There might have been a hundred who were here assembled, all German settlers from the Mohawk, from the creek, and some even from Schoharie, for that far had the circumspect Herkimer sent his message. In the tall, often giant-like men, who sat in long rows on the benches under the projecting roof of the house, in the shade, or moved about on the open, sunny lawn, nobody would have recognized the descendants of the pale and emaciated immigrants who, in their time, landed in the harbor of New York and of Philadelphia from pest-ships, in an inhospitable country. So thought Lambert, as he cast his eye over the assembly and looked at those nearer, whom he knew and soon singled out. There was first the distinguished form of Nicolas Herkimer himself, with broad shoulders, on which the long, grayish hair fell, and the clear, blue eyes, which to-day appeared brighter and more thoughtful than usual as he spoke with one and another, and then again looked at the position of the sun to see whether the hour appointed for the meeting had come. There was the minister Rosenkrantz, with his kind, friendly face as storm-tried and weather-browned as that of any of his people, from whom he was distinguished only by his black clothes and his large snuff-box, which he was constantly turning about in his fingers. There were his neighbors, the Volzes, and the Eisenlords, father and sons, and William Teichert, and old Adam Bellinger; and at last he also discovered, at the farthest corner, his uncle, Christian Ditmar, still as ever and brooding with his fur cap drawn far down over his face. Lambert was trying to press through to the old man, as Richard, Herkimer's youngest son, of the same age as Conrad, and a dear friend of both brothers, touched his shoulder.
"God bless you, Lambert! You have come back at the right time, I should say. Where is your brother?"
Lambert informed him that this morning Conrad went hunting, and had not yet returned when he himself left home.
"This will be very unpleasant news for father," said Richard. "He has already asked a couple of times for both of you. There he comes himself. I will afterward talk with you, Lambert."
It was painful enough for Lambert that he was obliged to give the same information to the honored man who so heartily welcomed him. "I knew it already from your aunt," said Herkimer, "but I hoped that he had meanwhile come. It is very unpleasant that he fails us. I hear that he has been for eight days at the lake, and surely knows more about the movements of our enemies than any one of us. To be sure I have on the whole been well informed, but it would be desirable to have some one on whom I could call. What did he tell you?"
"Only this," replied Lambert, and then told Herkimer the little he had learned from Conrad; that the Onondaga Indians were assembled in large number, and that it was Conrad's impression that it was not for a good purpose.
"That agrees altogether with my other reports," said Nicolas Herkimer. "These rascals have already for a long time played false, and we shall doubtless soon have them on our necks. Listen, Lambert; I have thought of placing you in an important position, and before we enter upon our consultation I wish to come to an understanding with you. Mr. Rosenkrantz, a moment."
The preacher drew near and heartily greeted Lambert, and began at once to ask about his journey, but Herkimer quickly interrupted the talkative minister.
"That will do as well later, dominie," said he, "we have now something more important to think of. I wish to explain our plan to Lambert, on whom we can rely in any event. This, Lambert, is our plan: After our losses of last year we are, in any case, too weak for open warfare against an enemy far exceeding us in number and able to choose his own time and place for attack. The only thing left for us to do is, by constant and regular scouting, as well as possible to learn his movements, so that, before an actual attack follows, we can retire to our fortified points. One of these naturally is the fort, which is in a good, defensible condition. The second is my house. For this I stand, and this they did not even venture to attack last year. About the third I will soon speak with you. In addition to this, so that all may be informed as soon as possible, we will establish signals up the river and away from it. For this purpose we must form small squads of troopers which can be rapidly concentrated at threatened points and occupy the enemy until wives and children have accomplished their flight. Cattle, and what else can be concealed, we must secure beforehand. Now, as to what concerns you: It is most likely that this time they will select the creek for attack. They passed by you last year, hence they will hope to find the more with you. And then they know--or believe--that here on the Mohawk we are better prepared and more fully informed than you. The last is probably the case. You live so far off that you could not, upon being pursued, have much prospect of reaching either here or the fort; and for the same reason, we could as little help you. Your father, who was an intelligent man, understood this well, and so strengthened your house that it could for a short time be held by a few well-protected men, furnished with ample provisions and ammunition, against a large troop. On this I have built my plan. You are a good rifleman, and your brother Conrad is the best in the colony. You are both courageous, resolute men, and you have got to carry your own hide to market, which speaks for itself in such circumstances. I will give you two or three men, whom you may yourself select, and it will then be your business to protect yourselves and your neighbors--such as the Ditmars, Teicherts and perhaps also Volzes--who can reach you--Eisenlords and Bellingers are nearer here--until we are in a condition to bring help. I need not tell you, Lambert, upon how responsible and dangerous a post I place you. On your watchfulness hangs not only the life of your neighbors, but perhaps also the fate of all of us about here. On the other hand it may happen that we, with the help of soldiers from Albany, cannot ourselves resist the enemy, and so can either not help you at all, or not at the right time. Will you, Lambert Sternberg, undertake the charge?"
"I will," said Lambert.
Nicolas Herkimer shook hands with him heartily, and turned to other groups. The minister, who had listened, eagerly twisting his small clothes, and often bowing his head, now reached out his hand to Lambert and said:
"You have not undertaken a small matter, dear young man. May God help you!"
"Amen! honored sir," replied Lambert. "I need your help perhaps more than you are aware of. I came here to make to you a communication, if opportunity offered, highly important to myself, and to ask your advice. Will you listen to me a few minutes? I will try to be brief."
"Speak," said the minister, "though I think I already know what you wish to say."
Lambert looked inquiringly at the minister.
"My dear friend, your Aunt Ditmar has already told me something which I have interpreted according to the disposition of young people. But say on."
Lambert now told the worthy man the history of his love for Catherine from the first moment when he saw her on the deck of the ship to that hour, and at last made known his earnest wish that he might, before all the world, call her his wife.
"I understand, I understand," said the minister, who had been all ears; "yes, yes; for this you may well wish, both on the girl's account and your own; yes, also on account of Conrad, who otherwise might deal some silly blows."
"And so," said Lambert, "as the danger is threatening, I wish as soon as possible to be united to Catherine forever."
"Forever!" said the minister earnestly. "This I also fully understand. Also short and well, dear young friend, I will gladly serve you, as it is my office and my heartfelt wish. We cannot here always observe the forms prescribed by the church, but God sees the heart. So I think to-morrow, satisfied with a single proclamation of the bans, we will attend to the marriage immediately after public worship. Are you satisfied with that? Good; and then I must ask you yet one thing, viz.: That you this evening take the lady to whom you are engaged to your Aunt Ditmar's and leave her there until to-morrow, and from there bring her to the wedding. I repeat, God looks at the heart, but appearances sway our judgment, and so for the people's sake I wish you would follow my advice."
"I will gladly do it, worthy sir," said Lambert. "I will at once speak to my aunt about it."
"There she comes now," said the minister.
Aunt Ursul had been actively helping Herkimer's women in the house, which the labor of entertaining so many guests at once made necessary. She now declared that, with her consent, not another pitcher of beer or glass of rum should be furnished. "I know my people, and if anything is to come out of the consultation, you must begin now, for an hour hence you might as well preach reason to horses. Say this to Herkimer, dominie. I will look after my old man. You are welcome to go with me, Lambert. He has already asked about you--something that he doesn't do every day. But the French you know bring him into harness. He is to-day quite changed."
Lambert went to his uncle with his aunt, but could not discover any change in him. The old man kept sitting in the same corner on the bench, the fur cap drawn far down on his forehead. His sunken head was scarcely raised in returning Lambert's salutation with a silent nod. However, the otherwise half-closed eyes looked for a moment from under the heavy eyebrows in a peculiar glance, but his thoughts must have wandered far away. He appeared not to hear what Lambert said to him.
"Only let him be," said Aunt Ursul; "he now has other things in his head, and for us it is high time that we at last come to the business. It will likely go like a mixture of cabbage and turnips."
Aunt Ursul appeared to be right. The noise kept increasing. They went around with pitchers and flasks in their hands, and drank to one another, and talked and screamed at each other, till suddenly first one then another shouted: "Still!" "Quiet!" Now the well-known form of the minister appeared, as they crowded through one another. He had climbed on a table and stood there. He had quit turning his snuff-box about in his fingers and waited until they should be ready to listen to him. "Still!" "Quiet!" sounded forth more authoritatively than before. But quiet was not forthcoming. In certain distant groups the loud talking continued, and a coarse voice cried: "What does the dominie want?"
"What I want," called the minister, "I will soon tell you. I beg you, back there, that you will at length keep your mouths shut and bring your wisdom, if you have any, to market at the right time and to the right place."
The rough word awakened laughter everywhere, but after the laughter it became still.
The minister slipped the snuff-box into his pocket, took off his large three-cornered hat, shoved back the much-used, short wig and thus proceeded:
"I wish with you all to call upon the Lord, and beseech Him that this time the cup, which we emptied last year to the last bitter dregs, the taste of which still lies on our tongues, may graciously pass from us; and if in His incomprehensible wisdom he has decreed that it shall not be so, and that He will again try our hearts and reins, that then, in His grace, He will give us strength to endure the severe trial like brave men who know that the good God, in spite of all and everything, does not forsake him who does not forsake himself, and helps him who helps himself. This, dear friends and countrymen, is a word which has been profitable in many ways and at many times, but never and for no one more than for us at this time. Who will deliver us out of our distress and danger here, on the utmost border of the earth, occupied by people of our race, where surrounding enemies lurk and go about to destroy us, but God and ourselves? And with God's help we will save ourselves--of this I am fully convinced--if we keep His commandment which reads: 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' Since if we, as it becomes neighbors, stand beside each other, shoulder to shoulder, with one mind and one heart, and full of the same courage in danger, distress and death, then and only then, dear friends, shall we overcome the danger and deliver ourselves from the distress, and die, should death meet us, as brave men, discharging our highest duty as men and Christians. And now, dear friends, after having said what I, as a servant of the Word of God and a man of peace, wished to say, from a full and loving heart, I thank you that you have listened to me attentively. Will you not with equal attention listen to the man whom we all know and honor, an honest farmer like yourselves, and in addition a brave soldier. May the Lord bless him so that he may give you good advice; and may the Lord bless you so that you may take advice; and may He protect us all and let the light of His countenance fall upon us and give us peace. Amen."
The earnest words of the minister, who spoke--especially toward the last--with a deeply moved voice, did not entirely fail of their effect. An approving murmur ran here and there through the assembly. But the voice of the speaker had scarcely ceased and his form disappeared from the table when again, though not as loud as before, some voices were raised asking what was the object of the talk? whether they had come here to hear a sermon?
"Talking costs no money and the minister can talk well. He was last year one of the first to run for the fort, and left the rest to their fate, but truly it is well not to be before a gun when it is fired off."
So here and there spake those who were dissatisfied. Others said they should be ashamed to say such things about so excellent a man. Others called: "Quiet! don't you see that Herkimer wants to speak?"
So at last Nicolas Herkimer, who had already stood on the table a few minutes and let his keen, earnest eyes pass over the assembly, raised his voice. He spoke long and impressively. He unfolded in every particular the plan which he had, in its chief parts, before told Lambert. In it he had thought of everything, remembered everything, and reduced to its smallest compass the threatened danger that could be avoided.
"That is what I have to say," he concluded. "Now it is for you to test my proposals. We are free men, and each one can in the end do what he pleases, and carry his hide to market this way or that. But that we are free does not forbid us to be united. On the other hand, only by being united shall we preserve and protect our freedom. United we cannot be and become, if you talk and cry out among each other as just now you did, again. Whoever knows anything better than I, let him come here and speak. Let him who does not, keep still and listen. And let us not forget--what we tell our children--that he who will not hear must feel. Who wishes to speak after me?"
"I!" "I!" called out a couple of dozen voices.
"You cannot all speak at once," said Herkimer with some bitterness; "so you come here, Hans Haberkorn. You screamed the loudest."
Hans Haberkorn, the ferryman, appeared beside Herkimer on the table. The small, undersized, barefoot fellow who had, behind the bar connected with his ferry, so often spoken large words and scolded his rich neighbor on the other side of the river, could not let the opportunity pass to tell the last speaker the truth--as he expressed it--before all the world. He wanted to know whether it was honest and neighborly in Nicolas Herkimer that he wanted three ferries at the same time over the river within half a mile of each other, after it had been promised him, Hans Haberkorn, that he should be the only ferryman on this ground? That he on that account had settled on a piece of land which consisted of moor and sand, and on which he would long since have starved if he had not also a beer saloon. Now the two ferries should be used only in urgent cases, and then again discontinued, or--what would follow--let the wolf eat. It was absolutely certain that one ferry without a beer saloon could not support itself. Both the other ferries would want to set up beer saloons, and then it would be to him, personally, the same whether the French came to-day or to-morrow and killed him with his wife and children. For his part he would rather be put to death at once than starve to death by degrees.
"Hans Haberkorn is right!" called out half a dozen voices.
"Shame on the good-for-nothing fellow who thinks only about himself!" cried others, and pressed toward the table from which Hans Haberkorn quickly jumped. The place he vacated was again occupied by big John Mertens, who had a large farm on the moor between the Mohawk and the creek, near the church, and by some was considered to be better off than Herkimer himself. In any case one could always be sure that John Mertens would oppose anything that Herkimer and the minister wanted, of whom he observed that they always stuck under the same cover. With this--his favorite expression--he began his discourse, saying: That one might well know what to think of a plan that had been formed without consulting him, John Mertens, who also had a word to say, having ten head of cattle in the pasture more than people whom he would not name; nor would he speak of the sheep and the English hogs which he had first introduced; that every child knew that one could not bring sheep out of a stable when the roof over their heads was afire; nor could one drive fifty hogs away so fast that a lame Indian could not overtake them, not to speak of a dozen who could run. They might think of John Mertens so or so, but he is an honest fellow who does not hide his meaning behind a bush. This was what he wanted to say--The discourse of the big farmer was very confused, and was partly lost in the fat of his double chin; but his adherents, of whom the number was not small, showed their approbation with screams and yells. The opposite party did not fail to pay back such an answer as was due. A dreadful tumult arose, which Nicolas Herkimer's powerful voice could not overcome. It seemed as if the consultation on whose issue the weal or woe of hundreds hung, through the folly and conceit of a couple of dozen would end in empty confusion and disorder.
Suddenly there stood beside Nicolas Herkimer a person, the mere sight of whom, as with a blow, brought the boisterous assembly to order, as though a dead man had become alive and wished to address them. The giant-long, skeleton-lean form of Christian Ditmar, whose bony hands were stretched apart as if in conjuration, while, from under the thick fur cap the gray hair in disordered strands was whipped by the wind about his ghost-like face, was awe-inspiring. Then he raised his voice, which now shrieked frantically, and then again rung out like thunder, and thus spoke:
"So is being fulfilled the Word of God: 'The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children to the third and fourth generation.' Yes, the sins of the fathers. You have quarreled with each other and raised your arms against each other while French wolves are howling around the German flock, and have worried and killed as their wicked hearts desired. They murdered my parents and brothers and sisters. I saw it with my own eyes. I saw too my parents' house go up in flames, and our neighbors' houses burning, and the city became a ruin and an ash-heap--the beautiful proud city on the Neckar. Among the ruins wandered weeping wives looking among the ashes for the bones of husbands and brothers, and cried: 'Woe!' 'Woe!' 'A deadly curse on you hangmen and murdering incendiaries!'
"I, a weak boy, cried along with them: 'Woe! Woe! A curse upon you, you hangmen, and murdering incendiaries!' After many years I came here, and again found them, the mean French wolves, howling around the German flock; and I disputed with the rest and separated from the others, and went out with my wife and my sons to take vengeance on those who had killed my parents and all my kindred. How did the vengeance look when my four brave boys lay dead at their father's feet, each with a bullet through his breast?"
Christian Ditmar was silent a few moments. He must suppress the sadness that rose in his heart at these recollections. He then proceeded with increasing emotion:
"And so you have suffered and bled, earlier and later, under the greedy teeth. However I, who have suffered more than you all, I tell you that I deserved it since I blindly followed the voice of my heart crying for vengeance and did not hearken to the advice of more prudent men; and so you have deservedly suffered, and will suffer, since you also will not listen, you fools and madmen, and propose to separate as you came, the one this way, the other that, by which the wolves will again have an easy play. But then your own and your children's blood will rest on you as my children's blood has come upon me. Here--!"
Christian Ditmar tore his fur cap from his head. A broad, fearful scar ran like a stream of blood over the high forehead from one temple to the other.
"Here!" he repeated, while with his forefinger he pointed to the track of blood; "here! here!" He raised both hands to his head, and with a dull cry that rang dreadfully through the silent assembly, he fell helpless. Nicolas Herkimer caught him in his arms; but soon the old man gathered himself up and, with Lambert's help, who quickly sprang to his aid, descended from the table and walked slowly to the entrance into the door-yard, supported by the strong arm of his wife and attended by Lambert.
"Have you now heard?" said Aunt Ursul to the rest who crowded around, helpful and eager. "Have you now heard, you straw-heads? Why do you stand about here and gape? I can take care of my old man alone. Better go and do what he has told you. You also stay here, Lambert, and when you pass our house stop a moment. I wish to speak with you."
Lambert brought out the horses of his relatives from the long row of those which were swinging their tails under the shed, and bridled them. He now helped into the saddle his uncle, who had fallen back into his former stupidity, and after his great excitement seemed to take no farther part in the matter. Meanwhile Aunt Ursul had resolutely brought a stool and from it mounted her horse. Lambert looked at the retreating figures until they reached the ferry, where Hans Haberkorn's oldest boy, in the absence of his father, attended to the service, and then returned to the meeting, in which there now prevailed a very different mood.
The appearance and words of Christian Ditmar had produced a powerful effect. Everybody knew the witless Christian and his history, and that he had been dumb since he had lost his sons, and his oldest friends could no longer remember the sound of his voice. And now the dumb had opened his mouth and had spoken fearful words, which cut to the heart those who listened in dumb wonderment. Yes, yes; it was, if not a miracle, at least a sign--a gray sign--well enough understood by the superstitious. When men are silent stones will speak. They had not been silent before--far otherwise--but they had not listened; they would now listen; they wanted to hear Herkimer explain his views once more.
Nicolas Herkimer did so, and with a result far different from the first. They now found that it must be altogether so, and not otherwise--that better advice could not be given. Should the French this time select Canada Creek as the first point of attack, as to all appearance they would, it would be very bad for Lambert Sternberg and the Ditmars and the Eisenlords and the rest. But it could not be helped. When now Lambert appeared on the table and in a few plain words said that he was proud to assume the existing responsibility, and that he would hold out on his post to his last breath, and that he now desired the young men who had a heart and a good rifle for the undertaking, at once to go with him to-day; then August and Fritz Volz and Christian Eisenlord, and half a dozen others, cried out: "I!" "I!" with one voice, and pressing up joined the fighting band.
The leaders of the three cavalry squads were now selected. These were to help those on and away from the Mohawk, and on the creek, as they were fleeing to the forts. So also right men were quickly appointed for the old ferry, and for the added new ones, and for the other important posts which were yet to be provided for.
The excellent spirit which had seized the assembly made them unwilling to hear any more quarreling and strife; and those who grumbled secretly, such as Hans Haberkorn, John Mertens and others, thought it better policy to lay aside their opposition for a more convenient time.
It was late in the afternoon when Nicolas Herkimer declared the business finished, and asked the minister to close the meeting. The minister put up his snuff-box, stepped on the table and spoke with a loud voice which clearly indicated deep feeling, as follows:
"Dear neighbors and friends: I will not speak long, for you are in a hurry to get home to your wives and children. I will only ask you with me briefly to thank God that He has opened our hearts to the spirit of brotherliness and love, and to beseech Him that He will keep awake in us this spirit for the miserable days with which we are now threatened. Then this open heart and this wakeful spirit will make our hands strong, and we shall live in a strong tower, which is our God. And the prince of this world, however terrible he may be, will accomplish nothing against the eternal God in heaven, who will not leave His brave Germans. And now, dear neighbors and friends, go home, and keep your eyes stiff and your powder dry. To-morrow, as may happen, if you have more to do and cannot come to church, no damage will be done. God give us all a happy reunion. Amen."
"Amen!" "Amen!" sounded forth everywhere in the circle of men, among whom there were none who had not found for the moment a deep and holy earnestness. They had assembled in disputation and quarreling. They separated in peace and harmony. Most of them at their departure went to shake hands with Nicolas Herkimer, and specially assured him that he could in any case rely on them. The honor of a pinch of snuff from the minister was sought by so many that the noble man could at last, laughing, only present the empty box. The young people who desired to be placed on the most dangerous post, had gathered about Lambert, and it required Herkimer's authority to settle the choice. Lambert had declared that he could not accept more than four, since he himself and Conrad must also be added, making six good rifles for the protection of the house. A larger number would unnecessarily consume food and ammunition in case they had to stand a siege. So then, to grieve no one, the lot should determine, and it fell on Fritz Volz, from the creek; Jacob Ehrlich and Anthony Bierman, from the Mohawk; and on Richard Herkimer. Lambert was satisfied with the issue. They were, on the whole, wide-awake young men--at least Fritz Volz and Richard Herkimer, his special friends. They agreed that the last two, who lived near enough, should occupy the post yet this evening, and that the two others should come early in the morning.
Now at last, after about all who had been assembled had gone, could Lambert leave Nicolas Herkimer, who said: "I will keep you no longer now. I will ride over to-morrow, as there are yet many things about which I want to talk to you." Lambert had not improperly pressed to go. As he reached the other side he found the Eisenlords, the Teicherts and a dozen others who all, with a glass of Hans Haberkorn's genuine, were discussing what they had heard and decided upon. He shook hands with them and hastened on, Fritz Volz calling after him that he would see him in the evening. As now he gave loose rein to his horse he cast an anxious, inquiring glance at the sky, in which the sun had nearly run its course. It was perhaps yet half an hour to its setting. On his left the level fields and marshes shimmered and glimmered in red, blended lights, so that he could hardly distinguish the shingled roofs of the houses; and the forms of riders and footmen appeared now and then as dark points in the sea of fire. To the right, where the farther he went the nearer did the hills and rocks press toward him, the mighty trunks of the giant pines glowed in dark purple, and their branching tops blazed in green-golden flames to the cloudless sky. With every hoof-beat of the horse the sun sunk deeper, and Lambert had just left Bellinger's farm behind when the sea of fire to the left was extinguished by a blue fog; and toward evening only the highest tops of the tallest trees reflected the departing light of day. Night soon came on. As his noble beast rapidly struck the grassy soil with strong hoofs he saw that he could not reach home in less than an hour.
A nameless discontent seized him. The longing for the beloved one, which he had so nobly fought all these hours, now asserted its rights, and so filled his breast that he could hardly breathe. Minutes seemed like hours. There was also another distressing feeling--a feeling of fear for something he could not conceive of, for which he had no name, and which may on that account have been more terrible. In all his life he had never before had such an experience. Nearest to it were the frightful dreams that had terrified him when a boy, from which he in vain sought to wake. Lambert groaned aloud, and Hans groaned under the pressure of the rider's legs.
So he rushed forward faster and faster, without looking to the right or left, without stopping at Eisenlord's or at Volz', though everywhere from the doors the women called to him: "Holla, Lambert, whither in such haste?" until at last Hans, angry at the conduct of his otherwise reasonable master, ran at full speed.
Aunt Ursul had requested him to stop on his return, and he himself wished to speak with her about what the minister had said. So he stopped his foaming horse unwillingly when he came to the Ditmar house.
"Is he near comfort.'" said Aunt Ursul who had heard him coming and now stepped to the door. "The poor beast is like a cat which has been lying eight days in the water. How you look yourself: Like the rider in the book of Revelation."
"I feel as though some misfortune had happened there," stammered Lambert, pointing homeward.
"Papperlapap!" said Aunt Ursul. "What can have happened? Conrad--yes, Lambert; I already see that now I can't get a rational word out of you, so in God's name, drive on. I have just put my old man to bed and given him a cup of tea, so I am entirely free and will come over in about an hour."
She gave Hans, who was already restlessly champing his bit, a blow on his wet neck. He sprang away with his rider. "Those whom we love are always but half near comfort," said Aunt Ursul, looking after him and shaking her head; "nevertheless--nevertheless--Conrad is a madcap, and acted this morning as though he had lost his reason. I must see that all things go right."
Aunt Ursul turned back into the house, took her gun from the rack and, with long strides, followed Lambert, who was already immersed in the evening fog which rose from the creek in thick streaks.
When at noon to-day Lambert tore himself away from Catherine, she stood still as though stunned. The conviction that she ought to remain behind had come to her on the instant; the determination to do so had been uttered so soon; the carrying out of the resolution too had followed so closely at its heels, that now, as the forms of the riders disappeared behind a turn of the road and she found herself really alone, it appeared to her as though she were having a disagreeable, fearful dream out of which she must momentarily awake. She struck herself over her forehead and eyes, but all was real. There stood the empty crib. There lay the pail which the mare had pushed over. There was the pillion which at the last moment Lambert had unbuckled from the saddle. There were the short, trampled grass and the tracks of the hoofs of the horses. There was the open door in which she had just now seen Lambert. Catherine took a few steps, as though she would follow the beloved one, and then stood still, pressing her hand on her loud-beating heart. Deep sadness overwhelmed her, but she vigorously fought down the feeling. "He has so often called you a brave girl," said she to herself, "and will you weep and complain like a child which the mother has left alone for a few moments? He will soon come back; surely he will soon come back."
She entered the house to see what time it was. The hand of the Swartzwald clock pointed to twelve. The distance to Nicolas Herkimer's house was six miles. If she counted going and returning it was twelve, and on the calculation of the men themselves would take them two hours, so that Lambert could be back by six o'clock, or by seven at the latest. That was indeed a long time, but there was yet much to do, and perhaps also to-day Conrad would return earlier from hunting.
"On Conrad's account I should remain here," said Catherine to herself as she cleared away the dinner-dishes. "He must learn to see in me his sister, and he will, when we show our confidence in him and have no secrets before him. Ah, could I only yesterday have greeted him as a brother! However, that will follow. It must follow yet to-day, when he returns. Then we will live together in peace, and the wild man will find that it is not a bad thing to have a female friend who takes care of him until he himself loves a girl, and establishes a home and builds a house for himself here near us, or at the edge of the woods he so much loves. That will be a joyful, happy life. We will be good neighbors. I shall love his wife and she me."
Catherine had sat down on the hearth and, with her head supported by her hand, looked before her with half-closed eyes, thinking. The fire on the hearth gently crackled; the wall-clock said "tick-tack." In the meadow outside the birds sang. Through the open door the sun shone clear into the cool, shaded room; and in the bright sunbeams, which reached as far as her knees, dust atoms danced, lighted up, and twinkling like golden stars seemed to be waving and playing and catching one another. Then they were no longer golden stars, but children's laughing faces, which emerged out of the partial darkness of the background, came up to her knees, and again disappeared in the dark corners, and from them looked out with bright, blue, happy eyes. Then the vision vanished. The sun still shone into the silent room. The fire crackled. The wall-clock said "tick-tack," and out in the meadows sang the birds.
The young maiden arose and commenced her labor anew, but there was a different expression in her mild, innocent countenance; and other thoughts, which came to her like a revelation, filled her soul. The bridal feeling which now happified her, had acquired another phase, for which she knew not how to account. It was a deeper, more earnest feeling--distinguished from the former like the light of noon now lying on field and forest, from that of the morning. Those were the same bending grass-stems and the same swaying tree-tops. It was the same clear creek and they were the same waving rushes, and yet all was changed as by a gentle, mighty, magic hand, and spoke another speech--moving and dissolving in mystery. Now she understood why the beloved man, who was truth and openness itself, so anxiously concealed from her for weeks that she must live alone with him in his house. "Alone! Would it not have been the same had he told the truth? told me that he loved me? that he did not want me as a maid-servant? Would it not have come out just the same? Did I not also love him from the first moment on? and have I not followed him through peopled cities, through the pathless wilderness, on a journey of weeks, through rain and sunshine, day and night, in unknown regions? What is so different now? Did I not devote myself to him as we left the ship hand in hand? 'You shall be my lord!' And is it not said in the church when the minister lays the hands of lovers together: 'He shall be thy lord.' Yes, he shall be my lord, now and always. He shall be my lord."
So spoke Catherine to herself to banish the occasional shudders that passed through her heart and often took away her breath, while she completed the arrangements in her room which had been temporarily made last evening, and put away her few belongings in a closet that had been contrived in the thick wall. Then, as there was nothing more to do here, she for the first time ascended the stairs to the upper story, and walked around the gallery which encircled the house and projected beyond the lower story, and was surrounded by well-joined planks and provided with port-holes. With the exception of a place poorly enough partitioned off in which the brothers had slept the previous night, the room, used in winter as a store-room, was empty, or served for the storage of that for which there was no room below. Catherine acquired a clearer notion of the plan, which she and Lambert had formed in the morning, to prepare a small, pleasant room for them both here where everything was more airy and free. However, without Lambert she did not succeed very well in planning.
So she again went downstairs, and to her surprise saw by the clock that since Lambert had left but one hour had elapsed. She took some work and seated herself with it on a bench before the door in the shade of the gallery.
It was in the stillness of the day. There was so little wind that the grass-stems in the meadow, and the rushes at the edge of the creek, scarcely bent. The butterflies passed from flower to flower on languid wing. The hum of the bees and the chirping of the crickets had a sleepy sound. All around, everything was still. However, out of the forest there frequently came the hoarse cry of the tree-falcon, or the call of a bird which Catherine did not recognize. In the blue sky there hung single white clouds whose shadows moved, slowly--very slowly--over the sunny prairie.
At first Catherine was pleased with this quietude, which seemed an image of sabbath stillness, filling her soul. But she had scarcely thus sat an hour before the monotony of the scene about her filled her heart with a strange fear. How entirely different it was this morning. Then heaven and earth and tree and bush and every flower and every grass-stem smiled and bowed their welcome to her. Everything had spoken to her in persuasive language. Now that the beloved one was at a distance everything was dumb, except that heaven and earth and tree and bush and every flower and every grass-stem breathed out one word with ever-increasing sadness: Alone! alone!
Catherine let her work sink into her lap. An image, that had been for many years as if blotted from her memory, suddenly came before her in pale colors, but very distinct--the image of her dead mother, who, adorned with flowers, lay in her coffin--and she a little girl, ten years old, stood beside it; and her father had come up and taken her hand and said: "We two are now alone."
"Alone!"
Her heart was filled with increasing fear. Again taking up her work she tried to sing a song that always occurred to her when everything was so quiet: "Were I a wild Falcon I would soar aloft." But she commenced so gently that she did not complete the first measure. Her voice sounded strange. She was frightened at her own voice.
Perhaps, she thought, it would be better if she went to the barn-yard where in the morning she had passed such happy moments with Lambert.
She arose and hastily walked down the path, at last running, and now with beating heart leaned against the bars of the inclosure. The sheep which stood near ran away frightened, and looked at her from a distance with dull eyes. In the yard all was still. The hens and turkeys had gone out into the fields. As she again turned, from among the fruit trees, in whose blossom-covered branches this morning a robin sang so sweetly, there broke out a brown bird of prey and with broad, flapping wings hastened toward the forest. On the ground among the grass there lay several colored feathers.
More sad than when she went Catherine returned to the house, and again sat down before the door, with the full purpose now to wait quietly, and to fight down her depression of spirits.
So she sat patiently long, endless hours. The light in the green tops of the trees in yonder woods became more golden. The shadows that lay along the edge became deeper and broader--one after another came out of the wilderness until at last they branched out in troops. From time to time flocks of pigeons flew like lightning over the prairie from one side of the forest to the other. High above them, in the bright sky, sailed more slowly chains of wild geese, filling the air with their monotone cry. Then again everything was still, and Catherine could hear the rushing of the blood in her temples.
She could endure it no longer. It occurred to her that she had seen a couple of books in the house on a shelf too high for her to reach. She went in, pushed up the table, set a stool on it and got the books.
There were two of them, bound in hog's leather, very dusty and worm-eaten--a Bible and a history, as it appeared. The writing on the fly-leaf was at first in Latin, which the minister's daughter understood well enough to decipher with a little pains. It stated that this book belonged to Conrad Emanuel Sternberg, formerly a student of theology at Heidelberg, who, in the year 1709, after his parents--well-to-do vintners in the Palatinate--had lost everything in the dreadful winter, when the wine in the casks and the birds in the air froze, in company with the young cooper, Christian Ditmar, from Heidelberg, had determined upon the great undertaking of emigrating to America, which he reached June 13th, 1710, more dead than alive, after a long and tedious voyage from the Rhine through Holland and by way of England. He settled on the Hudson with his friends and fellow-sufferers, where he hoped to end his life in quietness and peace.
This pious wish was not fulfilled. Further notices followed this connected narrative, but written in the German language, as though the writer had meanwhile forgotten his Latin, saying that he had moved with his faithful companion, Christian Ditmar, from the Hudson to the Mohawk, thence to Schoharie and finally to Canada Creek. Then there was the date of his marriage with Elisabeth Christiane Frank, of Schoharie, the younger sister of Ursula, his old friend's and now brother-in-law's wife, the birthdays of his sons, Lambert and Conrad, and the death of Christiane. With this sad event the record of the life of the old Heidelberg student was closed. He had not written a line more.
Catherine looked thoughtfully at the faded writing, gently closed the lid and opened the second, smaller book. It was entitled: "Description of the destruction of the city of Heidelberg on the 22nd and 23rd of May, 1689."
She began to read mechanically until by degrees she became conscious of what she was reading and sprang up with a dull outcry: "Great God! what have I read? Is it possible that human beings can so rage against one another--that there are tyrants to whom neither the silvered hair of the aged, nor the modesty of the maiden, nor the innocent laughter of children--to whom nothing is sacred?
"Why not? Did not the bands under Soubise ravage through the cities and towns of Hanover? And did not their ruthless cruelty and base shamelessness drive her old father and all her neighbors and friends from their beloved homes across the sea? Were they not the sons and grandsons of those robbers who, under Melac and Borges, burnt the Palatinate and reduced Heidelberg to a dust heap?
"And again, did they not, the year before, ravage here just so, in connection with the Indians, their like-minded confederates? Here, among these hills and in these valleys and woods, the same French were threatening again and their approach was already proclaimed. Dreadful! dreadful!"
The poor girl, though so sore and sad at heart, had up to this moment found no definite cause of fear. Now fear overwhelmed her with sudden power. She looked with fixed eyes toward the edge of the forest as though at every moment the French and Indians were about to break forth from its silent recesses. She listened intently, until the blood seemed to boil in her temples, and as though it would burst the veins. Merciful God! What would become of her? How could Lambert leave her in such a howling wilderness?--he who had so long been her guardian and defense--he who had cherished her as the apple of his eye. If only Conrad would come. It was about the same time yesterday when he came--no, it was later; the sun had already set, and now it was still over the woods. But why should he to-day stay out so long? And who, besides Lambert, could better protect her than Lambert's brother, the strong, alert man who only needed to set his foot across the door-step to make those dwelling in the house feel secure? So Lambert said only this morning. Why did he now stay away when his presence was so much desired?
Catherine pressed her hands against her beating temples. What should she do? What could she do but wait and try to hush a fear that surely was childish. There near her lay the Bible. She had so often, in sad hours, drawn from it rest and comfort. She took it up and read where her eyes happened to fall:
"And the Lord had respect unto Abel and to his offering. But unto Cain and his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth and his countenance fell. And the Lord said unto Cain: Why art thou wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen? * * * And Cain talked with his brother Abel, and it came to pass when they were in the field, Cain rose up against Abel his brother and slew him."
The printed page glimmered before her eyes. With a dull cry the affrighted girl sprang up. "Cain killed Abel! Cain killed Abel!" And she had wished that he--the terrible one--were here--he who this morning had uttered such dreadful threatenings. No, no! he must not come back; he must not find her alone. He must not see her again. She must away to meet Lambert. She must warn him--must tell him that his brother would kill him on her account; that he must give her up, or with her go out into the wide world. They must flee from the brother. He must save her and himself from that dreaded brother.
As though the block-house was on fire Catherine hastened from the door, down the hill, to the creek, along the creek, without looking around, without observing that she had started in the opposite direction so that at every step she was farther away from Lambert. When she reached the bridge where Lambert had yesterday overtaken her she became aware of her mistake. But she was like a wrecked vessel driven shoreward by the waves and then again carried out to sea. Destruction by him from whom she would escape seemed unavoidable. No more capable of forming a further purpose, deprived of all strength, she sunk together; and as though she must here await the expected death-blow, she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands.
"Catherine!"
Slowly she withdrew her hands from her deadly pale face, and saw Conrad standing before her with his rifle on his shoulder and his dog at his heels, looking at her with vacant eyes, and appearing to have just come out of the sedge along the shore. She had anticipated his coming--knew that he would come. She no longer felt that nameless dread. On the other hand there instantly came over her a peculiar restfulness, and in a quiet tone she said: "You come late. I have been waiting for you."
"Indeed?" said Conrad.
He was also very pale, and the expression of his face was strangely changed.
Catherine observed it, but it could not change her purpose to proceed, even should it cost her life. She arose from her reclining position, though not without an effort--her limbs seemed as if dead--and, as she began mechanically to return to the house, she said:
"I have been waiting for you, since I wish to say something to you before I leave your house."
Conrad started. Catherine felt it, though she kept her eyes directed to the ground. However, involuntarily walking faster, she proceeded:
"What I could not tell you this morning, for it has taken place since, I will say now. I have become engaged to your brother."
She expected that now an outbreak would follow, but Conrad walked on silently at her side.
"I engaged myself to him," said Catherine--and her voice became firmer while she spoke--"this morning after you were gone, and I hardly know how it came about. I only know that Lambert has done for me more than any other man, excepting my good old father who is dead; that to him I owe my life, which therefore belongs to him; that at any time he might ask for it he might have it of me. He did not ask it of me this morning, but I gave it to him freely--my life and my love--for that is the same. And now--"
"And now?" asked Conrad.
"Now I must away, if you are not the kind brother whom Lambert loves so much--if you are resolved to turn the angry words you spoke this morning into fierce deeds. How could I remain here and see how I have sown strife between brother and brother, especially at this time, when you should stand shoulder to shoulder against the treacherous enemy? Where I shall go I do not know, I only know that I cannot stay, so long as you are angry at your brother on my account. But, Conrad, while I thus speak, it seems to me entirely impossible that you can place yourself between me and your brother."
"Why impossible?" asked Conrad.
"Because you love your brother," replied Catherine, gathering courage as she spoke. "You have every reason to love him, though you do not love me as Lambert loves me. Why should you? You do not know me. You saw me yesterday for the first time, and a few minutes this morning. Though I may indeed have pleased you, yet, as you now hear that my heart is already given to your brother, what else, as an honorable man, can you do than to rejoice at our happiness as we would rejoice in yours should heaven provide you a similar happiness, which I hope may soon happen?"
They had reached the house. The dog, which with long leaps had gone ahead, met them wagging her tail and springing against her master Conrad pushed the animal away, but not with his usual rough force. His manner was more sad than angry and his motions were like those of one who is very tired. He sank down on the bench on which Catherine's work and the books still lay, supported his elbow on his knee and rested his head on his hand.
"You are hungry and thirsty from your long hunt," said Catherine; "shall I prepare your evening meal?"
Conrad shook his head. All fear had vanished from Catherine's soul. As she saw the wild, intractable man sitting there so still--so sunk within himself--there stirred in her heart stronger and stronger another feeling.
"Conrad," said she softly. "Conrad," she repeated, laying her hand on his shoulder, "I will indeed also hold you very dear."
A dull cry, like that of an animal that has been mortally wounded, broke from Conrad's broad chest. He put both hands to his face and wept aloud like a child, and the body of the giant-like man shook from the pain stirring within him as might the small frame of a child.
Catherine for a moment stood helpless and speechless. Then there also came from her eyes warm tears, and with the tears she found words--mild, kind words--of sympathy and comfort. She told him again and again that she would love him as a sister should love a brother; that his young, sorrowful heart would find peace; that he should see in her his sister; and that he would find pure happiness in this feeling until there blossomed out another happiness in the love of a virtuous girl, in which no one would more deeply share than she and Lambert.
"Do not speak his name," said Conrad.
He had jumped up, all his limbs shaking with anger and his eyes flashing. He convulsively grasped his gun, which stood near, by the barrel.
"You think you are going to play me off with words. For me smooth words; for him kisses! I saw to-day in the woods how handsomely you can kiss."
He broke out in loud laughter. Catherine, frightened, drew back.
"So!" said Conrad, "that is your true face. Do you still love me as a sister her brother?"
"If you are so unbrotherly, no!" said Catherine. "But you do not know what you are saying."
"Truly not," growled Conrad.
"And not what you are doing," said Catherine. "You would otherwise be ashamed to torment a poor, helpless girl."
She leaned against the door-post, pale and trembling, her hands folded over her breast, her large eyes fixed on the angry man, who tried in vain to meet her gaze, and raved before her like a wild animal.
Then the dog dashed forward, and at the same moment the dull hoof-beats of a horse in full run became perceptible. Fear seized Catherine as to what the issue would be should Lambert now return--and it could be no other.
"Conrad!" she called; "Conrad, it is your brother."
Impelled by an overwhelming feeling she threw herself before him and wound her arms about his knees.
"Let me be!" cried Conrad.
"Not till you have sworn that you will not injure him."
"Let me be!" cried Conrad again, and he violently tore her loose. Catherine tottered forward, stumbled and fell. Her head struck hard against the door-sill.
She came near fainting, but with a great effort picked herself up again, as angry voices struck her ear, and threw herself between the brothers.
"Lambert! Conrad! For God's sake, rather kill me! Conrad, it is your brother. Lambert, he does not know what he is doing!"
The brothers released each other, and panting, looked at one another with flashing eyes. By the sound Lambert's rifle had fallen to the ground. Conrad held his half-raised in his strong hands.
"Now," said Lambert; "why do you not shoot?"
"I do not want to kill you," said Conrad. "If I wanted your life I could have taken it this morning."
"What then do you want?"
"Nothing from you. Why did you come just now? You shall not see me again. Since we have happened again to meet, let me tell you that it must be the last time. Go your own way and let me go mine."
With a powerful swing he threw his rifle on his shoulder and turned away.
Lambert intercepted him. "You must not go. I will forget that you raised your hand against me. Do you also forget that I raised mine against you. By the memory of our father; by the memory of our mother, I conjure you, do not leave your parents' house."
"It is too small for us all," said Conrad, with bitter scorn.
"Thenwewill leave it. I will gladly do it if you will but stay."
"I need no house," said Conrad.
"The house, however, needs you, as you can help defend it against our bitter enemies. Do you wish to see it go up in flames? You know that the French are coming--perhaps you know more about it than I--than all of us; and we to-day greatly missed you. Will you become a traitor to our common interests--to your brother, your friends, to wives and children? Conrad, you must not go away!"
"If the enemy comes you will again creep away as you did before," said Conrad. "I will not hide in forts. I will fight openly. I will take the matter in hand entirely alone, and you may here, in your holes, go to destruction or not; it will not trouble me. My blood be upon me if I again set either foot across this door-sill!"
He pushed his fur cap down over his eyes, whistled to his dog, and as he, making his rounds about the house, did not come, he called out:
"So you, too, stay here. Curse on you all!"
That was the last word that Catherine heard. The dreadful, soul-stirring excitement of these hours had exhausted her strength, and her fall had broken her down entirely. She felt a stinging pain in her temples. There was a ringing in her ears. She saw Lambert's form, as through a veil, bending over her; and then it was not Lambert, but Aunt Ursul, and then everything sunk away about her in deep night.