Part 93 (2/2)
His scout of four, he admitted, had made a bad job of the swamp trail--and his muddy and disordered dress corroborated this. But the news he brought was interesting.
He had not seen Boyd. The Battle of the Chemung had ended in a disorderly rout of Butler's army, partly because we had outflanked their works, partly because Butler's Indians could not be held to face our artillery fire, though Brant displayed great bravery in rallying them. We had lost few men and fewer officers; grain-fields, hay-stacks, and Indian towns were afire everywhere along our line of march.
Detachments followed every water-course, to wipe out the lesser towns, gardens, orchards, and harvest fields on either flank, and gather up the last stray head of the enemy's cattle. The whole Iroquois Empire was now kindling into flames and the track our army left behind it was a blackened desolation, as horrible to those who wrought it as to the wretched and homeless fugitives who had once inhabited it.
He added to me in a lower voice, glancing at my Indians with the ineradicable distrust of the average woodsman, that our advanced guard had discovered white captives in several of the Indian towns--in one a young mother with a child at her breast. She, her husband, and five children had been taken at Wyoming. The Indians and Tories had murdered all save her and her baby. Her name was Mrs. Lester.
In one town, he said, they found a pretty little white child, terribly emaciated, sitting on the gra.s.s and playing with a chicken. It could speak only the Iroquois language. Doubtless its mother had been murdered long since. So starved was the little thing that had our officers not restrained it the child might have killed itself by too much eating.
Also, they found a white prisoner--a man taken at Wyoming, one Luke Sweatland; and it was said in the army that another young white girl had been found in company with her little brother, both painted like Indians, and that still another white child was discovered, which Captain Machin had instantly adopted for his own.
The Corporal further said that our army was proceeding slowly, much time being consumed in laying the axe to the plum, peach, and apple orchards; and that it was a sad sight to see the heavily fruited trees fall over, crus.h.i.+ng the ripe fruit into the mud.
He thought that the advanced guard of our army might be up by evening to burn Catharines-town, but was not certain. Then he asked permission to go back and rejoin the scout which he commanded; which permission I gave, though it was not necessary; and away he went, running like a young deer that has lagged from the herd--a tall, fine, wholesome young fellow, and as st.u.r.dy and active as any I ever saw in rifle-dress and ruffles.
My Indians lay down on their bellies, stretching themselves out in the sun across the logs, and, save for the subdued but fierce glimmer under their lazy lids, they seemed as pleasant and harmless as four tawny pumas a-sunning on the rocks.
As for me, I wandered restlessly along the brook, as far as the bridge, and, seating myself here, fished out writing materials and my journal from my pouch, and filled in the events of the preceding days as briefly and exactly as I knew how. Also I made a map of Catharines-town and of Yndaia from memory, resolving to correct it later when Mr. Lodge and his surveyors came up, if opportunity permitted.
As I sat there musing and watching the chickens loitering around the dooryard, I chanced to remember the milch cow.
Casting about for a receptacle, I discovered several earthen jars of Seneca make set in willow baskets and standing by the stream. These I washed in the icy water, then slinging two of them on my shoulder I went in quest of the cow.
She proved tame enough and glad, apparently, to be relieved of her milk, I kneeling to accomplish the business, having had experience with the gra.s.s-guard of our army on more than one occasion.
Lord! How sweet the fragrance of the milk to a man who had seen none in many days. And so I carried back my jars and set them by the door of the bark house, covering each with a flat stone. And as I turned away, I saw smoke coming from the chimney; and heard the shutters on the southern window being gently opened.
Lord! What a sudden leap my heart gave as the door before me moved with the soft sliding of the great oak bolt, and was slowly opened wide to the morning suns.h.i.+ne.
For a moment I thought it was Lois who stood there so white and still, looking at me with grey, unfathomable eyes; then I stepped forward uncertainly, bending in silence over the narrow, sun-tanned hand that lay inert under the respectful but trembling salute I offered.
”Euan Loskiel,” she murmured in the French tongue, laying her other hand over mine and looking me deep in the eyes. ”Euan Loskiel, a soldier of the United States! May G.o.d ever mount guard beside you for all your goodness to my little daughter.”
Tears filled her eyes; her pale, smooth cheeks were wet.
”Lois is still asleep,” she said. ”Come quietly with her mother and you shall see her where she sleeps.”
Cap in hand, c.o.o.n-tail dragging, I entered the single room on silent, moccasined feet, set my rifle in a corner, and went over to the couch of tumbled fawn-skin and silky pelts.
As I stood looking down at the sweetly flushed face, her mother lifted my brier-scarred hand and pressed her lips to it; and I, hot and crimson with happiness and embarra.s.sment, found not a word to utter.
”My little daughter's champion!” she murmured. ”Brave, and pure of heart! Ah, Monsieur, chivalry indeed is of no nation! It is a broader n.o.bility which knows neither race nor creed nor ancestry nor birth....
How the child adores you!”
”And you, Madame. Has ever history preserved another such example of dauntless resolution and filial piety as Lois de Contrecoeur has shown us all?”
Her mother's beautiful head lifted a little:
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