hath wrought havoc among the Queen's Rangers, and particularly in De Lancy's Horse and the gay cavalry of Colonel Tarleton.
I pray her pretty, restless wings may not be singed or broken, or flutter, dying, in the web of Fate.
Nick Stoner's father, Henry, that grim old giant with his two earhoops in his leathery ears, and with all his brawn, and mighty strength, and the lurking scowl deep bitten betwixt his tiger eyes,--old Henry Stoner is dead and scalped.
Nick, who is now fife-major, has writ me this in a letter full of oaths and curses for the Iroquois who have done this shame to him and his.
For every hair on old Henry's mangled head, said he, an Iroquois should spit out his death-yell. He tells me that he means to quit the army and enter the business of tanning Iroquois hides to make boots and moccasins; and says that Tim Murphy has knee moccasins as fine as ever he saw, and made out o' leather skinned off an Indian's legs!
Faugh! Grief and shame have made Nick blood-mad.... Yet, I know not what I should do, or how conduct, if she who is nearest to my heart should ever suffer from an Indian.
This sweet April day, taking the air near Lord Stirling's marquee, I see the first white b.u.t.terflies a-fluttering like windblown bits o' paper across the new gra.s.s.... In the North the woodlands should be soft with snow; and, in warm places, perhaps the b.u.t.terfly we call the beauty of Camberwell may sit sipping the first drops o' maple sap.... And there should be a scent of pink arbutus in the breeze, if winds be soft....
Lord--Lord--I am become sick for home.... And would see my glebe again in Fonda's Bush; and hear the spring roaring of the Kennyetto between melting banks.... And listen to the fairy thunder of the c.o.c.k partridge drumming on his log.
My neighbours are all dead or gone away, they say. My house is a heap of wind-stirred ashes,--as are all houses in Fonda's Bush save only Stoner's. My cleared land sprouts young forests; my fences are gone; wolves travel my paths; deer pasture my hill; and my new orchard stands dead and girdled by wood-mouse and rabbit.... And still I be sick for a sight of it that was once my home,--and ever shall be while I possess a handful of mother earth to call mine own.
It is near the end of April and I seem sick, but would not have Billy Alexander think I mope.
I have a letter from Penelope. She lately saw a small scout on the Mohawk, it being a part of M'Kean's corps; and she recognized and conversed with several men who once composed my first war party--Jean de Silver, Benjamin De Luysnes, Joe de Golyer of Frenchman's Creek, and G.o.dfrey Shew of Fish House.
They were on their way to Canada by way of Sacandaga, to learn what Sir John might be about.... G.o.d knows I also desire very earnestly to know what the sinister Baronet may be planning.
Penelope writes me that Tahioni the Wolf is dead in his glory; and that Hiakatoo took his scalp and heart.... I suppose that is glory enough for any dead young warrior, but the intelligence fills me with foreboding.
And Kwiyeh the Screech-owl is dead at Lake Desolation, and so is Hanatoh the Water-snake, where some Praying Indians caught them in a canoe and made a dreadful example of my two young comrades.... But at least they were permitted to sing their death-songs, and so died happy--if that indeed be happiness....
The Cadys, who were gone off to Canada, and John and Phil Helmer, have been seen in green uniforms and red; and Adam Helmer has sworn an oath to seek them, follow them, and slay them for the b.l.o.o.d.y turncoat dogs they are. Lord, Lord, how hast Thou changed Thy children into creatures of the wild to prey one upon another till all the Northland becomes once more a desert and empty of human life!
It is May. I sicken for Penelope and for my home.
I am given a furlough! I asked it not. Lord Stirling dismisses me--with a grin. Pretense of inspection covering the Johnstown district, and to count the batteaux between Schenectady and the Creek of Askalege! Which is but sheer nonsense; and I had as well spend the time a-telling of my thumbs--which Lord Stirling knows as well as I is the pastime of an idiot.... G.o.d bless him!
I am given a month, to arrange my personal affairs. I have asked for nothing; and am given a month!... And stand here at the tent door all a-tremble while my mare is saddled, not trusting my voice lest it break and shame me before all....