Drums Along the Mohawk (51 page)

They saw the runner coming down the long hill, his body glistening with sweat and reflecting red from the low-lying ball of the sun. He was coming hard. The sentry in the spy loft of Fort Herkimer saw men come out of houses as the runner passed. Then the men ran back into the houses. Before the runner was out halfway over the flat land, the family of the first house he had passed had their horse hitched to the family cart in front of the door and were piling their belongings and children into it.

The sentry let out a yell.

“It’s Helmer!”

In the yard an officer stopped on his way out.

“Helmer?”

“Yes, Adam Helmer. He’s running hard. He ain’t got his gun. He ain’t got his shirt on.” He paused, looked out again, and then bawled down once more. “He looks pretty near played out.” His voice flattened. “I reckon it’s Brant.”

“What makes you think so?”

“The people are coming in after him.”

Without another word the officer went round the corner of the blockhouse on the run for the church. It was Colonel Bellinger. The sentry heard the whang of his feet on the rungs of the belfry ladder.

Bellinger was now in the steeple. He was yanking the canvas off the swivel. The brass barrel glinted in the sunset. Bellinger stood back, waving the match.

The gun roared. One shot.

All over the valley it brought people outdoors to stare at the church steeple. Before dark they were thronging towards the forts by road and river. Those who had already reached Fort Herkimer stood in front of the church and stared at Helmer’s naked chest. It was whipped with branches, the white skin welted and bloody. But Helmer was breathing easily again. He had never, he thought, felt finer in his life.

Mrs. McKlennar’s barn was a comfortable place to milk in. It was cool and dusky. There were no windows—only the walls of logs and the log ceiling overhead. The four cows stood in a row on rough plank. The whole place was filled with dust and the dry earthy smell, mingled with dung, from the walk behind the cows. It was quiet with the soft breathing of the cows, and the hiss of milk striking its own froth in the pails. Mrs. McKlennar, gray bare head butting one cow’s flank, and Gil, face turned to look through the open door, were milking together. They were not making any conversation. They were tired from lashing down the wooden barrack roofs over the wheat stacks. And they were both conscious of the finish of the harvest, a good harvest, one they were both proud of—Mrs. McKlennar because the farm belonged to her, and Gil because she had dropped the remark that it was the best yield they had ever had from the land. He knew that it was he himself who had made that best yield a fact. They were thus contented, balanced on the one-legged stools, when the flat impact of the swivel’s roar fell on their ears.

In the first breath, they could hardly believe what they had heard. Then Daisy’s voice lifted in a falsetto screech from the house. “Oh, Mis’ McKlennar! Hit’s de cannon gun over de foht. I seen it going off! Oh, Mis’!”

The widow rose with Gil. Her long face was set. She saw how white he was.

“It’s the alarm gun,” he said. “It’s a raid.”

“One gun.” Her lips compressed; she nodded.

“We’ve got to move to the fort.”

She nodded again. They were out of the barn now, striding towards the stone house. “Don’t run,” said Mrs. McKlennar. “We won’t get there by running. And
she
’s all right.”

But Gil had to see Lana. Lana would have been feeding young Gil—christened Gilbert McKlennar Martin, with the widow as sponsor.

Lana was sitting in the kitchen, with Gilly at her breast. Her eyes met Gil’s, questioning, terror-stricken, but full of enforced quiet. Thank God, he thought, she hasn’t lost her nerve, yet.

“Now, Gil, where do you think we’d better go?”

“We can get to Dayton by the road. But I’d rather cross the river to Herkimer. It’s quicker. We can take the cart down to the river.”

Mrs. McKlennar nodded.

“We won’t try to take much. I’ll get my money and some brandy. Daisy, you take the pail from Gil and fill a stone jug. Milk is handy sometimes. And that fresh baking of bread and the two hams. And don’t scream. They don’t pay for nigger scalps.”

“Yas’m.”

Gil was surprised to find that he was still carrying the pail. He got the rifle down from the pegs between the beams, and then started through the house, closing and barring the shutters. Mrs. McKlennar collected her money and the brandy and her own clothes and Lana’s. She made bundles of the clothes on the kitchen floor and wrapped the brandy and money in them. Daisy brought the food in a basket. “I fetched de new currant preserve and de side of fresh pohk,” she said proudly. “That preserve and pohk tas’ good together.”

Gil was already out of the house. He chased the pigs into the woods, drove out the cows after taking off their bells, and then hitched the mare to the cart. As soon as he brought it to the
door, Mrs. McKlennar tossed their belongings in. Lana buttoned her short gown. She met Gil’s eyes with a pale face, saying, “I thought I’d let Gilly finish his feed. I thought he’d be quieter.”

“Good girl,” said Mrs. McKlennar.

He helped Lana into the cart. Daisy and Mrs. McKlennar scrambled over the tailboard. Gil closed the door and poked the latchstring in. They had done all they could. He took the mare by the head and led her down to the road. As they turned into it, they heard the express rider coming along from Dayton. He passed them at full gallop, leaning forward in his saddle. He did not appear to notice them.

The alarm gun at Eldridge Blockhouse made a single dull thud.

“They haven’t reached the valley yet,” Gil thought. He opened the bars on the far side of the highway and led the mare into the wheatfield. They went at a walk over the stubble towards the river.

Though the darkness was already a shadow in the east, and a mist had begun to hover on the water where brooks entered the river, a hazy after-sunset light reached from beneath a dark bank of clouds rising in the west. Through this dim haze the four adults in the cart could see people moving across the flat land on the far side of the river. The creak of the cart, even the tread of the horses on the opposite road, reached them with startling clearness, but the absence of all talk gave to the approaching night a singular effect of silence.

They themselves got out of the cart without a word when Gil stopped the mare on the riverbank. He drew the bow of the boat on shore and helped the widow into the stern. Then, standing in the water, he passed the baby from Lana’s arms to Mrs. McKlennar’s lap. The child lay still as a mouse. It seemed to them that it must be aware of what was going on, it lay so still, looking straight up at the unaccustomed sky with wakeful
eyes. Lana got in next and helped to stow away the basket and bundles. Daisy nearly upset the boat in her anxiety. Her fat hams filled the bow, her striped petticoat swelling over the gunwales. She sat motionless, holding her treasure, a framed small picture of Christ, close to her bosom. Her face was gray under her bright calico kerchief.

Gil climbed up the bank again and unharnessed the mare. After a moment’s hesitation he backed the cart down the bank into the river and threw the harness into it. It would be hard to burn a cart in the river. Then he slapped the mare’s rump, slid down to the water side, and shoved the boat out.

It was overloaded. He had to row slowly. He pulled out into the middle of the quiet river and paused for a last look at the mare. She had stopped a little way from the bank to look after them. She kept pricking her ears nervously.

“Hadn’t we better start?” Mrs. McKlennar suggested quietly.

Gil pulled upstream. The reflections of the willow trees were fading into the general darkness of the water. The valley was yet quiet. There was no sound anywhere, except the passage of carts along the road, until the Casler family, also rowing up the river, overtook them.

Jacob Casler said softly over the water, “You folks all right?”

“Yes. You?”

“We brought all we could. I ain’t got any gunpowder, though.”

“They have some in the fort.”

Mrs. Casler said with a slight shrillness in her voice, “We got plenty of bullets. Jake made a lot this spring.”

They then rowed steadily ahead without further conversation.

The clouds, without rain, gradually filled the sky, and pitch-dark night had fallen by the time the two boats reached Fort Herkimer. Though the gates were still open, there was little noise from inside. Gil got his family on shore and hauled the boat out of the water. Lana carried the baby, and Mrs. McKlennar, Daisy,
and he carried everything else. They passed through the gates into the crowded square.

Every inch of space was taken by people standing together in groups, by carts yet unloaded, horses nervous but still. Gil asked for the news and for the first time learned of Helmer’s race and the fact that Brant at last was on the way.

He found a place for his family on the north wall in a corner shed which they had to share with Mrs. Weaver and Cobus. Directly across the square from them they saw Captain Demooth arranging his wife’s bed with Mary Reall’s help.

Mrs. Weaver said “Hello” to them in a dull voice. She had grown gaunt. She kept watching Mary Reall’s quiet attendance on the captain’s wife. There was great unhappiness in her face. She made no move as John went over to see Mary before coming across the yard to find his mother. Gil drew young Cobus aside and asked in a whisper whether anyone had heard of George Weaver. Cobus shook his head.

“We don’t reckon he was killed.”

Emma Weaver lifted her voice.

“We don’t know. They pay the same for scalps they pay for prisoners.” She turned away from John. “We’re all right. Cobus looked out for me.”

Gil saw that Lana was settled in the corner with Mrs. McKlennar beside her. He bent down and kissed her cheek. “I’ve got to talk to Bellinger or Demooth,” he said.

The yard was now alive with the hushed murmur of people straightening themselves out. Suddenly Colonel Bellinger lifted his voice.

“We’ve got to get the horses out of here.” He caught sight of Gil. “You, Martin. You get them out. All of them, and the carts. Right away.”

“I want to keep my horse,” a man protested. “The Indians stole my cow.”

“All of them, I said. We can’t have the yard cluttered up. We haven’t room for horses. If they get scared and get kicking they’ll damage somebody. Get them out. All the women”—he raised his voice so that it carried throughout the fort—“I want all the women to stay in the sheds or the church until we get the yard clear. If any shooting starts, all the women and children must get into the church. Keep the north pews for a hospital. All men with guns, who haven’t been assigned posts on the stockade, report to Captain Demooth on the east blockhouse.” As the subdued movement of disentanglement commenced, Bellinger moved over to the central fire, watching them. There was disorder, but it was quiet disorder, as if the people were accustoming themselves to a dark room; and Bellinger was patient. The horses and carts were being quickly taken out into the blackness beyond the gates, unharnessed, and the horses loosed. The banging of dropped shafts was a loud sound. In fifteen minutes Gil returned to report all horses outside the stockade. Bellinger raised his voice again. “One more thing.” He waited till everyone’s attention was fixed on him as he stood in the firelight. “We don’t know where the Indians are. It’s a black night and a fog is rising off the river. We can only listen for them. So as soon as you’re settled you’ll have to be quiet. No talking anywhere. If a baby cries, and you can’t hush him, take him into the church and cover him up.”

He turned to meet Demooth. He seemed quite calm. His long dark face and broad shoulders made a comforting bulk in the firelight. Gil remembered him at Oriskany, lugging Herkimer up the slope.

He said to Demooth: “Martin here has cleared out all the horses. Have you got all your men up, Mark?”

Demooth’s voice was tightly strained, though the strain did not show in his face.

“Yes, I have.”

“How much longer do you think we ought to let the fire burn?”

“It ought to be put out now. Nobody’s come in for the past ten minutes. We can’t check everybody. Some of the people may go to Fort Dayton. We don’t expect anybody from Eldridge.”

Bellinger said, “I’ll put out all lights in ten minutes. I’ll have to give the people warning.”

He was shouting the warning as Gil climbed up on the west sentry walk. Gil passed young John Weaver, looking white and set in the face. “Hello, John,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Martin,” said John.

Down in the yard, Bellinger and Demooth had moved to the gates. They were closing them now, with two men helping. The gates squealed and ground on their straps. The three bars fell heavily into place. The shutting off of light from inside the enclosure also shut off the eyes of the horses outside. The animals had gathered in a small herd to look in at the gate. Now they whinnied in the darkness. The familiar sound, for some reason, was fearful.

Gil found that his position was next to Adam Helmer. They shook hands. Helmer laughed softly. “Did you hear about me running away from those Mohawks?” he wanted to know.

He was bursting with pride. He was wearing a shirt too small for him—there wasn’t a shirt in German Flats that would have made a decent fit for him. He leaned easily against the picket points, with a borrowed rifle propped handy to his hand. He talked softly about the run, becoming dramatic as he told about outdistancing each Indian. He made quite a story about the heavy-set fellow who had just sat down and banged the ground with his tomahawk. “He looked like he was crying,” said Helmer. “I don’t blame him. I’ve got quite a scalp, by God.” He shook his head, tossing his yellow hair, and laughed.

“When the fire’s put out, nobody’s to talk,” shouted Bellinger.
“I mean that. Anybody that can’t keep their mouth shut had better plan to get outside.”

A couple of men had lugged a great kettle to the fire. They emptied it over the flames. The light seemed to burst and spread with the steam. At the hissing, and the steam smell, and the added darkness, the horses whinnied again. Then they stampeded.