XVII
THE FLAG
Day after day our little scout of four traversed the roads and forestsof the Kingsland district, warning the people at the outlyingsettlements and farms that the county militia-call was out, and thatsafety lay only in conveying their families to the forts and respondingto the summons of authority without delay.
Many obeyed; some rash or stubborn settlers prepared to defend theirhomes. A few made no response, doubtless sympathizing with their Toryfriends who had fled to join McDonald or Sir John Johnson in the North.
Rumors were flying thick, every settlement had its full covey; everycross-road tavern buzzed with gossip. As we travelled from settlement tosettlement, we, too, heard something of what had happened in distantdistricts: how the Schoharie militia had been called out; how oneHuetson had been captured as he was gathering a band of Tories to jointhe Butlers; how a certain Captain Ball had raised a company ofsixty-three royalists at Beaverdam and was fled to join Sir John; howCaptain George Mann, of the militia, refused service, declaring himselfa royalist, and disbanding his company; how Adam Crysler had thrown hisimportant influence in favor of the King, and that the inhabitants ofTryon County were gloomy and depressed, seeing so many respectablegentlemen siding with the Tories.
We learned that the Schoharie and Schenectady militia had refused tomarch unless some provision was made to protect their families in theirabsence; that Congress had therefore established a corps of invalids,consisting of eight companies, each to have one captain, twolieutenants, two ensigns, five sergeants, six corporals, two drums, twofifes, and one hundred men; one company to be stationed in Schoharie,and to be called the "Associate Exempts"; that three forts for theprotection of the Schoharie Valley were nearly finished, called theUpper, Lower, and Middle forts.
More sinister still were the rumors from the British armies: Burgoynewas marching on Albany from the north with the finest train of artilleryever seen in America; St. Leger was moving from the west; McDonald hadstarted already, flinging out his Indian scouts as far as Perth andBroadalbin, and Sir Henry Clinton had gathered a great army at New Yorkand was preparing to sweep the Hudson Valley from Fishkill to Albany.And the focus of these three armies and of Butler's, Johnson's, andMcDonald's renegades and Indians was this unhappy county of Tryon, tornalready with internal dissensions; unarmed, unprovisioned, unorganized,almost ungarrisoned.
I remember, one rainy day towards sunset, coming into a small hamletwhere, in front of the church, some score of farmers and yokels weregathered, marshalled into a single line. Some were armed with rifles,some with blunderbusses, some with spears and hay-forks. None woreuniform. As we halted to watch the pathetic array, their fifer anddrummer wheeled out and marched down the line, playing Yankee Doodle.Then the minister laid down his blunderbuss and, facing the company,raised his arms in prayer, invoking the "God of Armies" as though headdressed his supplication before a vast armed host.
Murphy strove to laugh, but failed; Mount muttered vaguely under hisbreath; Elerson gnawed his lips and bent his bared head while the oldman finished his prayer to "The God of Armies!" then picked up hisblunderbuss and limped to his place in the scanty file.
And again I remember one fresh, sweet morning late in June, standingwith my riflemen at a toll-gate to see some four hundred Tryon Countymilitia marching past on their way to Unadilla on the Susquehanna, whereBrant, with half a thousand savages, had consented to a last parley.Stout, wholesome lads they were, these Tryon County men; wearing brownand yellow uniforms cut smartly, and their officers in the Continentalbuff and blue, riding like regulars; curved swords shining and theirepaulets striking fire in the sunshine.
"Palatines!" said Mount, standing to salute as an officer rode by."That's General Herkimer--old Honikol Herkimer--with his hard,weather-tanned jaws and the devil lurking under his eyebrows; and thatyoung fellow in his smart uniform is Colonel Cox, old George Klock'sson-in-law; and yonder rides Colonel Harper! Oh, I know 'em, sir; I wasnot in these parts for nothing in '74 and '75!"
The drums and fifes were playing "Unadilla" as the regiment marchedpast; and my riflemen, lounging along the roadside, exchangedpleasantries with the hardy Palatines, or greeted acquaintances in theirimpudent, bantering manner:
"Hello! What's this Low Dutch regiment? Say, Han Yost, the pigs has eatoff your queue-band! Bedad, they marrch like Albany ducks in fly-time!Musha, thin, luk at the fat dhrummer laad! Has he apples in thim twocheeks, Jack? I dunnoa! Hey, there goes Wagner! Hello, Wagner! Wisha,laad, ye're cross-eyed an' shquint-lipped a-playin' yere fifehind-end furrst!"
And the replies from the dusty, brown ranks, steadily passing:
"Py Gott! dere's Jack Mount! Look alretty, Jacob! Hello, Elerson! Ishdot true you patch your breeches mit second-hand scalps you puy inMontreal? Vat you vas doing down here, Tim Murphy? Oh, joost look at demdevils of Morgan! Sure, Emelius, dey joost come so soon as ve go. Ya!Dey come to kiss our girls, py cricky! Uf I catch you round my girlalretty, Dave Elerson--"
"Silence! Silence in the ranks!" sang out an officer, riding up. Thebrown column passed on, the golden dust hanging along its flanks. Farahead we could still hear the drums and fifes playing "Unadilla."
"They ought to have a flag; a flag's a good thing to fight for," saidMount, looking after them. "I fought for the damned British rag when Iwas fifteen. Lord! it makes me boil to think that they've forgot what wedid for 'em!"
"We Virginians carried a flag at the siege o' Boston," observed Elerson."It was a rattlesnake on a white ground, with the motto, 'Don't treadon me!'"
I told them of the new flag that our Congress had chosen, describing itin detail. They listened attentively, but made no comment.
It was on these expeditions that I learned something of these roughriflemen which I had not suspected--their passionate devotion to theforest. What the sea is to mariners, the endless, uncharted wildernesswas to these forest runners; they loved and hated it, they suspected andtrusted it. A forest voyage finished, they steered for the nearest portwith all the eager impatience of sea-cloyed sailors. Yet, scarcely werethey anchored in some frontier haven than they fell to dreaming of thewilderness, of the far silences in the trackless sea of trees, of thewinds ruffling the forest's crests till ten thousand trees toss theirleaves, silver side up, as white-caps flash, rolling in long patches ona heaving waste of waters.
Yet, in all those weeks I never heard one word or hint of that devotionexpressed or implied, not one trace of appreciation, not one shadow ofsentiment. If I ventured to speak of the vast beauty of the woods, therewas no response from my shy companions; one appeared to vie with anotherin concealing all feeling under a careless mask and a bantering manner.
Once only can I recall a voluntary expression of pleasure in beauty; itcame from Jack Mount, one blue night in July, when the heavens flashedunder summer stars till the vaulted skies seemed plated solidly withcrusted gems.
"Them stars look kind of nice," he said, then colored with embarrassmentand spat a quid of spruce-gum into the camp-fire.
Yet humanity demands some outlet for accumulated sentiment, and thesemen found it in the dirge-like songs and laments and rude ballads of thewilderness, which I think bear a close resemblance to the sailor-men'ssongs, in words as well as in the dolorous melodies, fit only for thescraping whine of a two-string fiddle in a sugar-camp.
The magic of June faded from the forests, smothered under themagnificent and deeper glory of July's golden green; the early summerripened into August, finding us still afoot in the Kingsland districtgathering in the loyal, warning the rash, comforting the down-cast,threatening the suspected. Twice, by expresses bound for Saratoga, Isent full reports to Schuyler, but received no further orders. Iwondered whether he was displeased at my failure to arrest WalterButler; and we redoubled our efforts to gain news of him. Three times weheard of his presence in or near the Kingsland district: once at TribesHill, once at Fort Plain, and once it was said he was living quietly ina farm-house near Johnstown, which he had the effronte
ry to enter inbroad daylight. But we failed to come up with him, and to this day I donot know whether any of this information we received was indeed correct.It was the first day of August when we heard of Butler's presence nearJohnstown; we had been lying at a tavern called "The Brick House," atwo-story inn standing where the Albany and Schenectady roads fork nearFox Creek, and there had been great fear of McDonald's renegades thatweek, and I had advised the despatch of an express to Albany asking fortroops to protect the valley when I chanced to overhear a woman say thatfiring had been heard in the direction of Stanwix.
The woman, a slattern, who was known by the unpleasant name of Rya'sPup, declared that Walter Butler had gone to Johnstown to join St. Legerbefore Stanwix, and that the Tories would give the rebels such adrubbing that we would all be crawling on our bellies yelling forquarter this day week. As the wench was drunk, I made little of herbabble; but the next day Murphy and Elerson, having been in touch withGansevoort's outposts, returned to me with a note from Colonel Willett:
"FORT SCHUYLER (STANWIX), "August 2d,
"DEAR SIR,--I transmit to you the contents of a letter from Colonel Gansevoort, dated July 28th:
"'Yesterday, at three o'clock in the afternoon, our garrison was alarmed with the firing of four guns. A party of men was instantly despatched to the place where the guns were fired, which was in the edge of the woods, about five hundred yards from the fort; but they were too late. The villains were fled, after having shot three young girls who were out picking raspberries, two of whom were lying scalped and tomahawked; one dead and the other expiring, who died in about half an hour after she was brought home. The third had a bullet through her face, and crawled away, lying hid until we arrived. It was pitiful. The child may live, but has lost her mind.
"'This was accomplished by a scout of sixteen Tories of Colonel John Butler's command and two savages, Mohawks, all under direction of Captain Walter Butler.'
"This, sir, is a revised copy of Colonel Gansevoort's letter to Colonel Van Schaick. Permit me to add, with the full approval of Colonel Gansevoort, that the scout under your command warns the militia at Whitestown of the instant approach of Colonel Barry St. Leger's regular troops, reinforced by Sir John Johnson's regiment of Royal Greens, Colonel Butler's Rangers, McCraw's outlaws, and seven hundred Mohawk, Seneca, and Cayuga warriors under Brant and Walter Butler. I will add, sir, that we shall hold this fort to the end. Respectfully,
"MARINUS WlLLETT, Lieutenant-Colonel."
Standing knee-deep in the thick undergrowth, I read this letter aloud tomy riflemen, amid a shocked silence; then folded it for transmission toGeneral Schuyler when opportunity might offer, and signed Murphy tolead forward.
So Rya's Pup was right. Walter Butler had made his first mark on the redOswego trail!
We marched in absolute silence, Murphy leading, every nerve on edge,straining eye and ear for a sign of the enemy's scouts, now doubtlessswarming forward and to cover the British advance.
But the wilderness is vast, and two armies might pass each otherscarcely out of hail and never know.
Towards sundown I caught my first glimpse of a hostile Iroquoiswar-party. We had halted behind some rocks on a heavily timbered slope,and Mount was scrutinizing the trail below, where a little brook crossedit, flowing between mossy stones; when, without warning, a naked Mohawkstalked into the trail, sprang from rock to rock, traversing the bed ofthe brook like a panther, then leaped lightly into the trail again andmoved on. After him, in file, followed some thirty warriors, naked savefor the clout, all oiled and painted, and armed with rifles. One or twoglanced up along our slope while passing, but a gesture from the leaderhastened their steps, and more quickly than I can write it they haddisappeared among the darkening shadows of the towering timber.
"Bad luck!" breathed Murphy; "'tis a rocky road to Dublin, but a shorterwan to hell! Did you want f'r to shoot, Jack? Look at Dave Elerson an'th' thrigger finger av him twitchin' all a-thremble! Wisha, lad! lavethe red omadhouns go. Arre you tired o' the hair ye wear, Jack Mount?Come on out o' this, ye crazy divil!"
Circling the crossing-place, we swung east, then south, coming presentlyto a fringe of trees through which the red sunset glittered,illuminating a great stretch of swamp, river, and cleared land beyond."Yonder's the foort," whispered Murphy--"ould Stanwix--or Schuyler, asthey call it now. Step this way, sorr; ye can see it plain across theMohawk shwamps."
The red sunshine struck the three-cornered bastions of the rectangularfort; a distant bayonet caught the light and twinkled above thestockaded ditch like a slender point of flame. Outside the works squadsof troops moved, relieving the nearer posts; working details, marchingto and from the sawmill, were evidently busy with the unfinishedabattis; a long, low earth-work, surmounted by a stockade and ablock-house, which. Murphy said, guarded the covered way to the creek,swarmed with workmen plying pick and shovel and crowbar, while thesentries walked their beats above, watching the new road which crossedthe creek and ran through the swamp to the sawmill.
"It is strange," said Mount, "that they have not yet finished the fort."
"It is stranger yet," said Elerson, "that they should work so close tothe forest yonder. Look at that fatigue-party drawing logs withinpistol-shot of the woods--"
Before the rifleman could finish, a sentinel on the northwest parapetfired his musket; the entire scene changed in a twinkling; thefatigue-party scattered, dropping chains and logs; the workmen sprangout of ditch and pit, running for the stockade; a man, driving a team ofhorses along the new road, jumped up in his wagon and lashed his horsesto a gallop across the rough meadow; and I saw the wagon swaying andbumping up the slope, followed by a squad of troops on the double.Behind these ran a dozen men driving some frightened cattle; soldiersswarmed out on the bastions, soldiers flung open the water gates,soldiers hung over parapets, gesticulating and pointing westward.
Suddenly from the bastion on the west angle of the fort a shaft of flameleaped; a majestic cloud buried the parapet, and the deep cannon-thundershook the evening air. Above the writhing smoke, now stained pink in thesunset light, a flag crept jerkily up the halyards of a tall flag-staff,higher, higher, until it caught the evening wind aloft and floatedlazily out.
"It's the new flag," whispered Elerson, in an awed voice.
We stared at it, fascinated. Never before had the world seen that flagdisplayed. Blood-red and silver-white the stripes rippled; the stars onthe blue field glimmered peacefully. There it floated, serene above thedrifting cannon--smoke, the first American flag ever hoisted on earth.A freshening wind caught it, blowing strong out of the flaming west; thecannon-smoke eddied, settled, and curled, floating across its folds. Faraway we heard a faint sound from the bastions. They were cheering.
Cap in hand I stood, eyes never leaving the flag; Mount uncovered,Elerson and Murphy drew their deer-skin caps from their headsin silence.
After a little while we caught the glimmer of steel along the forest'sedge; a patch of scarlet glowed in the fading rays of sunset. Then, outinto the open walked a red-coated officer bearing a white flag andattended by a drummer in green and scarlet.
Far across the clearing we heard drums beating the parley; and we knewthe British were at the gates of Stanwix, and that St. Leger hadsummoned the garrison to surrender.
We waited; the white flag entered the stockade gate, only to reappearagain, quickly, as though the fort's answer to the summons had beenbrief and final. Scarcely had the ensign reached the forest than bang!bang! bang! bang! echoed the muskets, and the rifles spat flame into thedeepening dusk and the dark woods rang with the war-yell of half athousand Indians stripped for the last battles that the Long Houseshould ever fight.
About ten o'clock that night we met a regiment of militia on theJohnstown road, marching noisily north towards Whitestown, and learnedthat General Herkimer's brigade was concentrating at an Oneida hamletcalled Orisk
a, only eight miles by the river highway from Stanwix, and alittle to the east of Oriskany creek. An officer named Van Slyck alsoinformed me that an Oneida interpreter had just come in, reporting St.Leger's arrival before Stanwix, and warning Herkimer that an ambuscadehad been prepared for him should he advance to raise the siege of thebeleaguered fort.
Learning that we also had seen the enemy at Stanwix, this officer beggedus to accompany him to Oriska, where our information might provevaluable to General Herkimer. So I and my three riflemen fell in as thetroops tramped past; and I, for one, was astonished to hear their drumsbeating so loudly in the enemy's country, and to observe the carelessindiscipline in the ranks, where men talked loudly and their recklesslaughter often sounded above the steady rolling of the drums.
"Are there no officers here to cuff their ears!" muttered Mount, indisgust.
"Bah!" sneered Elerson; "officers can't teach militia--only a thrashingdoes 'em any good. After all, our people are like the British, full o'contempt for untried enemies. Do you recall how the red-coats wentswaggering about that matter o' Bunker Hill? They make no more frontalattacks now, but lay ambuscades, and thank their stars for theopportunity."
A soldier, driving an ox-team behind us, began to sing that melancholyballad called "St. Clair's Defeat." The entire company joined in thechorus, bewailing the late disaster at Ticonderoga, till Jack Mount,nigh frantic with disgust, leaped up into the cart and bawled out:
"If you must sing, damn you, I'll give something that rings!"
And he lifted his deep, full-throated voice, sounding the marching songof "Morgan's Men."
"The Lord He is our rampart and our buckler and our shield! We must aid Him cleanse His temple; we must follow Him afield. To His wrath we leave the guilty, for their punishment is sure; To His justice the downtrodden, for His mercy shall endure!"
And out of the darkness the ringing chorus rose, sweeping the columnfrom end to end, and the echoing drums crashed amen!
Yet there is a time for all things--even for praising God.