3stalwarts (48 page)

“You take the women back and tell them I and Gil are going to camp on their trail for a while.”

The men gave the women their hunting shirts and started them off for Fort Herkimer with John. Then Joe and Gil returned to the edge of the clearing and watched the Indians burning the rest of the settlement. It took them about an hour more before the white officer was satisfied. Then they picked up their loot and made packs of it. They had a queer collection of odds and ends, which Indians were apt to value, like small mirrors and a china bowl; but the men with the women’s clothes were the ones that seemed the most envied. Some of them tied the clothes round their heads. .They rounded up the two horses that had brought in the carts, which had already been burnt, and took off south down the road, a compact mass of men, moving, now that they had finally got started, quite fast. They made Gil think of wild dogs which had been running sheep. They kept no order in their march, but stuck together with the instinct for killing.

The destruction of Andrustown was something that Adam Helmer had missed: he had made a long swing to the west with old Blue Back, following John Butler and his thousand men on their trip back from Wyoming. He had gone all the way to Chemung behind the army. Butler had left off some of the men at Tioga, but he himself was indubitably headed for Niagara. Helmer and the Oneida had struck back cross-country with the news that Brant had met Butler at Chemung and had gone back to Tioga to pick up the Rangers left there, and his own Indians at Unadilla. There was some talk of attacking Cherry Valley, apparently; but Helmer believed, and so did Blue Back, that Brant would strike at German Flats.

At the news of Andrustown the first impulse had been to chase the raiders down to Unadilla. Conrad Franck had immediately set out with twenty volunteers on the understanding that Colonel Klock, whom Congress had appointed chief of the militia battalions, should bring up the Palatine companies to join Bellinger and back them up. But Jacob Klock got no farther than the sight of Andrustown; while he was still apprehensively eyeing that smoking ruin, a runner came from Little Stone Arabia Stockade to report a new irruption by the enemy. They had burned houses in Schuyler and taken two men prisoners, one of them George Weaver, and killed four. That was enough for Jacob Klock. He would not listen to Bellinger’s protests. He gave orders for Bellinger to return to Fort Herkimer while he himself took his companies overland to the falls, and as soon as he was home he sat right down and wrote a letter to Governor Clinton.

The puffy old colonel was so disturbed that he got his sequence of events completely muddled; he even dated his letter June 22, instead of July 22. He wrote: —

Sir, Tryon County has once more experienced the Cruelty of a restless Enemy. Springfield, Andrewtown, and the Settlements on Lacke Osego were at once attacked and destroyed last Saturday. House, Barns, and even Waggons, ploughs and the Hay Cocks in the Meadows were laid in Ashes. … As soon as the news came, I ordered immediately the Militia to March to stop the progress of the Enemy. The same Instant I received a Letter from Coll. Peter Bellinger of the German Flats, that the Enemy was burning Houses within four Miles of the Flats praying for Assistance. I did order up five Companies of the Palatine and Cona Johary Battallion; The rest I marched straight to Andrewtown; ordering Coll. Bellinger to join me in order to intercept if possible the Enemy. But on my March thiter I learnt that he the Enemy was gone; and nothing was left, as to scour the woods, as I got information, that still a strong part of the Enemy was left to do mischief. As soon as the Flats Militia was on their March in the woods, the Enemy fell out at the Flats and toock two prisoners… . We are informed that Brandt boasted openly that he will be joined at Unatelly by Butler, and that within eight days he will return and lay the whole County waste… . Harvest time is at Hand & no prospect of a speedy Assistence… . Last Sunday Morning I dispatched an Express to general Ten Broeck, and desired the recommendation of the Situation of our County to your Excellency & to gen Starcks, but did not receive an Answer. Your Excellency, the common father of the good People of this State, upon whose fatherly Exertions the People of this County relieth, and which keepeth the many poor, the numerous widows and the fatherless still in hopes, will, we fervently pray, grant us such speedy relief, as your Ex’llcy in your wisdom shall see meet; & In case it chould be an impossibility; to afford us any Assistance with Bat-teaus, to bring off wifes and Children, that they might not be prey to a Cruel Enemy. Having tacken the Liberty to macke your Excellency aquainted with the Situation and Sentiments of the people I remain as in duty Bound Sir Your most obedient and most humble Servant

Jacob Klock

While Jacob Klock was busying himself with this effort and Colonel Peter Bellinger was crossing the hills north again as fast as his men could set down their feet, Conrad Franck and his thirty volunteers were sitting on their tails round Joe Boleo’s lodge on the hill above the Edmeston settlement. They were waiting there for Bellinger and Klock. Gil and Joe had intercepted them on the road barely in time to keep them from being run over by Brant’s main gang, which was returning from the little lakes. Brant and Caldwell had joined just above Edmeston, making an army of three hundred men, and the thirty farmers from German Flats lay up in the witch hobble and sumac, a quarter of a mile off, and looked down on the fringe of the army. It was apparent to them that Caldwell was but an off-shoot of Brant’s main army, and it might well have been that the whole three hundred would have turned that afternoon. Instead, however, they bore off south into the woods, passing Edmeston. They made a motley army : Indians for the most part, Cayugas, Senecas, and Mohawks in their paint and feathers, Eries with strange headdresses made of the dried heads of animals, greencoat soldiers, with their black caps and leather gaiters, a few scattered remains of the old Highland guard of Fort Johnson, dark limber men, wearing tartan kilts and knee-length leggings of deerskin and carrying long-barreled, smooth-bore rifles and Indian war clubs. They came down the trail with the long loose stride of woodsmen, their tread light on the ground, but their voices were upraised in talk as if there were no other living thing in all the woods. They shouted back and forth, calling each other’s names, lifting the fresh scalps from their belts,— those that had them,— roaring to know whether the bounty still held at eight dollars in Niagara.

Gil and Joe Boleo and Conrad Franck, lying well beyond the line of their men, plainly saw Caldwell and Brant meet and report to each other. The dour unemotional white man was nearly a head taller than the Indian. Watching the latter’s temperamental face, Gil could not help but remember how Brant had towered over Herkimer that day at Unadilla thirteen months ago. Herkimer was dead; Herkimer must have known what would happen with Brant loose in the woods with armed men to manage. Even to Gil, who knew little of the general strategy of war, it seemed that Brant was the leading actor in the gradual encircling of the flats. He wondered for an instant whether it would be worth while to shoot Brant where he stood. A fair mark, with his red blanket over his shoulder and cocked hat with yellow lace and the silver gorget on his chest that a man could hold his sights just under. But even as the thought occurred to him, Joe Boleo touched his hand and shook his head. “There ain’t no Indian worth getting killed for,” he whispered. Before Gil could think it out in his own mind, the army was on the move.

They disappeared as quickly down the road as they had come. A few of the Senecas deployed in front; a few of the Mohawks spread out in the rear, loitering along until the main body was well ahead. One man came within a hundred yards of where Gil lay. He was close enough for Gil to see the lines of his face under the paint, the broad nose, slightly hooked, with the deep nostrils; the little silver socket that held the eagle’s feather over his right ear; the notches on the handle of his tomahawk.

The thirty men stayed where they were for over an hour, but when no one else came from the east or north, they withdrew to Boleo’s lodge to take council. They waited for Bellinger and Klock until sundown. Gil found that several, like himself, had felt the itch to draw a bead on Brant. But having seen Brant’s army, they felt less anxious to open battle on them.

There was nothing thirty men could do. It was obvious that they ought to go home. But the men were spoiling for something now they were out, and it was Joe who calmly mentioned Young’s settlement two miles east of Edmeston, on a branch of Butternut Creek. The inhabitants were all out-spoken King’s men.

Nobody had any arguments. As soon as it was dark, they moved across the trail. Within an hour they came out on the creek shore and found the wagon ruts that led to Young’s; an hour more and their work was done. Behind them the small clearings were alight with the burning farms; three of them, belonging to Young, Bollyer, and a man named Betty. The men from the flats had found only women and children, but that fact— that Tories felt it safe to leave their families unprotected in the woods— served only to infuriate them. They hauled the women out of bed and drove them and the children down the trail. Then they burned every standing wall, killing cattle and horses and even shooting the pigs that ran squealing round the firelight. They stripped one of the women, who returned to save three pounds in hard money, and laughed at her, dividing the money among themselves, and telling her to talk to Captain Caldwell.

Adam Helmer had missed all these events while he was traversing a hundred and fifty miles of wilderness, and he felt bitter at having missed the fun. For a month and a half nothing happened. Every time he returned to the flats, Demooth or Bellinger sent him out again at once. He had hardly had time for more than a couple of visits with Polly Bowers; he hadn’t been back to McKlennar’s for a good meal at all. He hadn’t seen Gil; Gil was too busy getting in his wheat. But the wheat would all be in now; and the next trip down they might be able to get up a decent crowd. Joe Boleo was covering the west since the raid on Schuyler in which George Weaver had been taken prisoner. Helmer alone was responsible for the Unadilla trail, unless he included the three men who were supposed to be watching the trail with him. Most likely they were sitting together throwing dice.

Adam combed his hair as he lay in the green filtered sunlight. The woods were dim with the September haze. The August heat was continuing; but it was better to be hot than to lie out in the rain.

His first sight of the Indians came so abruptly that he knew it would be impossible to warn the men beyond him. There were forty Indians, he judged, Mohawks too, coming up the trail at a dogtrot. That many meant surely that there were flankers out. He heard them now. Whatever force it might be, it was coming fast.

At last what everyone had feared had come to pass, and Adam had allowed himself to get caught like a fifteen-year-old boy on his first scout. He knew that there was only one chance of those three fools getting away; and he knew also that someone would have to get away if German Flats were to be warned in time. Adam did not hesitate. He rolled over on his knee and took the leading Indian a clean shot right under the wishbone. Then, while they milled, he charged straight down the slope and over the trail and up the opposite bank. He made it so fast that the first shots the Indians had at him he was dodging through the scrub.

The musket fire crackled like dry sticks, and the stink of black powder reached out in the still air so that he smelled it as he ran. But he paid no attention to the shooting and yelling on the trail. He dodged into some heavier timber, and wheeled down the bank again. He had judged his course exactly. He hit the trail three hundred yards ahead of his first crossing, just beyond a bend.

He ran lightly, listening to the surge of voices behind him. Up at the lodge a sudden feeble burst of three shots sounded, then more yells. The damned fools hadn’t had the sense to cut and run when he gave them the diversion. He knew as sure as he knew which end of himself he ate with that the three men were dead. It left him alone to carry the warning into German Flats.

German Flats lay twenty-four miles to north and he knew he had probably the pick of Brant’s Indians on his trail, men who could run eighty miles through the woods between sunrise and noon. But Adam knew that he could run himself, and he knew that he would have to run on an open trail and that once the Indians discovered that, they would know he would stick to it. They wouldn’t have to be bothered with tracking.

He eased up slightly, listening behind him. The first surge of yelling had overshot the eastern ridge; now it returned. It would be only a minute be-fore they brought his tracks down to the trail. He began to put on a little pressure to make the next bend; but just before he rounded it he heard the war whoop slide up to its unhuman pitch and a wild shot cut the air high over his head.

His wind had come back from that first foolish burst up and down the ridge. He lengthened his stride. His yellow hair, fresh-combed and beautiful, whipped up and down on his shoulders like a short flapping blanket. His mouth opened as he reached his full pace and he took the slight grade with the bursting rush of a running buck deer.

The Indians had stopped yelling. At the end of the next straight stretch Adam flung a look over his shoulder and saw the first brave running bent over, going smooth and quick and soundless. The Indian knew that Helmer had seen him, but he didn’t lift his gun. He wasn’t carrying a gun. He had only his tomahawk, which was a great deal more deadly if he could pull up within forty feet.

The Indian must have been gaining, Adam thought, or else he was the leader of a group, following the old Mohawk dodge of sprinting to made the fugitive travel at top speed. The others would take a steadier pace; but as soon as the leader tired another man would sprint up. By keeping pressure on the fugitive in this way they could run down any man in four or five hours plain going. Adam would not only have to keep ahead of the press, he would have to run the heart completely out of them.