CHAPTER XXIIITHE FIRST SKIRMISH
The vague rumors that had reached the inhabitants of Wyoming, no one could exactly tell how, filling each household with alarm, were not without foundation. A force of eleven hundred strong, under the command of Colonel John Butler, consisting of Tory Rangers, a detachment of Johnson’s Royal Greens, and six hundred savages, picked warriors from the Shawnee and Seneca tribes, had already crossed Genesee county. They had embarked from Tioga Point in canoes, which were abandoned at the mouth of Bowman’s Creek, where the whole body was encamped on the second of July.
Queen Esther, Gi-en-gwa-tah, and two or three Seneca chiefs commanded the savage forces. Catharine Montour was in the army, for she had been warned by one of the Indians who had aided in Walter Butler’s escape from Albany that he had proceeded at once to Wyoming with his wife, and would await the appearance of his father at Wintermoot’s Fort.
The hopes of seeing her child, and a harassing terror lest that angel girl on Monockonok Island might come to harm in the savage warfare impending over the valley, had forced her into scenes from which her very soul revolted, and she opened her eyes with terror as each day carried the fearful war-whoop of her tribe nearer and nearer that peaceful region.
From the encampment at Bowman’s Creek scouts were sent forward, and a small detachment of warriors swept down the river in the night, headed by QueenEsther’s youngest son, a handsome brave, who, eager to earn the first eagle’s plume in the coming fight—having won this privilege from the grim queen and his lofty brother—set forth on his errand of blood.
Like a flock of redbirds on the water, the chief and his warriors floated down the Susquehanna, each with a rifle at his feet, and a tomahawk or a sharp knife glittering in his girdle.
Their persons glowed with war-paint; their sinewy arms bent to the oars. Now and then, as they passed through the sloping mountains, a faint whoop broke on the waters, betraying their impatience for contest.
But as they reached the rocky jaws of the Susquehanna all was still as death; no flock of birds ever flitted over that stream more silently. About a mile above Fort Jenkins they took to the shore. This fort was in the hands of the patriots, and the chief thirsted to strike a leading blow in the contest. Instead of proceeding to Wintermoot’s Fort, he drew his warriors from the river, and clearing the stockades like a pack of wolves, took the fort by surprise.
But brave men lay waiting behind those rough logs—old men of cool courage and nerves of iron. Three of their number fell dead in front of the fort, where, unconscious of danger, they had been conversing in the starlight. The savages rushed on to complete their work, but they were met with a blaze of musketry, so sudden and furious that half a dozen stalwart forms fell upon the men they had murdered. Then the crack of a single rifle—a shrill cry—the youngest son of Queen Esther leaped into the air, and fell dead upon the sward he had been so eager to bathe with blood.
The skirmish had not lasted half an hour when that band of savages retreated, under shelter of the night, and laying the body of their chief in a canoe, floated down the river with a low, monotonous death-chant, which was lost in the deep solitude of the woods. Whenthey came opposite Wintermoot’s they again lifted their chief and bore him among them into the fort, still wailing out that mournful death-song.
The garrison was aroused; armed men came out and bore the body of the dead brave into the inclosure.
Tahmeroo, who lay awake, waiting the return of her husband, heard the death-wail of her tribe, and followed the sound, pale with apprehension. A group of warriors sat upon the earth, with their faces buried in their robes; the death-song was hushed, but the silence of those stout hearts was more solemn even than the mournful voices had been.
In the centre of this group she saw the prostrate form of a chief, with his gorgeous war-robes lying in heavy masses around him. The Indian girl held her breath and crept forward, looking fearfully down into the face of the dead. It was her father’s brother! She asked no questions, but crouched down on the earth among those silent warriors, and was still as the dead she mourned.
After a little, a young warrior rose from the circle and went out; no one spoke, no one looked up; but they all knew that he was departing to bear to Queen Esther tidings of her son’s death.
Slowly and with mournful steadiness the lone savage crept up the river; he broke the profound stillness of the mountains with the death-cry as he passed along; the lonely whip-poor-will answered him from the woods; and between the pauses of its melancholy wail the sleepless owl hooted him for not dying instead of his chief. It was daybreak when he reached the encampment at Bowman’s Creek. Queen Esther was lying awake in her tent; indeed no one could tell if the old woman ever slept; come upon her at any time in the night—no matter with what tidings—and she was sure to meet you with those vigilant glances that seemed never to relax an instant. When the warrior liftedthe mat from her tent, and stood so solemnly in the light of her dying fire, she prolonged that look, till it seemed to cut into him like steel. All at once a gleam of cruel trouble shot into the glance; those stony features moved, and a spasm of agony locked them closer than before. The smoky light could not alone have left those shadows on her face; they were the color of ashes.
He laid the tomahawk, red at the edge, the keen scalping-knife, and the rifle that had belonged to her son down at the old queen’s feet. There was a rustle under her robes, as of dry boughs in winter, and her head drooped slowly forward on her bosom, while her fierce eyes gleamed down on the implements of death colder and sharper than they.
The following morning Aunt Polly rose at an early hour and went vigorously about her multifarious duties, preparing breakfast for herself and Sim, helping to milk the cows, and setting the house in order generally.
Thoughts of much importance were evidently weighing with great force upon Aunt Polly’s mind, for all through breakfast she was very absent-minded, though her manner to Sim was unusually gentle—even bordering on tenderness.
“Now, Sim,” she said, when he rose from the table, “have Gineral Washington saddled by the time I get the dishes washed, for I’m going right over to the island.”
“So Jane Derwent and Clark are really goin’ to be married?”
“And it’s the best thing for ’em! When a man has made up his mind to ask a woman to have him, what’s the use of putting it off till the Day of Judgment? He may as well speak up at once.”
Sim assented with a dubious shake of the head; and with his thoughts reverting to the fickle Betsy, remarked sententiously that women were onsartin creeturs.
“Some on ’em,” replied Aunt Polly, “but not all!I like a woman that can make up her own mind; but, just mind this, Mr. White, if a man wants a wife that’s good for anything he mustn’t marry a little fool of fifteen or sixteen—no gal is fit to get married under thirty-five.”
Sim nodded his head.
“Did you ever see my settin’ out, Sim? If it hasn’t been used long afore this, it wasn’t for want of offers.”
Sim never had seen this wonderful setting out, and Aunt Polly promised to show it to him at some future time. Finally he sauntered away about his work, and Aunt Polly began clearing up the table. When everything was in order, she sat down before the loom, in which was the unfinished rag carpet that she had promised to Jane Derwent as a wedding present. She unrolled from the ponderous beam the yards which were completed and looked at them admiringly.
“There never was a neater carpet,” she said, “never; that orange in the warp is as bright as a guinea, and I never see a purtier blue. I don’t believe, arter all, it would fit any room in Edward Clark’s new house, and I don’t see what Jane wants of it; young folks shouldn’t begin life by being extravagant.”
She folded the carpet slowly up, regarding it with covetous eyes.
“I guess,” she continued, slowly, “I’ll look out a counterpane for her; she’ll like it just as well, and it’s a better wedding present; folks can get along without a carpet, but they must have bed kiverin’.”
She went up to a spare chamber, and opened the chest of drawers in which were safely packed the various articles appertaining to her own much-lauded “setting out.” There were piles of linen and bed-clothes, all getting yellow from disuse; from the latter she selected a blue and white yarn counterpane and spread it over the bed.
“Wal, that is dreadful purty! I kinder hate to part with it; mother helped me make it, and I don’t feel as if ’twould be exactly right to give it away. I’ll give Janey a pair of sheets and ruffled pillow-cases instead.”
She took out the sheets and pillow-cases, smoothing down the ruffles and admiring their fineness. They looked more elegant than ever, and Aunt Polly decided that the sheets alone would be present enough, so she refolded the pillow-cases and put them back in the drawer, where they had formerly reposed. Still she was not satisfied, and wavered a long time between a woolen blanket and the sheets; but Jane’s bridal stock was doomed to want both. Aunt Polly’s eye fell upon a roll of articles which seemed intended for the decoration of a baby’s cradle; even in her chaste solitude the old maid fingered them with decorous hesitation.
She unrolled the bundle and took up two patch-work quilts exactly alike, and pieced from gorgeous scraps of calico by her own fair hands. She compared and measured them, to see that there was no difference, and finally chose the one that proved a fraction of an inch narrower than the other.
“It’s big enough,” she murmured, absently; “it’ll cover a child a year old, and that’s as much as any one could reasonably ask for.”
Having made her decision, she seemed more at ease in her mind, laid the other things carefully away, sprinkled fresh lavender over them, and turned the key once more upon her treasures, taking up the quilt with a jerk and hastening down stairs, as if she feared to remain longer, lest she should lock that up too.
Before Sim brought General Washington out of the barn, Aunt Polly was in readiness. She had heroically picked her finest bell-necked squash, and stood on the stoop in front of her house, her monstrous poke bonnet sitting up on her head, with a defiant air, and graspingin her hand that enormous vegetable, which might have been scooped out as a drinking-cup for one of the giants of the olden time.
At length Sim appeared, leading the old white horse up to the stump which served as a mounting-block, on which Aunt Polly established herself, with her skirts held closely about her, as if she were preparing for a dive.
“Gineral Washington looks like a picter,” she said, regarding the old horse admiringly. “Wal, I always did say, Sim White, that you could curry a horse better than any other man in Wyoming; why, the old feller shines like a looking-glass; I can’t bear a man that is careless with a horse; I wouldn’t marry him if he had ten bags of golden guineas, for if he can’t treat a dumb creetur well, what would he do to a wife?”
“Are you going to Mother Derwent’s right off?” Sim asked, somewhat heedless of Aunt Polly’s remark.
“Yes, I am; I want to see that they’ve got everything all right. Now, make the Gineral side up, and help me on.”
The old maid rested one hand on the horn of the saddle and the other upon Sim’s shoulder, who put his stalwart arm about her waist, and before she could make any resistance, if she had felt so inclined, lifted her to her seat.
“Wal, if I ever!” she exclaimed, indignantly, though the corners of her mouth worked with suppressed pleasure. “I never did see such a man—ain’t you ashamed?—get away now—suppose anybody had come by and seen you!”
“You see I couldn’t help it, Aunt Polly.”
“Aunt Polly!” shrieked the old maid, in anger and defiance. “Miss Carter, efyouplease—that’s my name! You’re a mannerly feller, ain’t you? Pretty age you are, to be calling me such a name! Get away with you, and if that garden ain’t all weeded afore Iget back you needn’t expect many good words from me.”
“Now don’t get into a passion,” said Sim, either really anxious to mollify her, or impelled by a desire to escape his task; “I didn’t mean no harm; the boys and gals call you so.”
“Wal, you ain’t a boy, nor a gal neither; there’s grey in your hair, plain enough to be seen!”
“Now, don’t be mad,” said Sim, catching hold of her bridle, as she manifested some intention of riding away; “I’ll never let my tongue slip again; come, Miss Carter!”
The old maid put her hand on his shoulder, and said, with her blandest smile:
“Put the squash in my lap, Sim, and hang the bundle on the horn; you may call me Polly—I don’t mind that, though I don’t know,” she added, with virtuous reflection, “whether it’s just the thing afore people are married.”
“It can’t do no hurt,” returned Sim, sagely turning his tobacco over in his mouth, “even if they don’t intend to get married.”
“Yes, it can!” retorted the spinster. “No man shall ever call me Polly that don’t want to marry me right out, now, I tell you!”
Sim retreated a little, and did not exhibit that eagerness to pronounce the euphonious syllable which Aunt Polly seemed to expect, and she chirruped to General Washington with renewed displeasure.
“Are you a-coming up to the wedding?” she asked, sharply.
“I s’pose so; Edward Clark wanted me to play the fiddle for them to dance a little.”
“Wal, I jest wish you wouldn’t go—it makes it very unpleasant for me.”
“Why on ’arth shouldn’t I go, Miss Carter?”
“They all laugh at me so,” said Aunt Polly, with interesting confusion.
“What do they laugh at you for—’cause I choose to fiddle?”
“Your actions, I suppose,” she replied, indignantly; “’tain’t likely I’ve told ’em all the things you’ve said to me. If I had, I know my friends would insist on my settling things right off—but I’m hard to coax, very hard, Sim.”
Her hand went down on his arm again, and this time Sim rather took it of his own accord.
“Are you?” he said, doubtfully; “I guess not very hard—be you, Aun—Polly?”
“Oh, Sim, you shouldn’t have spoken out so sudden—women is sensitive creeturs. Wal, I don’t know; I wouldn’t say yes to any other man, as plenty of ’em could tell you from experience; but since it’s you, Sim, there, just let out that stirrup-leather a trifle.”
She gathered the skirts decorously around her feet while Sim performed this duty, and rested her hand on his shoulder in settling herself again. Sim looked a little puzzled, and somewhat unappreciative of the honor Aunt Polly had bestowed upon him; but he passed it off with better grace than could have been expected, and even called her outright by her baptismal appellation.
“I’m goin’ now,” said the old maid, crimsoning with delight. “I shall have to get some of the gals to come and stay a while with me. It wouldn’t be proper for us to be alone in the house, you know. I guess we’ll have to hurry things, too, on their account; for they can’t none of ’em stay away from home long. Good-bye, Sim; never mind the garding—good-bye. Get up, Gineral Washington. Come over early, Sim—and oh, you’ll find some new gingerbread in the stone crock. I’ve put out a nice dinner for you. Good-bye, Sim.”
She rode off, and left Sim standing in the road, buried in deep thought.
“Wal,” he said at length, putting a fresh morsel oftobacco in his mouth, and speaking aloud, “she seems to think it’s all settled; and I don’t know as I much mind, either way. I’d kind o’ like to show Betsy Willets, too, that I don’t care a rush for her marryin’ Jim Davis—consarn her! The old maid’s worth having, any way; this is just as good a farm as there is in all Wyoming, and the tavern stand ain’t so bad as it might be. A feller might go farther and fare worse. Besides, ’tain’t manners, dad used to say, to look a gift horse in the mouth—so, if she’s suited, let it go.”
Sim gave his head a philosophical shake and turned towards the barn, whistling Yankee Doodle as he went. There were a few tremulous variations now and then, which threatened to subside into Old Hundred, as an image of the faithless Betsy would present itself; but Sim solaced his mind by glancing about the neat, thrifty-looking premises, and fell to whistling harder than before, conscientiously repeating the parts which he had slurred over with a firmness that would have satisfied Aunt Polly herself.
The old maid rode on up towards the river, and as she reached the turn of the highway, leading to Forty Fort she spied, in advance of her, a troop of soldiers on horseback and on foot, proceeding towards the fort.
“What on airth!” exclaimed Aunt Polly, urging General Washington on; “what are they about?”
She rode without hesitation towards the little band, and discovering an acquaintance in the leader, called out:
“Why, Captain Slocum, what’s up now?”
“Nothing very important, Miss Carter,” he replied. “There were some men shot at Fort Jenkins last night, and Walter Butler, with a troop of Injuns, is in the valley. We must be on our guard.”
“Aint a-going to have a fight to-day, are we?”
“I can’t tell; it may come any minute.”
“Wal, do your duty, Captain Slocum; do your duty!”said Aunt Polly, assuming the tone in which she had heard revolutionary speeches delivered. “Wyoming expects every man of ye to stand up to the mark—take care of the widows, the orphans, and perticlarly of such young females as haven’t yet secured their natral protectors.”
“We will do our best, Miss Carter,” returned the captain, concealing a smile, and glancing reprovingly towards his men, who looked more amused than moved by Aunt Polly’s eloquence.
“I know you will; I can trust you, captain,” replied the old maid, approvingly, as if she felt that a great responsibility rested upon her shoulders. “If you want a hoss, captain, send for Gin’ral Washington, you’re welcome to him; the old feller has stood fire too many training days to be afraid of Tories or Injuns ither.”
“Thank you; if we have occasion, I’ll send for him,” said the captain, trying to move on, a manœuvre difficult to execute, for Aunt Polly had stationed herself directly in front of the troop.
“Do; and oh, captain,” checking the general, as he seemed inclined to give way to the soldiers, “if you want a treat for your men, I’ve got a keg of Jamaica spirits in my cellar that’s a leetle ahead of anything you’ve tasted lately—you’re welcome to it.”
“That is very kind of you,” replied Slocum, while his men listened with lively interest; but he had rashly interrupted Aunt Polly.
“Let ’em drink all they want,” she said. “I know you’re too much of a man to cheat me out of a gill, captain. I can trust you—Sim White’ll show you where it is.”
“Forward, men!” exclaimed the commander; “we’re losing time here.”
“Law bless me, don’t run over a body!” cried Aunt Polly; “the Gin’ral and I ain’t Tories, captain.”
But the men pushed on, heedless of her expostulations, and the old maid was forced to give way.
“Don’t forget the rum!” she shrieked after them. “You and I’ll settle for it to-morrow, captain.”
She rode on without farther interruption until she came opposite the island. She dismounted with the bell-necked squash under her arm, took a small bundle carefully off the saddle, loosened the girth a little, and sent the general up the bank with a pat of her hand. A vigorous and prolonged call speedily brought Mary Derwent out of the house, and in a few moments her little canoe had reached the shore where Aunt Polly stood.
“You see, Mary, I’ve come over early,” she said; “I thought you’d have lots to do. Here, ketch this bundle; handle it carefully, it’s something for Janey. I guess I wish I’d taken the saddle across, too, for it might be stolen by some of them rascally Tories.”
“Are they around again?” Mary asked, anxiously.
“Yes, so Captain Slocum told me. I met him and his men a-goin’ to Forty Fort. I told ’em their duty, and they looked quite sober about it.”
“I fear that terrible times are coming,” said Mary, sadly; “the Valley has never been in such confusion as it is now. Edward Clark could only stay with us a few moments last night, and won’t be back till evening.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed Aunt Polly. “’Tisn’t proper for him to come till the minister does. I never was married myself, but I know what ought to be done as well as anybody—there’s nothing like being prepared, one never knows when an offer may pop up.”
She looked very meaningly at Mary, but the poor girl was too anxious and troubled to take notice of the peculiarity of the old maid’s manner.
“Don’t say a word to trouble grandma and Jane,” she said, when they reached the island; “it will do no good.”
“Of course not; when did you ever know me to speak the wrong word at the wrong minute? Give me that squash, Mary; handle it keerful—that’s it.”
She walked towards the house, and Mary, having secured the canoe, followed at a slower pace. Within the little kitchen there was a savor of chickens roasting, and various other eatables preparing for the evening. Mother Derwent was frying doughnuts when Aunt Polly entered, and she wiped her floury hands on her checked apron, in order to return her friendly greeting with due cordiality.
“Wal, Jane,” said the old maid, turning to Jane, who was rolling out pie-crust with great diligence; “how do you do? You see, we all have to come to it, first or last—but, law! the thought takes away my breath. I never can bear it as you do.”
“Why, Aunt Polly, do you think of getting married, too?” said Jane, laughing.
“Stranger things than that have happened,” returned the spinster. “Men are sich determined critters, there ain’t no getting rid of them when once they get sot on a thing—a body has to say yes, whether or no.”
“Who is the man that torments you so much?” Jane inquired, laughing merrily.
“No, you don’t—you can’t surprise no secrets out of me!” Aunt Polly turned away her face in pretended confusion, to Jane’s great amusement; at length she recovered, and taking the squash from the table, where she had placed it, she held it towards the old lady.
“How are you off for pies, Miss Derwent?”
“Wal, pretty well; we’ve got lots of strawberries and raspberries, and some dried pumpkin.”
“Dried punken!” repeated the old maid, with awful disdain; “jest try that are squash; dried punken, indeed! This’ll just finish you up—now get me a knife, and I’ll have it sliced in short order.”
The day wore on in busy employment for all, though Mary’s heart was full of evil forebodings, which she did not breathe aloud, and she heard little of the running stream of talk which Aunt Polly kept up all the while her hands were so actively employed.
At length the old maid drew Jane mysteriously into the inner room, and pointed to a bundle laying on the bed.
“There’s a present for you, Janey,” she whispered; “don’t say nothing about it. You’re just as welcome as can be.”
Before Jane could express her thanks, Aunt Polly had untied the package, and held up before the astonished girl a small patch-work baby quilt, valuable as a curiosity, and with a rising sun in gay colors forming the centre.
“I knew I couldn’t give you nothing more useful, nor purtier,” she continued, complacently, while Jane stood looking at her in confused surprise. “’Tain’t no common quilt—that was a part of my own settin’ out; I pieced it with these two hands. I’ve got another jest like it, only the middle is pink and blue; but I had to keep that,” sinking her voice to a whisper, “for ’tain’t best to leave oneself quite destitute.”
Jane tried to murmur something, but between suppressed mirth and confusion she was dumb.
“You see, it’s so much better for you than that carpet we talked about, that ain’t near done, and I’m so slow; besides, young folks oughtn’t to cosset themselves up with such things. Scrubbing floors is the wholesomest work you can have, and I really think carpets are unhealthy; they make you ketch cold every time you go into the air.”
Jane expressed her perfect satisfaction with the gift, and Aunt Polly fell into a confidential conversation with her, and before they returned to the kitchen had revealed her intended marriage with Sim White, underpromise of proposed secrecy. Jane was faithful to her pledge, but as Aunt Polly, in the course of the afternoon, was closeted with Mary and the old grandmother, each in her turn, and confided the interesting news to both, under the same vow of solemn silence, Jane’s fidelity did not meet with its due reward.
Before four o’clock everything was prepared, and the whole house set in order.
“Wal,” said Aunt Polly, glancing with pride at the rows of pies and huge piles of doughnuts and cakes; “if anybody wants nicer fixin’s than these, let them get ’em up, that’s all. If ever I get married—not that I say I’m goin’ to—but if I ever should, I won’t have no stingy doin’s—good eatin’ and plenty of it’ll be had, now I tell you.”
At last Mary escaped, to obtain a few quiet moments for reflection; and Jane retired to the other room, to give the finishing touches to the simple bridal attire spread out upon the coverlet. Aunt Polly and Grandmother Derwent sat down in front of the door, to indulge in a quiet chat, and when the girls were fairly out of sight, Aunt Polly took sundry surreptitious pinches of snuff from the old lady’s box, by no means with the air of a novice, but like a woman refreshing herself after a season of rigid self-denial.