It was during the fifth summer after these events that the August sun, which rose above the woods in beaming glory, brought the Germans on the creek, on the Mohawk and on the Schoharie, a joyful day. To-day bison and deer might go their way through the primitive forest unmolested. The hunter drew the charge out of his rifle and put into it a large load of loose powder. To-day cattle and sheep were left to themselves in the pasture-fields. The herdsman had brushed his Sunday-coat clean, and had stuck a large bunch of flowers in his hat. To-day there was rest from pressing labor, in field and mart. The farmer, much as he had to do, the herder, the hunter, and all the world, young and old, men, women and children, were to keep a great holiday--a great, wondrous, fine peace-festival. For there was again peace on earth--which had drunk the blood of her children in streams for seven long years. Peace over in the old home; peace here in the new one. There the hero of the century, old Fritz, the great Prussian king, was done with his enemies, and had sheathed his sword. So here too the battle-ax could be buried.
During the last years it had indeed become dull enough. Since, in the spring of 'fifty-eight, the attack of the French and Indians had been so bravely resisted by the Germans, they had made no further invasion across the border, protected as it was by such a warlike race. As now Fort Frontenac had fallen and Quebec was surrendered the following year. England's great victory was won, and what yet followed were only the flying sparks and the last flickering of a great conflagration. But for a German shingle or straw roof sparks are also dangerous, and the master of the house had yet constantly gone to bed burdened with anxiety, and the next morning went to his labor with his rifle on his shoulder. Now the last trace of uncertainty had disappeared, and the bell in the little church sounded out "Peace, peace," over sunny fields and still woods.
Out of the woods and over the fields they came in festive groups, on foot, on horseback, young and old, adorned with flowers, sending friendly greetings from afar, heartily shaking each other's hands if they happened to meet at the crossroads; engaging in friendly conversation as they went through the smiling valley between the Mohawk and the creek toward the hill on which the church stood, which to-day could not hold all who came with pious thankfulness.
"But God does not dwell in temples made by human hands. He is clothed with light. Heaven is His throne and the earth is His footstool." That is the text of the sermon which the worthy minister, Rosenkrantz, to-day delivers to his congregation, gathered around him in a wide circle under the bright sky and on the green earth. In words that fly on eagle's wings over the assembly he praises the great, good God, on whom they, in their need, had called, and who, out in the wild woods and on the lonely prairie, had delivered them from danger. He calls to remembrance those who had fallen during the war, and says that not in vain did they shed their precious blood for house and home in which man must live, that in the circle of his own family, at his own hearth, he may show the virtues of love, of helpfulness and patience, and live according to the image of Him who made him. He declares that those who survive are called and chosen, after the fearful labor of the war, to the valuable works of peace, and that all hatred and quarreling and envy and strife must henceforth be banished from the congregation, otherwise the dead would rise and complain and ask: "Why did we die?"
More than once the voice of the minister trembled with deep feeling. He had gone through it all himself. Every word came from the bottom of his heart and so it reached the heart. There was scarcely one of the assembled hundreds whose eyes remained free from tears; and when the benediction was pronounced, that the Lord who had now so evidently let the light of His countenance fall on them and had given them peace, might also further bless and preserve them and give them peace, Amen! the word touched every heart, and hundreds of voices responded: "Amen!" "Amen!" as the wind roars through the tops of the trees of the forest. Then the roaring grew louder and mightier, as it spread in sacred accord over the sunny fields in the hymn.
"Now let us all thank God."
Then they retired stiller than they came.
But the festival of peace should also be one of joy, and there were with the old far too many who were young to keep in their joy very long. At first a few lively words were jokingly interchanged. Then a lusty fellow had a funny conceit which, in that beautiful, bright sunshine, he could not possibly keep to himself. The old smiled. The young men laughed. The girls giggled. The laughter and the joyfulness were so inspiring and communicative that the guns went off as if of themselves, and an hour later one who did not know better might have thought that Herkimer's house, which the French had not ventured to attack in the frightful years of '57 and '58, was being stormed on the festival of peace by German young men.
This indeed was unnecessary. Nicolas Herkimer's large and hospitable house had to-day all its doors opened wider than usual, for men and women--for all who lived oh the Mohawk, on the creek and on the Schoharie--for all that were German, or that were ready to rejoice with the Germans--all were invited, and were welcome to drink of Nicolas Herkimer's beer and eat of his roast, and, happy with the joyful, help to celebrate the great festival. As all had been invited so nobody stayed at home, unless it might be a mother who could not leave her children alone, or one to whom it was utterly impossible to come. Big John Mertens had come, and, simpering, mingled with the guests, his thumbs in the pockets of his long vest, except when he drew somebody aside secretly to ask him if it was not very nice in John Mertens that he gave precedence to Nicolas Herkimer, and that he did honor to his festival by his presence; that he could just as well entertain such a multitude of guests and perhaps a little better. Hans Haberkorn was there, and acted very modestly and reminded one and another that he had then already said that three ferries across the river were not too many. Now there were six ferrymen and all made a good living. Some thought that Hans Haberkorn talked in that way because he was owing Nicolas Herkimer every cent that the ferry and beer-house were worth, and a couple of hundred dollars besides. But who had time now to investigate such things?
Surely not the young men and maidens who, on the level ground adjoining the house, beneath the shadow of an immense basswood tree, were ceaselessly swinging in the dance to the stirring music of a violin, two fifes and a drum. Parents and old people, who sat under the long, projecting roof where it was cool, and thoughtfully emptied one pitcher after another, had also something better for their entertainment. They remembered, as to-day they well might, what they themselves had suffered in the home across the sea, or had, at least, been told by the father, or the grandfather--how the bitter enemy, the Frenchman, had scorched and burned, up and down the beautiful green Rhine, and how their own lord by his servants had seized what the French had left, so that, in his grand castles, he with his courtiers might gormandize and have brilliant feasts and great hunts, while the poor farmers, oppressed by service and burdens of every kind, were starving of sheer hunger. And also the priesthood and the tithes and other endless miseries of the holy Roman empire of the German nation. Yes, yes, it had looked badly over there, and though since the great king of Prussia, old Fritz, had intervened and had followed bravely on his crutch, it was a great deal better, yet one could live here freer and better, if one considered it well, being under no lord; and the minister, though all were not like Rozenkrantz, would allow one to talk with him and a man's life could be joyful, especially now that the Frenchman has crept into his hole and the war is at an end.
Then they talked about the war. That was an inexhaustible subject. In that everybody had taken part--had himself fought and had his part to tell--his altogether peculiar experiences, which, if to no one else, at least to the narrator were of deep interest. They recalled the chief events of the war, wherein all agreed that the interest was supreme. These were recounted a hundred times and were gladly repeated once more, and which clothed themselves in a wonderful garb, though the eye-witnesses were yet for the most part alive.
Of these peculiarly noteworthy events, none was more remarkable than the battle at Sternberg's house in the year '58. And when the deed had been told that nine men had for six or seven hours resisted one hundred and fifty well-armed enemies, incredible as it was, there was that in the history which gave it for the moment a romantic color, even in the eyes of the indifferent. The quarrel of the brothers over the beautiful maiden, who was now the handsomest wife in the whole district; the reconciliation of the brothers in the last hour, and the succeeding heroic deaths of Christian Ditmar and of Conrad Sternberg--the oldest and the youngest of the company--and both dying so nobly that one could not do better than to follow them, as Aunt Ursul said, when they were both laid in the cool earth. Yes, she had soon enough followed them--the wonderfully brave souls--she who was so rough, while her heart was so soft that she did not want to live longer, nor could she without her husband, with whom she had spent forty years in joy and sorrow--but mostly in sorrow--and without her wild, strong and last but perhaps most dearly beloved son. Yes, yes, that he was, to Aunt Ursul--the Indian, and, as they already before had called him and still called him at the lake, the great jaguar--Conrad Sternberg, wild and strong. Were he still living Cornelius Vrooman, from Schoharie, would not have carried off the victory away from the young men on the Mohawk. What Cornelius did was indeed no small matter, to draw a sleigh by the tongue, standing in the sand, loaded with twelve heavy men, half a foot from its position. Conrad would have drawn the sleigh five feet with Cornelius on his shoulders. Yes, yes, Conrad Sternberg was endowed with superhuman strength. Would he otherwise have been able to overcome twenty-four Indians who had already pressed forward to the house? And was it not more than human courage for him, whom every Onondaga had sworn to kill, notwithstanding to go to their camp and set the Onondagas and Oneidas against each other and both against the French and then to deliver himself up to the Onondagas, as they insisted on it that they might feel assured, and to tell them that he would stay with them as long as they could hold him; and the simpletons, who might have known better, had thought that six men were sufficient for this, and had placed the six, with Conrad as guide, in the van. Yes, he had showed them the way there whence none of them would return. So had he protected the Sternberg house, and, if one correctly considered it, all the houses on the creek and the Mohawk, since the Oneidas went back, and the French and Onondagas might be glad that they had not in the evening been followed more sharply, since half of the cavalry had been sent to relieve the Sternberg house. Yes, that was a man, that Conrad, the like of whom would probably never again appear among them--a Samson among the Philistines, "who slew them with the jaw-bone of an ass," as the minister to-day said, in his sermon, though he did not mention Conrad's name. The minister himself knew how to tell about it, for he was there and could say more if he would; but he said no more about it, as soon as he came in his discourse to the chapter. Now, perhaps a servant of peace should not be blamed if he did not wish to remember that he had laid low six Indians that day with his own hand. In their gossiping exaggeration and envy they proceeded to add that if Lambert Sternberg seldom speaks of his brother he may possibly have his grounds, since many suspect that Catherine loved Conrad better than him, and that Lambert Sternberg, in spite of his comfortable condition--since he is now also Aunt Ursul's heir--and in spite of his handsome wife and beautiful children, is the unhappiest man in the whole valley.
"Be still! There comes Lambert with Herkimer; and what peculiar little fellow have they forked up?"
Nicolas Herkimer and Lambert Sternberg approached these confident dividers of honors, whose conversation had just taken so interesting a turn, and introduced to them Mr. Brown, of New York, who in Albany, where he had business, had heard of the peace-festival on the Mohawk, and as he was a friend of the Germans, had at once decided to come up and help them celebrate the day.
The honor-conveyers welcomed the stranger, and said that it was a great honor which they knew how to prize, and asked whether Mr. Brown and Lambert--Herkimer had already gone away--would not sit down at their table and empty a glass to the well-being of his majesty the king. Mr. Brown was ready for this, and also drank to the welfare of the Germans, but then left, with the promise that later he would come again with Lambert; that he wished first to look about a little over the place where the festival was being held.
Mr. Brown had not made the long journey from New York to Albany and from Albany here merely on his own business, nor out of pure sympathy with the Germans. He came at the suggestion of the Government, which had at last comprehended the value of the German settlements on the Mohawk, and further up toward the lake, and had formed the earnest purpose to advance them as far as possible. Mr. Brown, being peculiarly fitted to further this end on account of his long business intercourse with the Germans, was intrusted with this mission.
He was to communicate with the leading Germans, such as Nicolas Herkimer and Lambert Sternberg, and take their proposals into consideration. To this end he had held a long conference with Nicolas Herkimer, and now imparted his views to his younger friend while walking with him about the place, Lambert attentively listened in silence. It did not occur to him that the Englishman had in reality the interests of his nation in his eye when he spoke of the advantages which should grow out of it all to the Germans. Nor did Mr. Brown deny it.
"We are a practical people, my dear young friend," said he, "and do nothing for God's sake. Business is business; but this is an honorable one--I mean one by which both sides are the gainers. Naturally you will at first serve as a dike and a protecting wall against our enemies, the French. You will help extend and establish our control of the continent which will yet come to us. But if you so pull the chestnuts out of the fire for us will not the sweet fruits be just as good for you? When you strike for King George do you not just as well fight for your own house and home? What then, man? So long as one does not stand firm in his own shoes one must lean against others. See that you Germans reach a position so that you can enter the market of the world, dealing for your own advantage and in view of your own danger. You will have to be satisfied either to be taken in tow by us, or, if you prefer, be road-makers and pioneers for us."
The earnest man had, according to his custom, at last spoken very loud, and with it gesticulated with his little lean arms, and thrust his Spanish cane into the ground. Now he looked around frightened, grasped Lambert under the arm, and, while he let himself be led farther away, proceeded in a more gentle manner and in lower tones:
"And now I will intrust you with something, my young friend, which I would not for all the world should come to Mrs. Brown's ears, and which also, on your own account, you may keep to yourselves. You remember, Lambert, how five years ago, you were in New York, and we stood on the quay and saw your country people leave the ship, poor simpletons! It rained powerfully, and the dismal scene did not by this means become brighter. Well, this morning, while we were here wandering about, I have been constantly forced to think and have said to myself: What immeasurable life-vigor must stick in this race, which needs but a single life-time to change from half-starved, shy-looking, all-enduring slaves, into lusty, broad-shouldered, independent freemen. How immeasurably must such a race have suffered to sink so deep! How high it must rise when these sufferings are removed; when its good instincts are left to themselves; when fortune permits it freely to unfold its great strength which slumbers hidden and is yet scarcely waked up! How high it must ascend! How wide it must spread! What is beyond its reach? Do not laugh at me, my young friend. I tremble when I think of it---when I think what a host like this, as yet without leaders, only subject to the law of gravity, can overcome--mustovercome--when it has learned to take care of itself; to lead and to march in rank and file. However this may be, so much is already clear to me; you who here stand on the border are evidently now our vanguard. You prepare your countrymen a way. You are truly German pioneers. But again, not a word of this when you this fall come to New York. My neighbors already call me 'the Dutchman' and Mrs. Brown will not again--Well, as we are now speaking of the women, where, then, is your wife, with whom you at that time so hastily went away? I think I will to-morrow lay claim to your guest-friendship for a day, and so would be gladly introduced to my beautiful entertainer."
"My wife," said Lambert, "is not here. She--"
"I understand, I understand," interrupted the talkative old man. "Little household events happen in the best of families. I understand."
"Now," said Lambert, laughing, "our youngest is already half-a-year old, and my wife was unwilling longer to stay away from the children; and besides, this joyous day is also one of sorrowful thoughts to my family."
"I know, I know," said the old man. "Your brother--we heard of it in New York. What do you want, man? Your brave deed is in the mouth of the people. The ballad singers sing it on the streets:"
"A story, a story,Unto you I will tell,Concerning a brave hero--"
"A story, a story,Unto you I will tell,Concerning a brave hero--"
"I should say, two brave heroes. But the people like to keep to one. You must tell me all this circumstantially when I come to your house to-morrow."
"This I will cheerfully do," replied Lambert, "and so I will to-day take my leave of you. The sun is already low, and I would like to be home in good time."
Lambert took the old man to the giver of the feast, who sent his hearty compliments to his wife, and promised to come with the guest to-morrow, to have farther consultation, and to visit his daughter-in-law on the way, who had already fourteen days ago presented him with a grandson. Richard, after Aunt Ursul's death, had bought the property from Lambert, and was now his nearest neighbor. Richard came up and proposed to accompany Lambert. Fritz and August Volz would probably also have done this, but their wives did not yet want to leave the festival, which was now at its highest point. And then the women had taken it into their heads that this was the day on which their brother Adam must lose his long-maintained freedom and lay it down at the feet of Margaret Bierman, Anton Bierman's sister. Adam came up. His eyes were red. He no longer stood quite firm on his long legs. He put his arms around Lambert, and assured him with hot tears that a man has but one heart to give once for all, but that if it was necessary for Lambert's comfort--a necessity that he fully understood--to follow Jacob Ehrlich's example, given a short time before, he would marry a Bierman even if a man has but one heart, and Margaret didn't sound half as nice as a certain other name, that should not cross his lips, "for a man has but one heart and his heart--"
Here came Anton Bierman and his brother-in-law Jacob to fetch the faithless knight, and Anton, who had overheard the last words, assured Lambert that Adam was a perfect fool, though at bottom a goodhearted and brave fellow, and that the old Bellingers had left behind, besides the visible property, a nice round sum, and that if his sister Gretchen was willing he was satisfied. What did Lambert say to it?
Lambert said, that he had always given Adam that advice and would also do it under present circumstances; and to the same effect he spoke to Richard Herkimer as, two hours later, they two trotted up the creek.
"Adam," said he, "is not so great a fool. The fellow has mother wit enough, and, if he can be easily teased, so his antagonists for the most part do not escape without some scratches. He is also brave, when he must be. That he showed at that trying time in the block-house. In wedlock one must be brave. Therefore I always advise to found a new home when it is suitable. And then, Richard, the German only increases when he has his own hearth, when he can care and work for house and home, for wife and child. So I salute the smoke that rises from a new hearth like a banner about which will gather a group of German pioneers, as Mr. Brown calls them, who lead forward the host that shall come after us."
Richard looked at his companion with some astonishment. Lambert had always so few thoughts and words. He would have liked to ask whether Lambert expected to be one among the coming host, but they had just reached his house, and Lambert bade him give his compliments to Annie, pressed his hand and trotted away.
Yes, Lambert always had but few thoughts for others, but not for Catherine. He could tell her everything that his warm heart suggested and about which his ever active mind was busy. She, the handsome, good, intelligent one understood it, felt as he did, and often made things clear that he could not himself see through. What would she say to the proposition that Mr. Brown had made to him? "On, Hans, old fellow, yet a little trot."
Hans was satisfied. The five years had not weakened his strength. He could, if a long, sharp trot was necessary, yet make a round of ten miles with any horse.
But this time the well-known endurance of the active horse was not put to the test. He had scarcely trotted two hundred yards and was beginning to enjoy it, when his master, with a sudden jerk, held him up, and at the next moment sprang out of the saddle.
"Catherine!"
"Lambert!"
"How are the children?"
"All well. Conrad did not want to go to bed before he had seen you."
"And little Ursul?"
"To-day got her third tooth."
"And little Catherine?"
"Sleeps wonderfully."
They walked on along the bank side by side, leading Hans by the bridle.
"Are you yet thinking about it?" said Catherine.
Lambert did not need to ask about what he should be thinking. One does not forget things like that. It seemed as though it had occurred but yesterday.
And yet there had been great changes since that evening. Where they then walked along the seldom-trodden meadow-path they now went through waving grain fields on a well-beaten road in which a deep, firm wagon-track was cut. There were fields with suitable buildings in all directions, as far as the edge of the woods, which in many places had been cleared far back. Where portions of the old wood pasture showed themselves between the cultivated fields, there large gates had been put, over which here and there a colt or a heifer coming up looked with large, languid eyes, while farther on in the pasture the rest were feeding in the rank grass. On through meadows and fields were seen the shingle roofs of large farmsteads, beside which the old barns which had been burned down would have looked very mean. On the place where the block-house was, there now stood forth a stately stone-house in whose gable the windows were glowing in the evening sun.
Yes, there have been great changes since that evening which to Lambert seemed like yesterday, as though he had never lived without his wife and children.
They had put Conrad to bed, and Catherine with her soft voice had sung the wild boy to sleep, while the other two little ones, with their red cheeks, were slumbering quietly in their beds. They sat before the door in the honeysuckle-arbor, through which the soft, summer evening wind was murmuring.
Lambert told his wife the events of the day, and about Mr. Brown, and they discussed Mr. Brown's plan of extending the German settlements farther up the creek, over to the Black River--if possible to Oneida Lake--and that Mr. Brown, Nicolas Herkimer and himself were to buy the land, and that he was to be the leader and patron of the new settlers. He also told Catherine what the old man had said about the future of the Germans in America, and how the Englishman feared that this hardy, industrious race would yet surpass the English and take from them their dominion over the continent.
"Such language from the mouth of so intelligent a man might make us very proud," said Catherine.
"So I thought too," said Lambert. "And yet, when I reflect upon it more fully it makes me quite sad."
"How do you mean, Lambert?"
"I mean the industry, the pains, the labor, the strength, the courage, the energy, we must use to carry it so far here will be such that they might perhaps better remain in the old home. As you have painted your father to me, mild, generous, helpful, learned; such as was my father, quick, decided, looking far ahead; such as was Uncle Ditmar, unbending, stern and refractory; such as was our noble Conrad and Aunt Ursul. What precious blood this new land has already drunk and in the future will drink! And does it produce the right fruit from the costly seed. I know not. Granted that we attain all which our old friend promises us--though it sounds like a fable--but granted that we reach it, and that we should once have to divide the rich inheritance with the English, should we remain Germans? I doubt it, and you yourself, Catherine, have taught me to be doubtful. What would I be without you? And you had to come to me from the old home--could come only from the old home. In your soul there sounds a deeper, purer tone, just as in the beautiful songs that you brought over with you. Will a still deeper tone sound in the souls of our children? What will be their condition should it die out?"
Lambert was silent. Catherine leaned her head on his shoulder. She found no answer to a question that had already filled her breast with sad anxiety.
"And so," Lambert continued, "my heart is divided into two parts. To-morrow, when the old friend comes, I will go out with him into the woods and show him the way by which those who are to come must go, and point out the places where they must build their huts. But as for myself, I would rather tear down the huts and take you and the children--how goes the song, Catherine, with which you just now sung our boy to sleep, the dear, old song, out of the dear, old home--
"Were I a wild falcon,I would soar aloft."
"Were I a wild falcon,I would soar aloft."
And he pointed toward the east where, in the holy mother-arms of the dark night, the glory of the coming day was slumbering.