Part 77 (1/2)
”They march for two and twenty daies, All thro' ye deepest snow; And on a dismal winter night They strucke ye cruel blow.
”The lightsome sunne that rules the day Had gone down in the West; And eke the drowsie villagers Had sought and found their reste.
”They thought they were in safetie all, Nor dreamt not of the foe; But att midnight they all swoke In wonderment and woe.
”For they were in their pleasant beddes, And soundlie sleeping, when Each door was sudden open broke By six or seven menne!
”The menne and women, younge and olde, And eke the girls and boys, All started up in great affright Att the alarming noise.
”They then were murthered in their beddes Without shame or remorse; And soon the floors and streets were strew'd With many a bleeding corse.
”The village soon began to blaze, Which shew'd the horrid sight; But, O, I scarce can beare to tell The mis'ries of that night.
”They threw the infants in the fire, The menne they did not spare; But killed all which they could find, Tho' aged or tho' fair.
”But some run off to Albany And told the doleful tale; Yett, tho' we gave our chearful aid, It did not much avail.
”And we were horribly afraid, And shook with terror, when They gave account the Frenchmen were More than a thousand menne.
”The news came on a Sabbath morn, Just att ye break o' day; And with my companie of horse I galloped away.
”Our soldiers fell upon their reare, And killed twenty-five; Our young menne were so much enrag'd They took scarce one alive.
”D'Aillebout them did command, Which were but thievish rogues, Else why did they consent to goe With b.l.o.o.d.ye Indian dogges?
”And here I end my long ballad, The which you just heard said; And wish that it may stay on earth Long after I be dead.”
The old man bowed his palsied head over his fiddle, struck with his wrinkled thumb a string or two; and I saw tears falling from his almost sightless eyes.
Around him, under the giant trees, his homely audience stood silent and spellbound. Many of his hearers had seen with their own eyes horrors that compared with the infamous butchery at Schenectady almost a hundred years ago. Doubtless that was what fascinated us all.
But Boyd, on whom nothing doleful made anything except an irritable impression, drew us away, saying that it was tiresome enough to fight battles without being forced to listen to the account of 'em afterward; at which, it being true enough, I laughed. And Lois looked up winking away her tears with a quick smile. As for Lana, her face was tragic and colourless as death itself. Seeing which, Boyd said cheerfully:
”What is there in all the world to sigh about, Lanette? Death is far away and the woods are green.”
”The woods are green,” repeated Lana under her breath, ”yet, there are many within call who shall not live to see one leaf fall.”
”Why, what a very dirge you sing this sunny morning!” he protested, still laughing; and I, too, was surprised and disturbed, for never had I heard Lana Helmer speak in such a manner.
”'Twas that dreary old fiddler,” he added with a shrug. ”Now, G.o.d save us all, from croaking birds of every plumage, and give us to live for the golden moment.”
”And for the future,” said Lois.
”The devil take the future,” said Boyd, his quick, careless laugh ringing out again. ”Today I am lieutenant, and Loskiel, here, is ensign. Tomorrow we may be captains or corpses. But is that a reason for pulling a long face and confessing every sin?”
”Have you, then, aught to confess?” asked Lois, in pretense of surprise.
”I? Not a peccadillo, my pretty maid--not a single one. What I do, I do; and ask no leniency for the doing. Therefore, I have nothing to confess.”