The Little Red Foot E-Book

Robert W. Chambers

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

This is an adventure thriller about independence. The protagonist fights for the freedom of the United States, as well as for the love of his life. If you are a fan of the historical adventure novel, then this book is for you.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. SIR WILLIAM PASSES

CHAPTER III. TWO PEERS SANS PEERAGE

CHAPTER IIII. THE POT BOILS

CHAPTER IVI. TWO COUNTRY MICE

CHAPTER VI. A SUPPER

CHAPTER VII. RUSTIC GALLANTRY

CHAPTER VIII. BEFORE THE STORM

CHAPTER VIIII. SHEEP AND GOATS

CHAPTER IXI. STOLE AWAY

CHAPTER XI. A NIGHT MARCH

CHAPTER XII. SUMMER HOUSE POINT

CHAPTER XIII. THE SHAPE IN WHITE

CHAPTER XIIII. THE DROWNED LANDS

CHAPTER XIVI. THE LITTLE RED FOOT

CHAPTER XVI. WEST RIVER

CHAPTER XVII. A TROUBLED MIND

CHAPTER XVIII. DEEPER TROUBLE

CHAPTER XVIIII. FIRELIGHT

CHAPTER XIXI. OUT OF THE NORTH

CHAPTER XXI. IN SHADOW-LAND

CHAPTER XXII. THE DEMON

CHAPTER XXIII. HAG-RIDDEN

CHAPTER XXIIII. WINTER AND SPRING

CHAPTER XXIVI. GREEN-COATS

CHAPTER XXVI. BURKE'S TAVERN

CHAPTER XXVII. ORDERS

CHAPTER XXVIII. FIRE-FLIES

CHAPTER XXVIIII. OYANEH!

CHAPTER XXIXI. THE WOOD OF BRAKABEEN

CHAPTER XXXI. A LONG GOOD-BYE

CHAPTER XXXII. "IN THE VALLEY"

AFTERMATH

CHAPTER I

SIR WILLIAM PASSES

The day Sir William died there died the greatest American of his day. Because, on that mid-summer evening, His Excellency was still only a Virginia gentleman not yet famous, and best known because of courage and sagacity displayed in that bloody business of Braddock.

Indeed, all Americans then living, and who since have become famous, were little celebrated, excepting locally, on the day Sir William Johnson died. Few were known outside a single province; scarcely one among them had been heard of abroad. But Sir William was a world figure; a great constructive genius; the greatest land-owner in North America; a wise magistrate, a victorious soldier, a builder of cities amid a wilderness; a redeemer of men.

He was a Baronet of the British Realm; His Majesty’s Superintendent of Indian Affairs for all North America. He was the only living white man implicitly trusted by the savages of this continent, because he never broke his word to them. He was, perhaps, the only representative of royal authority in the Western Hemisphere utterly believed in by the dishonest, tyrannical, and stupid pack of Royal Governors, Magistrates and lesser vermin that afflicted the colonies with the British plague.

He was kind and great. All loved him. All mourned him. For he was a very perfect gentleman who practiced truth and honour and mercy; an unassuming and respectable man who loved laughter and gaiety and plain people.

He saw the conflict coming which must drench the land in blood and dry with fire the blackened cinders.

Torn betwixt loyalty to his King whom he had so tirelessly served, and loyalty to his country which he so passionately loved, it has been said that, rather than choose between King and Colony, he died by his own hand.

But those who knew him best know otherwise. Sir William died of a broken heart, in his great Hall at Johnstown, all alone.

His son, Sir John, killed a fine horse riding from Fort Johnson to the Hall. And arrived too late and all of a lather in the starlight.

And I have never ceased marvelling how such a man could have been the son of the great Sir William.

At the Hall the numerous household was all in a turmoil; and, besides Sir William’s immediate family, there were a thousand guests–a thousand Iroquois Indians encamped around the Hall, with whom Sir William had been holding fire-council.

For he had determined to restrain his Mohawks, and to maintain tranquillity among all the fierce warriors of the Six Nations, and so pledge the entire Iroquois Confederacy to an absolute neutrality in the imminence of this war betwixt King and Colony, which now seemed to be coming so rapidly upon us that already its furnace breath was heating restless savages to a fever.

All that hot June day, though physically ill and mentally unhappy,–and under a vertical sun and with head uncovered,–Sir William had spoken to the Iroquois with belts.

The day’s labour of that accursed council-fire ended at sunset; sachem and chief departed–tall spectres in the flaming west; there was a clash of steel at the guard-house as the guard presented arms; Mr. Duncan saluted the Confederacy with lifted claymore.

Then an old man, bareheaded, alone, turned away from the covered council-fire; and an officer, seeing how feebly he moved, flung an arm about his shoulders.

So Sir William came slowly to his great Hall, and slowly entered. And laid him down in his library on a sofa.

And slowly died there while the sun was going down.

Then the first star came out where, in the ashes of the June sunset, a pale rose tint still lingered.

But Sir William lay dead in his great Hall, all alone.

CHAPTER II

TWO PEERS SANS PEERAGE

Sir John had arrived and I caught sight of his heavy, expressionless face, which seemed more colourless than ever in the candle light.

Consternation reigned in the Hall,–a vast tumult of whispering and guarded gabble among servants, checked by sobs,–and I saw officers come and go, and the tall forms of Mohawks still as pines on a summer night.

The entire household was there–all excepting only Michael Cardigan and Felicity Warren.

The two score farm slaves were there huddled along the wall in dusky clusters, and their great, dark eyes wet with tears.

I saw Sir William’s lawyer, Lafferty, come in with Flood, the Baronet’s Bouw-Meester.

His blacksmith, his tailor, and his armourer were there; also his gardener; the German, Frank, his butler; Pontioch, his personal waiter; and those two uncanny and stunted servants, the Bartholomews, with their dead white faces and dwarfish dignity.

Also I saw poor Billy, Sir William’s fiddler, gulping down the blubbers; and there was his personal physician, Doctor Daly, very grave; and the servile Wall, schoolmaster to Lady Molly’s brood; and I saw Nicholas, his valet, and black Flora, his cook, both sobbing into the same bandanna.

The dark Lady Johnson was there, very quiet in her grief, slow-moving, still beautiful, having by the hands the two youngest girls and boy, while near her clustered the older children, fat Peter and Betsy and pretty Lana.

A great multitude of candles burned throughout the hall; Sir William’s silver and mahogany sparkled everywhere; and so did the naked claymores of the Highlanders on guard where the dead man lay in his own chamber, done, at last, with all perplexity and grief.

In the morning came the quality in scores–all the landed gentry of Tryon County, Tory and Whig alike, to show their reverence:–old Colonel John Butler from his seat at Butlersbury near Caughnawaga, and his dark, graceful son Walter,–he of the melancholy golden eyes–an attorney then and sick of a wound which, some said, had been taken in a duel with Michael Cardigan near Fort Pitt.

Colonel Claus was there, too, son-in-law to Sir William, and battered much by frontier battles: and Guy Johnson, a cousin, and a son-in-law, too, had come from his fine seat at Guy Park to look upon a face as tranquil in death as a sleeping child’s.

The McDonald, of damned memory, was there in his tartan and kilts and bonnet; and the Albany Patroon, very modest; and God knows how many others from far and near, all arrived to honour a man who had died very tired in the service of our Lord, who knows and pardons all.

The pretty lady of Sir John, who was Polly Watts of New York, came to me where I stood in the noon breeze near the lilacs; and I kissed her hand, and, straightening myself, retained it, looking into her woeful face of a child, all marred with tears.

“I had not thought to be mistress of the Hall for many years,” said she, her lips a-tremble. “But yesterday, at this hour, he was living: and, today, in this hour, the heavy importunities of strange new duties are already crushing me... I count on you, Jack.”

I made no answer.

“May we not count on you?” she said. “Sir John and I expect it.”

As I stood silent there in the breezy sunshine by the porch, there came across the grass Billy Alexander, who is Lord Stirling, a man much older than I, but who seemed young enough; and made his reverence to Lady Johnson, kissing the hand which I very gently released.

“Oh, Billy,” says she, the tears starting again, “why should death take him at such a time, when God’s wrath darkens all the world?”

“God’s convenience is not always ours,” he replied, looking at me sideways, with a certain curiosity which I understood if Lady Johnson did not.

She turned and gazed out across the sunny grass where, beyond the hedge fence, the primeval forest loomed like a dark cloud along the sky, far as the eye could see.

“Well,” says she, half to herself, “the storm is bound to break, now. And we women of County Tryon may need your swords, gentlemen, before snow flies.”

Lord Stirling stole another look at me. He knew as well as I how loosely in their scabbards lay our two swords. He knew, also, as well as I, in which cause would flash the swords of the landed gentry of County Tryon. And he knew, too, that his blade as well as mine must, one day, be unsheathed against them and against the stupid King they served.

Something of this Lady Johnson had long since suspected, I think; but Billy Alexander, for all his years, was a childhood friend; and I, too, a friend, although more recent.

She looked at my Lord Stirling with that troubled sweetness I have seen so often in her face, alas! and she said in a low voice:

“It would be unthinkable that Lord Stirling’s sword could lay a-rusting when the Boston rabble break clear out o’ bounds.”

She turned to me, touched my arm confidingly, child that she seemed and was, God help her.

“A Stormont,” she said, “should never entertain any doubts. And so I count on you, Lord Stormont, as I count upon my Lord Stirling–”

“I am not Lord Stormont,” said I, striving to force a smile at the old and tiresome contention. “Lord Stormont is the King’s Ambassador in Paris–if it please you to recollect–”

“You are as surely Viscount Stormont as is Billy Alexander, here, Lord Stirling–and as I am Lady Johnson,” she said earnestly. “What do you care if your titles be disputed by a doddering committee on privileges in the House of Lords? What difference does it make if usurpers wear your honours as long as you know these same stolen titles are your own?”

“A pair o’ peers sanspeerage,” quoth Billy Alexander, with that boyish grin I loved to see.

“I care nothing,” said I, still smiling, “but Billy Alexander does–pardon!–my Lord Stirling, I should say.”

Said he: “Sure I am Lord Stirling and no one else; and shall wear my title however they dispute it who deny me my proper seat in their rotten House of Lords!”

“I think you are very surely the true Lord Stirling,” said I, “but I, on the other hand, most certainly am not a Stormont Murray. My name is John Drogue; and if I be truly also Viscount Stormont, it troubles me not at all, for my ambition is to be only American and to let the Stormonts glitter as they please and where.”

Lady Johnson came close to me and laid both hands upon my shoulders.

“Jack,” she pleaded, “be true to us. Be true to your gentle blood. Be true to your proper caste. God knows the King will have a very instant need of his gentlemen in America before we three see another summer here in County Tryon.”

I made no reply. What could I say to her? And, indeed, the matter of the Stormont Viscounty was distasteful, stale, and wearisome to me, and I cared absolutely nothing about it, though the landed gentry of Tryon were ever at pains to place me where I belonged,–if some were right,–and where I did not belong if others were righter still.

For Lady Johnson, like many of her caste, believed that the second Viscount Stormont died without issue,–which was true,–and that the third Viscount had a son,–which is debatable.

At any rate, David Murray became the fourth Viscount, and the claims of my remote ancestor went a-glimmering for so many years that, in 1705, we resumed our family name of the Northesks, which is Drogue; and in this natural manner it became my proper name. God knows I found it good enough to eat and sleep with, so that my Lord Stormont’s capers in Paris never disturbed my dreams. Thank Heaven for that, too; and it was a sad day for my Lord Stormont when he tried to bully Benjamin Franklin; for the whole world is not yet done a-laughing at him.

No, I have no desire to claim a Viscounty which our witty Franklin has made ridiculous with a single shaft of satire from his bristling repertoire.

Thinking now of this, and reddening a little at the thought,–for no Stormont even of remotest kinship to the family can truly relish Mr. Franklin’s sauce, though it dressed an undoubted goose,–I become far more than reconciled to the decision rendered in the House of Lords.

Two people who had come from the house, and who were advancing slowly toward us across the clipped grass, now engaged our full attention.

The one we perceived to be Sir John Johnson himself; the other his lady’s school friend and intimate companion, Claudia Swift, the toast of the British Army and of all respectable young Tories; and the “Sacharissa” of those verses made by the new and lively Adjutant General, Major André, who was then a captain.

For, though very young, our lovely Sacharissa had murdered many a gallant’s peace of mind, leaving a trail of hearts bled white from New York to Boston, and from that afflicted city to Albany; where, it was whispered, her bright and merciless eyes had made the sad young Patroon much sadder, and his offered manor a more melancholy abode than usual.

She gave us, now, her dimpled hand to kiss. And, to Lady Johnson: “My dear,” she said very tenderly, “how pale you seem! God sends us affliction as a precious gift and we must accept it with meekness,” letting her eyes rest absently the while on Lord Stirling, and then on me.

Our Sacharissa might babble of meekness if she chose, but that virtue was not lodged within her, God knows,–nor many other virtues either.

Billy Alexander, old enough to be her parent, nevertheless had been her victim; and I also. It was our opinion that we had recovered. But, to be honest with myself, I could not avoid admitting that I had been very desperate sick o’ love, and that even yet, at times–But no matter: others, stricken as deep as I, know well that Claudia Swift was not a maid that any man might easily forget, or, indeed, dismiss at will from his mind as long as she remained in his vicinity.

“Are you well, Billy, since we last met?” she asked Lord Stirling in that sweet, hesitating way of hers. And to me: “You have grown thin, Jack. Have you been in health?”

I said that I had been monstrous busy with my new glebe in the Sacandaga patent, and had swung an axe there with the best o’ them until an express from Sir William summoned me to return to aid him with the Iroquois at the council-fire. At which explaining of my silence the jade smiled.

When I mentioned the Sacandaga patent and the glebe I had had of Sir William on too generous terms–he making all arrangements with Major Jelles Fonda through Mr. Lafferty–Sir John, who had been standing silent beside us, looked up at me in that cold and stealthy way of his.

“Do you mean your parcel at Fonda’s Bush?” he inquired.

“Yes; I am clearing it.”

“Why?”

“So that my land shall grow Indian corn, pardie!”

“Why clear it now?” he persisted in his deadened voice.

I could have answered very naturally that the land was of no value to anybody unless cleared of forest. But of course he knew this, too; so I did not evade the slyer intent of his question.

“I am clearing my land at Fonda’s Bush,” said I, “because, God willing, I mean to occupy it in proper person.”

“And when, sir, is it your design to do this thing?”

“Do what, sir? Clear my glebe?”

“Remove thither–in proper person, Mr. Drogue?”

“As soon as may be, Sir John.”

At that Lady Johnson gave me a quick look and Claudia said: “What! Would you bury yourself alive in that wilderness, Jack Drogue?”

I smiled. “But I must hew out for myself a career in the world some day, Sacharissa. So why not begin now?”

“Then in Heaven’s name,” she exclaimed impatiently, “go somewhere among men and not among the wild beasts of the forest! Why, a young man is like to perish of loneliness in such a spot; is he not, Sir John?”

Sir John’s inscrutable gaze remained fixed on me.

“In such times as these,” said he, “it is better that men like ourselves continue to live together... To await events... And master them... And afterward, each to his vocation and his own tastes... It is my desire that you remain at the Hall,” he added, looking steadily at me.

“I must decline, Sir John.”

“Why?”

“I have already told you why.”

“If your present position is irksome to you,” he said, “you have merely to name a deputy and feel entirely at liberty to pursue your pleasure. Or–you are at least the Laird of Northesk if you are nothing greater. There is a commission in my Highlanders–if you desire it... And your salary, of course, continues also.”

He looked hard at me: “Augmented by–half,” he added in his slow, cold voice. “And this, with your income, should properly maintain a young man of your age and quality.”

I had been Brent-Meester to Sir William, for lack of other employment; and had been glad to take the important office, loving as I do the open air. Also the addition of a salary to my slender means had been acceptable. But it was one matter to serve Sir William as Brent-Meester, and another to serve Sir John in any capacity whatsoever. And as for the remainder of the family,–Guy Johnson and Colonel Claus–and their intimates the Butlers, I had now had more than enough of them, having endured these uncongenial people only because I had loved Sir William. Yet, for his father’s sake, I now spoke to Sir John politely, using him most kindly because I both liked and pitied his lady, too.

Said I: “My desire is to become a Tryon County farmer, Sir John; and to that end I happily became possessed of the parcel at Fonda’s Bush. For that reason I am clearing it. And so I must beg of you to accept my resignation as Brent-Meester at the Hall, for I mean to start as soon as convenient to occupy my glebe.”

There was a silence; Sacharissa gazed at me in pity, astonishment, and unfeigned horror; Lady Johnson gave me an odd, unhappy look; and Billy Alexander a meaning one, half grin.

Then Sir John’s slow and heavy voice invaded the momentary silence: “As my father’s Brent-Meester, only an Indian or a Forest Runner knows the wilderness as do you. And we shall have great need of such forest knowledge as you possess, Mr. Drogue.”

I think we all understood the Baronet’s meaning.

I considered a moment, then replied very quietly that in time of stress no just cause would find me skulking to avoid duty.

I think my manner and tone, as well as what I said, combined to stop Sir John’s mouth. For nobody could question such respectable sentiments unless, indeed, a quarrel was meant.

But Sir John Johnson, in his way, was as slow to mortal quarrel as was I in mine. And whatever suspicion of me he might nurse in his secret mind he now made no outward sign of it.

Also, other people were coming across the grass to join us; and presently grave greetings were exchanged in sober voices suitable to the occasion when a considerable company of ladies and gentlemen are gathered at a house of mourning.

Turning away, I noticed Mr. Duncan and the Highland officers at the magazine, all wearing their black badges of respect and a knot of crape on the basket-hilts of their claymores; and young Walter Butler, still stiff in his bandages, gazing up at the June sky out of melancholy eyes, like a damned man striving to see God.

Sir John had now given his arm to his lady. His left hand rested on his sword-hilt–the same left hand he had offered to poor Claire Putnam–and to which the child still clung, they said.

Claudia turned from Billy Alexander and came toward me. Her face was serious, but I saw the devil looking out of her blue eyes.

Nature had given this maid most lovely proportions–that charming slenderness which is plumply moulded–and she stood straight, and tall enough, too, to meet on a level the love-sick gaze of any stout young man she had bedevilled; and she wore a most bewitching countenance–short-nosed, red-lipped, a skin as white as a water-lily, and thick soft hair as black as night, which she wore unpowdered–the dangerous jade!

“Jack,” says she in honeyed tones, “are you truly designing to become a hermit?”

“Oh, no,” said I, smilingly, “only a farmer, Claudia.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a poor man and must feed and clothe myself.”

“There is a commission from Sir John in the Scotch regiment–”

“I’m Scotch enough without that,” said I.

“Jack?”

“Yes, Madam?”

“Are you a little angry with me?”

“No,” said I, feeling uncomfortable and concluding to beware of her, for she stood now close to me, and the scent of her warm breath troubled me.

“Why are you angry with me, Jack?” she asked sorrowfully. And took one step nearer.

“I am not,” said I.

“Am–am I driving you into the wilderness?” she inquired.

“That, also, is absurd,” I replied impatiently. “No woman could ever boast of driving me, though some may once have led me.”

“Oh, I feared that I had sapped, perhaps, your faith in women, John.”

I forced a laugh: “Why, Claudia? Because I lately–and vainly–was enamoured of you?”

“Lately?”

“Yes. I did love you, once.”

“Didlove?” she breathed. “Do you not love me any more, Jack?”

“I think not,” said I, very cheerfully.

“And why? Sure I used you kindly, Jack. Did I not so?”

“You conducted as is the privilege of maid with man, Sacharissa,” said I uneasily. “And that is all I have to say.”

“How so did I conduct, Jack?”

“Sweetly–to my undoing.”

“Try me again,” she said, looking up at me, and the devil in her eyes.

But already I was becoming sensible of the ever-living enchantment of this young thing, so wise in stratagems and spoils of Love, and I chose to leave my scalp hang drying at her lodge door beside the scanter pol of Billy Alexander.

For God knows this vixen-virgin spared neither young nor old, but shot them through and through at sight with those heavenly darts from her twin eyes.

And no man, so far, could boast of obtaining from Mistress Swift the least token or any serious guerdon that his quest might lead him by a single step toward Hymen’s altar, but only to that cruel arena where all her victims agonized under the mocking sweetness of her smile, and her pretty, down-turned and merciless thumbs–the little Vestal villain!

“No, Claudia,” quoth I, “you have taken my bow and spear, and shorn me of my thatch like any Mohawk. No; I go to Fonda’s Bush–” I smiled, “–to heal, perhaps, my heart, as you say; but, anyhow, to consult my soul, and armour it in a wilderness.”

“A hermit!” she exclaimed scornfully, “–and afeard of a maid armed only with two matched eyes, a nose, a mouth and thirty teeth!”

“Afeard of a monster more frightful than that,” said I, laughing.

“Of what monster, John Drogue?”

“Of that red monster that is surely, surely creeping northward to surprise and rend us all,” said I in a low voice. “And so I shall retire to question my secret soul, and arm it cap-à-pie as God directs.”

She was looking at me intently. After a silence she said:

“I do love you; and Billy Alexander; and all gay and brave young men whose unstained swords hedge the women of County Tryon from this same red monster that you mention.” And watched me to see how I swallowed this.

I said warily: “Surely, Claudia, all women command our swords... no matter which cause we espouse.”

“Jack!”

“I hear you, Claudia.”

But, “Oh, my God!” she breathed; and put her hands to her face. A moment she stood so, then, eyes still covered by one hand, extended the other to me. I kissed it lightly; then kissed it again.

“Do you leave us, Jack?”

I understood.

“It is you who leave me, Claudia.”

She, too, understood. It was my first confession that all was not right betwixt my conscience and my King. For that was the only thing I was certain about concerning her: she never betrayed a confidence, whatever else she did. And so I made plain to her where my heart and honour lay–not with the King’s men in this coming struggle–but with my own people.

I think she knew, too, that I had never before confessed as much to any living soul, for she took her other hand from her eyes and looked at me as though something had happened in which she took a sorrowful pride.

Then I kissed her hand for the third time, and let it free. And, going:

“God be with you,” she said with a slight smile; “you are my dear friend, John Drogue.”

At the Hall porch she turned, the mischief glimmering in her eyes: “–And so is Billy Alexander,” quoth she.

So she went into the darkened Hall.

It was many months before I saw our Sacharissa again–not until Major André had made many another verse for many another inamorata, and his soldier-actors had played more than one of his farces in besieged Boston to the loud orchestra of His Excellency’s rebel cannon.

CHAPTER III

THE POT BOILS

Sir William died on the 24th of June in the year 1774; which was the twentieth year of my life.

On the day after he was buried in Saint John’s Church in Johnstown, which he had built, I left the Hall for Fonda’s Bush, which was a wilderness and which lay some nine miles distant in the Mohawk country, along the little river called Kennyetto.

I speak of Fonda’s Bush as a wilderness; but it was not entirely so, because already old Henry Stoner, the trapper who wore two gold rings in his ears, had built him a house near the Kennyetto and had taken up his abode there with his stalwart and handsome sons, Nicholas and John, and a little daughter, Barbara.

Besides this family, who were the pioneers in that vast forest where the three patents met, others now began settling upon the pretty little river in the wilderness, which made a thousand and most amazing windings through the Bush of Major Fonda.

There came, now, to the Kennyetto, the family of one De Silver; also the numerous families of John Homan, and Elias Cady; then the Salisburys, Putnams, Bowmans, and Helmers arrived. And Benjamin De Luysnes followed with Joseph Scott where the Frenchman, De Golyer, had built a house and a mill on the trout brook north of us. There was also a dour Scotchman come thither–a grim and decent man with long, thin shanks under his kilts, who roved the Bush like a weird and presently went away again.

But before he took himself elsewhere he marked some gigantic trees with his axe and tied a rag of tartan to a branch.

And, “Fonda’s Bush is no name,” quoth he. “Where a McIntyre sets his mark he returns to set his foot. And where he sets foot shall be called Broadalbin, or I am a great liar!”

And he went away, God knows where. But what he said has become true; for when again he set his foot among the dead ashes of Fonda’s Bush, it became Broadalbin. And the clans came with him, too; and they peppered the wilderness with their Scottish names,–Perth, Galway, Scotch Bush, Scotch Church, Broadalbin,–but my memory runs too fast, like a young hound giving tongue where the scent grows hotter!–for the quarry is not yet in sight, nor like to be for many a bloody day, alas!–

There was a forest road to the Bush, passable for waggons, and used sometimes by Sir William when he went a-fishing in the Kennyetto.

It was by this road I travelled thither, well-horsed, and had borrowed the farm oxen to carry all my worldly goods.

I had clothing, a clock, some books, bedding of my own, and sufficient pewter.

I had my own rifle, a fowling piece, two pistols, and sufficient ammunition.

And with these, and, as I say, well horsed, I rode out of Johnstown on a June morning, all alone, my heart still heavy with grief for Sir William, and deeply troubled for my country.

For the provinces, now, were slowly kindling, warmed with those pure flames that purge the human soul; and already the fire had caught and was burning fiercely in Massachusetts Bay, where John Hancock fed the flames, daintily, cleverly, with all the circumstance, impudence, and grace of your veritable macaroni who will not let an inferior outdo him in a bow, but who is sometimes insolent to kings.

Well, I was for the forest, now, to wrest from a sunless land a mouthful o’ corn to stop the stomach’s mutiny.

And if the Northland caught fire some day–well, I was as inflammable as the next man, who will not suffer violation of house or land or honour.

As Brent-Meester to Sir William, my duties took me everywhere. I knew old man Stoner, and Nick had become already my warm friend, though I was now a grown man of more than twenty and he still of boy’s age. Yet, in many ways, he seemed more mature than I.

I think Nick Stoner was the most mischievous lad I ever knew–and admired. He sometimes said the same of me, though I was not, I think, by nature, designed for a scapegrace. However, two years in the wilderness will undermine the grace of saint or sinner in some degree. And if, when during those two hard years I went to Johnstown for a breath of civilization–or to Schenectady, or, rarely, to Albany–I frequented a few good taverns, there was little harm done, and nothing malicious.

True, disputes with Tories sometimes led to blows, and mayhap some Albany watchman’s Dutch noddle needed vinegar to soothe the flamms drummed upon it by a stout stick or ramrod resembling mine.

True, the humming ale at the Admiral Warren Tavern may sometimes have made my own young noddle hum, and Nick Stoner’s, too; but there came no harm of it, unless there be harm in bussing a fresh and rosy wench or two; or singing loudly in the tap-room and timing each catch to the hammering of our empty leather jacks on long hickory tables wet with malt.

But why so sad, brother Broadbrim? Youth is not to be denied. No! And youth that sets its sinews against an iron wilderness to conquer it,–youth that wields its puny axe against giant trees,–youth that pulls with the oxen to uproot enormous stumps so that when the sun is let in there will be a soil to grow corn enough to defy starvation,–youth that toils from sun-up to dark, hewing, burning, sawing, delving, plowing, harrowing day after day, month after month, pausing only to kill the wild meat craved or snatch a fish from some forest fount,–such youth cannot be decently denied, brother Broadbrim!

But if Nick and I were truly as graceless as some stiff-necked folk pretended, always there was laughter in our scrapes, even when hot blood boiled at the Admiral Warren, and Tory and Rebel drummed one another’s hides to the outrage of law and order and the mortification of His Majesty’s magistrates in County Tryon.

Even in Fonda’s Bush the universal fire had begun to smoulder; the names Rebel and Tory were whispered; the families of Philip Helmer and Elias Cady talked very loudly of the King and of Sir John, and how a hempen rope was the fittest cravat for such Boston men as bragged too freely.

But what most of all was in my thoughts, as I swung my axe there in the immemorial twilight of the woods, concerned the Indians of the great Iroquois Confederacy.

What would these savages do when the storm broke? What would happen to this frontier? What would happen to the solitary settlers, to such hamlets as Fonda’s Bush, to Johnstown, to Schenectady–nay, to Albany itself?

Sir William was no more. Guy Johnson had become his Majesty’s Superintendent for Indian affairs. He was most violently a King’s man–a member of the most important family in all the Northland, and master of six separate nations of savages, which formed the Iroquois Confederacy.

What would Guy Johnson do with the warriors of these six nations that bordered our New York frontier?

Always these questions were seething in my mind as I swung my axe or plowed or harrowed. I thought about them as I sat at eventide by the door of my new log house. I considered them as I lay abed, watching the moonlight crawl across the puncheon floor.

As Brent-Meester to Sir William, I knew Indians, and how to conduct when I encountered them in the forest, in their own castles, or when they visited the Hall.

I had no love for them and no dislike, but treated them always with the consideration due from one white man to another.

I was not conscious of making any friends among them, nor of making any enemies either. To me they were a natural part of the wilderness, like the trees, rivers, hills, and wild game, belonging there and not wantonly to be molested.

Others thought differently; trappers, forest runners, coureurs-du-bois often hated them, and lost no opportunity to display their animosity or to do them a harm.

But it was not in me to feel that way toward any living creature whom God had fashioned in His own image if not in His own colour. And who is so sure, even concerning the complexion of the Most High?

Also, Sir William’s kindly example affected my sentiments toward these red men of the forest. I learned enough of their language to suit my requirements; I was courteous to their men, young and old; and considerate toward their women. Otherwise, I remained indifferent.

Now, during these first two years of my life in Fonda’s Bush, events in the outer world were piling higher than those black thunder-clouds that roll up behind the Mayfield hills and climb toward mid-heaven. Already the dull glare of lightning lit them redly, though the thunder was, as yet, inaudible.

In April of my first year in Fonda’s Bush a runner came to the Kennyetto with the news of Lexington, and carried it up and down the wilderness from the great Vlaie and Maxon Ridge to Frenchman’s Creek and Fonda’s Bush.

This news came to us just as we learned that our Continental Congress was about to reassemble; and it left our settlement very still and sober, and a loaded rifle within reach of every man who went grimly about his spring plowing.

But the news of open rebellion in Massachusetts Bay madded our Tory gentry of County Tryon; and they became further so enraged when the Continental Congress met that they contrived a counter demonstration, and, indeed, seized upon a pretty opportunity to carry it with a high hand.

For there was a Court holden in Johnstown, and a great concourse of Tryon loyalists; and our Tory hatch-mischiefs did by arts and guile and persuasions obtain signatures from the majority of the Grand Jurors and the County Magistracy.

Which, when known and flaunted in the faces of the plainer folk of Tryon County, presently produced in all that slow, deep anger with which it is not well to trifle–neither safe for kings nor lesser fry.

In the five districts, committees were appointed to discuss what was to be the attitude of our own people and to erect a liberty pole in every hamlet.

The Mohawk district began this business, which, I think, was truly the beginning of the Revolution in the great Province of New York. The Canajoharie district, the Palatine, the Flatts, the Kingsland followed.

And, at the Mohawk district meeting, who should arrive but Sir John, unannounced, uninvited; and with him the entire company of Tory big-wigs–Colonels Claus, Guy Johnson, and John Butler, and a heavily armed escort from the Hall.

Then Guy Johnson climbed up onto a high stoop and began to harangue our unarmed people, warning them of offending Majesty, abusing them for dolts and knaves and traitors to their King, until Jacob Sammons, unable to stomach such abuse, shook his fist at the Intendant. And, said he: “Guy Johnson, you are a liar and a villain! You may go to hell, sir, and take your Indians, too!”

But Guy Johnson took him by the throat and called him a damned villain in return. Then the armed guard came at Sammons and knocked him down with their pistol-butts, and a servant of Sir John sat astride his body and beat him.

There was a vast uproar then; but our people were unarmed, and presently took Sammons and went off.

But, as they left the street, many of them called out to Sir John that it were best for him to fortify his Baronial Hall, because the day drew near when he would be more in need of swivel guns than of congratulations from his Royal Master.

Sure, now, the fire blazing so prettily in Boston was already running north along the Hudson; and Tryon had begun to smoke.

Now there was, in County Tryon, a number of militia regiments of which, when brigaded, Sir William had been our General.

Guy Johnson, also, was Colonel of the Mohawk regiment. But the Mohawk regiment had naturally split in two.

Nevertheless he paraded the Tory remainder of it, doubtless with the intention of awing the entire county.

It did awe us who were unorganized, had no powder, and whose messengers to Albany in quest of ammunition were now stopped and searched by Sir John’s men.

For the Baronet, also, seemed alarmed; and, with his battalion of Highlanders, his Tory militia, his swivels, and his armed retainers, could muster five hundred men and no mean artillery to hold the Hall if threatened.

But this is not what really troubled the plain people of Tryon. Guy Johnson controlled thousands of savage Iroquois. Their war chief was Sir William’s brother-in-law, brother to the dark Lady Johnson, Joseph Brant, called Thayendanegea,–the greatest Mohawk who ever lived,–perhaps the greatest of all Iroquois. And I think that Hiawatha alone was greater in North America.

Brave, witty, intelligent, intellectual, having a very genius for war and stratagems, educated like any gentleman of the day and having served Sir William as secretary, Brant, in the conventional garments of civilization, presented a charming and perfectly agreeable appearance.

Accustomed to the society of Sir William’s drawing room, this Canienga Chief was utterly conversant with polite usage, and entirely qualified to maintain any conversation addressed to him. Always he had been made much of by ladies–always, when it did not too greatly weary him, was he the centre of batteries of bright eyes and the object of gayest solicitation amid those respectable gatherings for which, in Sir William’s day, the Hall was so justly celebrated.

That was the modest and civil student and gentleman, Joseph Brant.

But in the forest he was a painted spectre; in battle a flame! He was a war chief: he never became Royaneh; but he possessed the wisdom of Hendrik, the eloquence of Red Jacket, the terrific energy of Hiakatoo.

We, of Tryon, were aware of all these things. Our ears were listening for the dread wolf cry of the Iroquois in their paint; our eyes were turned in dumb expectation toward our Provincial Congress of New York; toward our dear General Schuyler in Albany; toward the Continental Congress now in solemn session; toward our new and distant hope shining clearer, brighter as each day ended–His Excellency the Virginian.

How long were Sir John and his people to be left here in County Tryon to terrorize all friends to liberty,–to fortify Johnstown, to stop us about our business on the King’s highway, to intrigue with the Mohawks, the Oneidas, the Cayugas, the Onondagas, the Senecas, the Tuscaroras?

Guy Johnson tampered with the River Indians at Poughkeepsie, and we knew it. He sent belts to the Shawanese, to the Wyandottes, to the Mohicans. We knew it. He met the Delaware Sachems at a mongrel fire–God knows where and by what authority, for the Federal Council never gave it!–and we stopped one of his runners in the Bush with his pouch full o’ belts and strings; and we took every inch of wampum without leave of Sir John, and bade the runner tell him what we did.

We wrote to Albany; Albany made representations to Sir John, and the Baronet replied that his show of armed force at the Hall was solely for the reason that he had been warned that the Boston people were laying plans to invade Tryon and make of him a prisoner.

I think this silly lie was too much for Schuyler, for all now knew that war must come. Twelve Colonies, in Congress assembled, had announced that they had rather die as free people than continue to live as slaves. Very fine indeed! But what was of more interest to us at Fonda’s Bush, this Congress commissioned George Washington as Commander in Chief of a Colonial Army of 20,000 men, and prepared to raise three millions on bills of credit for the prosecution of the war!

Now, at last, the cleavage had come. Now, at last, Sir John was forced into the open.

He swore by Almighty God that he had had no hand in intriguing against the plain people of Tryon: and while he was making this oath, Guy Johnson was raising the Iroquois against us at Oswego; he was plotting with Carleton and Haldimand at Montreal; he had arranged for the departure of Brant with the great bulk of the Mohawk nation, and, with them, the fighting men of the Iroquois Confederacy. Only the Western Gate Keepers remained,–the fierce Senecas.

And so, except for a few Tuscaroras, a few lukewarm Onondagas, a few of the Lenape, and perhaps half–possibly two-thirds of the Oneida nation, Guy Johnson already had swung the terrible Iroquois to the King.

And now, secretly, the rats began to leave for the North, where, behind the Canada border, savage hordes were gathering by clans, red and white alike.

Guy Johnson went on pretense of Indian business; and none dare stop the Superintendent for Indian affairs on a mission requiring, as he stated, his personal appearance at Oswego.

But once there he slipped quietly over into Canada; and Brant joined him.

Colonel Claus sneaked North; old John Butler went in the night with a horde of Johnstown and Caughnawaga Tories. McDonald followed, accompanied by some scores of bare-shinned Tory Mc’s. Walter Butler disappeared like a phantom.

But Sir John remained behind his stockade and swivels at the Hall, vowing and declaring that he meditated no mischief–no, none at all.

Then, in a fracas in Johnstown, that villain sheriff, Alexander White, fired upon Sammons, and the friends to liberty went to take the murderous Tory at the jail.

Frey was made sheriff, which infuriated Sir John; but Governor Tryon deposed him and reappointed White, so the plain people went again to do him a harm; and he fled the district to the mortification of the Baronet.

But Sir John’s course was nearly at an end: and events in the outer world set the sands in his cloudy glass running very swiftly. Schuyler and Montgomery were directing a force of troops against Montreal and Quebec, and Sir Guy Carleton, Governor General of Canada, was shrieking for help.

St. John’s surrendered, and the Mohawk Indians began fighting!

Here was a pretty pickle for Sir John to explain.

Suddenly we had news of the burning of Falmouth.

On a bitter day in early winter, an Express passed through Fonda’s Bush on snow-shoes, calling out a squad of the Mohawk Regiment of District Militia.

Nick Stoner, Andrew Bowman, Joe Scott, and I answered the summons.

Snow-shoeing was good–a light fall on the crust–and we pulled foot for the Kingsborough trail, where we met up with a squad from the Palatine Regiment and another from the Flatts.

But scarce were we in sight of Johnstown steeples when the drums of an Albany battalion were heard; and we saw, across the snow, their long brown muskets slanting, and heard their bugle-horn on the Johnstown road.

I saw nothing of the affair at the Hall, being on guard at St. John’s Church, lower down in the town. But I saw our General Schuyler ride up the street with his officers; and so knew that all would go well.

All went well enough, they say. For when again the General rode past the church, I saw waggons under our escort piled with the muskets of the Highland Battalion, and others heaped high with broad-swords, pistols, swivels, and pikes. And on Saturday, the twentieth of January, when our tour of duty ended, and our squads were dismissed, each to its proper district, all people knew that Sir John Johnson had given his parole of honor not to take up arms against America; not to communicate with the Royalists in Canada; not to oppose the friends of liberty at home; nor to stir from his Baronial Hall to go to Canada or to the sea, but with liberty to transact such business as might be necessary in other parts of this colony.

And I, for one, never doubted that a son of the great Sir William would keep his word and sacred parole of honour.

CHAPTER IV

TWO COUNTRY MICE

It was late in April, and I had boiled my sap and had done with my sugar bush for another year. The snow was gone; the Kennyetto roared amber brilliant through banks of melting ice, and a sweet odour of arbutus filled all the woods.

Spring was in the land and in my heart, too, and when Nick Stoner galloped to my door in his new forest dress, very fine, I, nothing loath, did hasten to dress me in my new doe-skins, not less fine than Nick’s and lately made for me by a tailor-woman in Kingsborough who was part Oneida and part Dutch.

That day I wore a light, round cap of silver mole fur with my unshorn hair, all innocent of queue or powder, curling crisp like a woman’s. Of which I was ashamed and eager to visit Toby Tice, our Johnstown barber, and be trimmed.

My new forest dress, as I say, was of doe-skin–a laced shirt belted in, shoulder-caped, cut round the neck to leave my throat free, and with long thrums on sleeve and skirt against need.

Trews shaped to fit my legs close; and thigh moccasins, very deep with undyed fringe, but ornamented by an infinite pattern of little green vines, made me brave in my small mirror. And my ankle moccasins were gay with Oneida devices wrought out of porcupine quills and beads, scarlet, green, purple, and orange, and laid open at the instep by two beaded flaps.

I saddled my mare, Kaya, in her stall, which was a log wing to my house, and presently mounted and rode around to where Nick sat his saddle a-playing on his fife, which he carried everywhere with him, he loving music but obliged to make his own.

“Lord Harry!” cried he on seeing me so fine. “If you are not truly a Viscount then you look one!”

“I would not change my name and health and content,” said I, “for a king’s gold crown today.” And I clinked the silver coins in my pouch and laughed. And so we rode away along the Johnstown road.

He also, I think, was dying for a frolic. Young minds in trouble as well as hard-worked bodies need a holiday now and then. He winked at me and chinked the shillings in his bullet-pouch.

“We shall see all the sights,” quoth he, “and the Kennyetto could not quench my thirst today, nor our two horses eat as much, nor since time began could all the lovers in history love as much as could I this April day... Were there some pretty wench of my own mind to use me kindly... Like that one who smiled at us–do you remember?”

“At Christmas?”

“That’s the one!” he exclaimed. “Lord! but she was handsome in her sledge!–and her sister, too, Jack.”

“I forget their names,” said I.

“Browse,” he said, “–Jessica and Betsy. And they live at Pigeon-Wood near Mayfield.”

“Oho!” said I, “you have made their acquaintance!”

He laughed and we galloped on.

Nick sang in his saddle, beating time upon his thigh with his fife:

"Flammadiddle! Paddadiddle! Flammadiddle dandy! My Love’s kisses Are sweet as sugar-candy! Flammadiddle! Paddadiddle! Flammadiddle dandy! She makes fun o’ me Because my legs are bandy–”

He checked his gay refrain:

“Speaking of flamms,” said he, “my brother John desires to be a drummer in the Continental Line.”

“He is only fourteen,” said I, laughing.

“I know. But he is a tall lad and stout enough. What will be your regiment, Jack?”

“I like Colonel Livingston’s,” said I, “but nobody yet knows what is to be the fate of the district militia and whether the Mohawk regiment, the Palatine, and the other three are to be recruited to replace the Tory deserters, or what is to be done.”

Nick flourished his flute: “All I know,” he said, “is that my father and brother and I mean to march.”

“I also,” said I.

“Then it’s in God’s hands,” he remarked cheerfully, “and I mean to use my ears and eyes in Johnstown today.”

We put our horses to a gallop.

We rode into Johnstown and through the village, very pleased to be in civilization again, and saluting many wayfarers whom we recognized, Tory and Whig alike. Some gave us but a cold good-day and looked sideways at our forest dress; others were marked in cordiality,–men like our new Sheriff, Frey, and the two Sammonses and Jacob Shew.

We met none of the Hall people except the Bouw-Meester, riding beside five yoke of beautiful oxen, who drew bridle to exchange a mouthful of farm gossip with me while the grinning slaves waited on the footway, goads in hand.

Also, I saw out o’ the tail of my eye the two Bartholomews passing, white and stunted and uncanny as ever, but pretended not to notice them, for I had always felt a shiver when they squeaked good-day at me, and when they doffed hats the tops of their heads had blue marbling on the scalp under their scant dry hair. Which did not please me.

Whilst I chattered with the Bouw-Meester of seeds and plowing, Nick, who had no love for husbandry, practiced upon his fife so windily and with such enthusiasm that we three horsemen were soon ringed round by urchins of the town on their reluctant way to school.

“How’s old Wall?” cried Nick, resting his puckered lips and wiping his fife. “There’s a schoolmaster for pickled rods, I warrant. Eh, boys? Am I right?”

Lads and lassies giggled, some sucked thumbs and others hung their heads.

“Come, then,” cried Nick, “he’s a good fellow, after all! And so am I–when I’m asleep!”

Whereat all the children giggled again and Nick fished a great cake of maple sugar from his Indian pouch, drew his war-hatchet, broke the lump, and passed around the fragments. And many a childish face, which had been bright and clean with scrubbing, continued schoolward as sticky as a bear cub in a bee-tree.

And now the Bouw-Meester and his oxen and the grinning slaves had gone their way; so Nick and I went ours.

There were taverns enough in the town. We stopped at one or two for a long pull and a dish of meat.

Out of the window I could see something of the town and it seemed changed; the Court House deserted; the jail walled in by a new palisade; fewer people on the street, and little traffic. Nor did I perceive any red-coats ruffling it as of old; the Highlanders who passed wore no side-arms,–excepting the officers. And I thought every Scot looked glum as a stray dog in a new village, where every tyke moves stiffly as he passes and follows his course with evil eyes.

We had silver in our bullet pouches. We visited every shop, but purchased nothing useful; for Nick bought sweets and a mouse-trap and some alley-taws for his brother John–who wished to go to war! Oh, Lord!–and for his mother he found skeins of brightly-coloured wool; and for his father a Barlow jack-knife.

I bought some suekets and fish-hooks and a fiddle,–God knows why, for I can not play on it, nor desire to!–and I further purchased two books, “Lives of Great Philosophers,” by Rudd, and a witty poem by Peter Pindar, called “The Lousiad”–a bold and mirthful lampoon on the British King.

These packets we stowed in our saddle-bags, and after that we knew not what to do save to seek another tavern.

But Nick was no toss-pot, nor was I. And having no malt-thirst, we remained standing in the street beside our horses, debating whether to go home or no.

“Shall you pay respects at the Hall?” he asked seriously.

But I saw no reason to go, owing no duty; and the visit certain to prove awkward, if, indeed, it aroused in Sir John no more violent emotion than pain at sight of me.

With our bridles over our arms, still debating, we walked along the street until we came to the Johnson Arms Tavern,–a Tory rendezvous not now frequented by friends of liberty.

It was so dull in Johnstown that we tied our horses and went into the Johnson Arms, hoping, I fear, to stir up a mischief inside.

Their brew was poor; and the spirits of the dozen odd Tories who sat over chess or draughts, or whispered behind soiled gazettes, was poorer still.

All looked up indifferently as we entered and saluted them.

“Ah, gentlemen,” says Nick, “this is a glorious April day, is it not?”

“It’s well enough,” said a surly man in horn spectacles, “but I should be vastly obliged, sir, if you would shut the door, which you have left swinging in the wind.”

“Sir,” says Nick, “I fear you are no friend to God’s free winds. Free winds, free sunshine, free speech, these suit my fancy. Freedom, sir, in her every phase–and Liberty–the glorious jade! Ah, gentlemen, there’s a sweetheart you can never tire of. Take my advice and woo her, and you’ll never again complain of a breeze on your shins!”

“If you are so ardent, sir,” retorted another man in a sneering voice, “why do you not go courting your jade in Massachusetts Bay?”

“Because, sir,” said I, “our sweetheart, Mistress Liberty, is already on her joyous way to Johnstown. It is a rendezvous, gentlemen. Will it please you to join us in receiving her?”

One man got up, overturning the draught board, paid his reckoning, and went out muttering and gesticulating.

“A married man,” quoth Nick, “and wedded to that old hag, Tyranny. It irks him to hear of fresh young jades, knowing only too well what old sour-face awaits him at home with the bald end of a broom.”

The dark looks cast at us signalled storms; but none came, so poor the spirit of the company.

“Gentlemen, you seem melancholy and distrait,” said I. “Are you so pensive because my Lord Dunmore has burned our pleasant city of Norfolk? Is it that which weighs upon your minds? Or is the sad plight of Tommy Gage distressing you? Or the several pickles in which Sir Guy Carleton, General Burgoyne, and General Howe find themselves?”

“Possibly,” quoth Nick, “a short poem on these three British warriors may enliven you:

"Carleton, Burgoyne, Howe,“Bow-wow-wow!”

But there was nothing to be hoped of these sullen Tories, for they took our laughter scowling, but budged not an inch. A pity, for it was come to a pretty pass in Johnstown when two honest farmers must go home for lack of a rogue or two of sufficient spirit to liven a dull day withal.

We stopped at the White Doe Tavern, and Nick gave the company another poem, which he said was writ by my Lord North:

"O Boston wives and maids draw near and see Our delicate Souchong and Hyson tea; Buy it, my charming girls, fair, black, or brown; If not, we’ll cut your throats and burn your town!”

Whereat all the company laughed and applauded; and there was no hope of any sport to be had there, either.

“Well,” said Nick, sighing, “the war seems to be done ere it begun. What’s in those whelps at the Johnson Arms, that they stomach such jests as we cook for them? Time was when I knew where I could depend upon a broken head in Johnstown–mine own or another’s.”

We had it in mind to dine at the Doe, planning, as we sat on the stoop, bridles in hand, to ride back to the Bush by new moonlight.

“If a pretty wench were as rare as a broken head in Johnstown,” he muttered, “I’d be undone, indeed. Come, Jack; shall we ride that way homeward?”

“Which way?”

“By Pigeon-Wood.”

“By Mayfield?”

“Aye.”

“You have a sweetheart there, you say?”

“And so, perhaps, might you, for the pain of passing by.”

“No,” said I, “I want no sweetheart. To clip a lip en passant, if the lip be warm and willing,–that is one thing. A blush and a laugh and ’tis over. But to journey in quest of gallantries with malice aforethought–no.”

“I saw her in a sledge,” sighed Nick, sucking his empty pipe. “And followed. Lord, but she is handsome,–Betsy Browse!–and looked at me kindly, I thought... We had a fight.”

“What?”

“Her father and I. For an hour the old man nigh twisted his head off turning around to see what sledge was following his. Then he shouts, ‘Whoa!’ and out he bounces into the snow; and I out o’ my sledge to see what it was he wanted.

“He wanted my scalp, I think, for when I named myself and said I lived at Fonda’s Bush, he fetched me a knock with his frozen mittens,–Lord, Jack, I saw a star or two, I warrant you; and a gay stream squirted from my nose upon the snow and presently the whole wintry world looked red to me, so I let fly a fist or two at the old man, and he let fly a few more at me.

“‘Dammy!’ says he, ‘I’ll learn ye to foller my darters, you poor dum Boston critter! I’ll drum your hide from Fundy’s Bush to Canady!’

“But after I had rolled him in the snow till his scratch-wig fell off, he became more civil–quite polite for a Tory with his mouth full o’ snow.