Drums Along the Mohawk (58 page)

On the sixth of April, Gil went down with the mare and cart to secure his allotment of seed. He had already had a talk with
Bellinger and Demooth, and both officers agreed that he should stay on the McKlennar place. It was the one farm that had a stone house standing that could be defended, and the soil was of the best. The other people had marked off temporary land around the forts, each man with his field to cultivate, to raise communal food. “You’ll understand we’ll expect you to bring your grain into common stock next winter if it’s necessary,” said Bellinger.

On the seventh and eighth of April, Gil sowed the oats. The earth had dried fast and worked easily. All day he marched back and forth over the soft loam while the mare on the other side of the fence watched him wistfully. Poor beast, she had been worked to death on insufficient pasturage, hauling the plough and then the drag, until she could hardly stand. Gil had got Adam down to help, and one or the other had hauled with the mare. At that they were better off than some people who hauled their drags without beasts. Now Adam Helmer was resting on the sunny porch, and the women were down by the river gathering the early marigold leaves for their first green food in months. The baby lay on a shawl in the grass at a corner of the field where Gil could keep his eye on him. The boy looked thin, lately, and seemed dull, for they had been feeding him on meat broth since Lana’s milk had given out, and the cow would not freshen until June. They borrowed a little milk from time to time—enough, Gil thought, to keep the baby from getting too sick. But he was worried that it cried so seldom.

Lana did not seem worried. She was carrying another child; they thought it would be born in August. But she looked older. She had a queer look of frailness above the waist, while her hips and thighs had grown inordinately heavy. She took no interest in anything but food. But Gil hoped that, when they were getting plenty to eat again, she would brighten up.

He was glad that Demooth was back, for that meant that John Weaver could get work. Though his wife had died, Demooth was
fixing up the Herter house, of which the stone walls yet stood, and he needed a younger man than Clem Coppernol now to work what farm he had left. The old Dutchman had not wintered well. He had always been a heavy eater and the thin winter had left him sour and difficult and given to unpredictable and dangerous flights of passion. He had nearly killed a horse that had lain down with him from exhaustion. They said he would have beaten it to death if he himself had not collapsed from the exertion of swinging the fence rail.

All these things had bothered Gil like a buzzing in his head, like the sound of bees outside a window on a hot afternoon. A good many others complained of the same buzzing of the head. They thought it might be weakness that made it, or the unaccustomed warmth.

Gil himself did not put much stock in the rumors of a Continental offensive against the Indians and Tories to the west. Not even when he saw an unusually large munition train hauling west to Fort Stanwix on the sixth.

But on the seventh he had forgotten about them. He had started sowing at dawn. At first he had cast badly and unsteadily. Later the old accustomed rhythm had returned to his tired arm. This morning at last he had felt like himself and the seed fell in even sweeps, and by afternoon, with only four bushels of barley left to sow, he had felt his confidence rise.

The women came back with baskets of green leaves, Lana, Mrs. McKlennar, and the negress, walking through the still evening air. He thought Lana looked better. She picked up the baby, slinging it on her hip, and stopped before him.

“Come back,” she said. “You’ve sowed enough to-day.”

“Don’t walk on the seeding,” he said. “I’ve only a little left to do.”

She obediently stepped off the seeding and let him pass. Her eyes brightened to watch the even swing of his arm, hand from
the bag, over and round and back, making a sort of figure eight that the grain traced wide in the air and spread, in touching earth, to make an even sheet. To watch it soothed her. It was a familiar gesture, elemental in faith and hope.

She said, “I wonder how they’re fixed for seed at Fox’s Mills.”

“I guess all right,” he said, turning and coming back towards her. “How’s Gilly?”

“I think the sun’s doing him good. I wish he had more flesh on his legs.”

“Where’s Joe, to-day?”

“He was back of the house in the sumacs. He had a spade. I don’t know what he was doing.”

They let Joe Boleo’s activities drop. Then Lana went on to the house. She said over her shoulder, “Daisy’s going to bake a spinach pie with the greens.”

Gil was finishing the last row of the field, at the river-side fence. He thought the buzzing was coming back to his head, but he was tired. He stopped to let his ears clear, letting the last grain trickle through his fingers. After a moment, he turned the bag inside out and shook it. He could not waste a single seed. The field lay square before him, traversed in parallels by his own footprints.

A still clear light lay all across the sky, and a flock of crows traversing the valley from north to south caught rusty flashes from it on their wings. Gil watched them turn their heads to look at the field and wondered whether they felt hungry enough to steal his oats.

Joe Boleo came down the field and said, “Gil. Your wife wants you to come home and rest.”

“I’m resting right here.”

“I figured so. But a woman don’t think a man can rest unless he’s where she can talk at him.”

Winter had not upset Joe. He looked the same—gaunt, stooped, wrinkled, lackadaisical.

“I can’t get the buzzing out of my head, Joe.”

“What buzzing?” Joe was never bothered by buzzings.

“It’s so loud I’d think you could hear it,” said Gil.

Joe pretended to listen.

Suddenly his face tilted.

“By Jesus,” he said soberly, “I do.” He waited a moment. Then he climbed onto the fence and turned his face southeast, across the river. “It ain’t buzzing, Gil,” he said excitedly. “It’s drums. They’re coming up from the falls across the river. Hear them now.”

Gil’s head cleared. He too heard them. He climbed up beside Joe and stared with him through the infinite clearness of the evening air.

“There they come,” said Joe. A file of blue was marching up the road. They saw them, but it was hard to believe.

“They’re going to camp,” said Joe. “They’re falling out in that five-acre lot of Freddy Getman’s.”

Gil could see the drummers with their deep drums drumming beside the single black stud that was all that remained of Getman’s house. Behind them lay the lot. Into it were wheeling a company in blue campaign coats, their muskets all on shoulder. They began to stack arms.

“What are they doing?”

“Taking the fences apart for firewood, I guess.”

Another company with white showing through the blue, white gaiters and white vests, followed the first. Then came a swinging company of men in grayish hunting shirts.

The drums were now a stirring resonance throughout the valley. Adam came loping down the field. He asked excitedly what Joe had made out. “Let’s go over,” he said.

“Sure,” said Joe. “You coming, Gil?”

Gil said he would go home. He didn’t want to leave the place alone. He was tired, too.

The two woodsmen were like two boys. “We’ll come right back and tell you,” they shouted, and piled down to where the boat was fastened. Adam rowed, forcing shiny swirls with the oars, and Joe jerked his fur cap in the stern.

Supper was nearly over when the two men returned, but Daisy had kept a plate hot for each of them. They talked together like boys, both at once, both contradicting.

“There’s a hundred and fifty soldiers,” said Adam. “Two companies. The Fourth New York.”

“No, it’s the Fourth Pennsylvania. The New York Regiment’s the fifth.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Who gives a dang? You ought to’ve gone over, Gil. Their wagons come in right behind them. Remember how we had to wait for our wagons going up to Oriskany? These bezabors were sore as boils because they had to wait for fifteen minutes for the wagons.”

“That ain’t nothing. Do you know what they had for supper?” Joe Boleo’s small eyes blinked.

“No,” said Mrs. McKlennar. “How could we know, you crazy fool?”

“He’s just like a bedbug,” said Adam. “He gets ideas from humins, but they go to his belly. They had fresh pork. Yessir, Mrs. McKlennar. Fresh pork. I et some. And they had white bread. Soft bread. God, this country’s getting luxuries now the army has soft bread.”

“You big blond-headed bug-tit,” said Joe Boleo. “Anybody could have guessed that. What they had, Mrs. McKlennar, ma’am, was white sugar in their tea!” He pursed his lips. “They offered me some tea, and I said yes. And they said how much sugar in it? And I said, well, about two and a half inches of it,
with a spoonful of tea. And the son of a gun gave it to me! I brought it home in my shirt.” Chuckling, he drew the cup from inside his shirt and handed it to Mrs. McKlennar.

Mrs. McKlennar began to sniff. She tried twice to speak, and then she said, “Thank you, Joe. I wish we had tea to go with it. But we’ll have it in water. Daisy, boil some water.”

“Yas’m, sholy does. It’s ready bilin’.”

Daisy in her ragged dress fluttered round the table laying the cups. She poured the water from the kettle. With great care Mrs. McKlennar put two teaspoonfuls in each cup. Nobody spoke as they stirred. They all watched her till she lifted her cup. Then they sipped together.

“It surely is a treat,” said Mrs. McKlennar.

Lana suddenly got to her feet.

“I’m going to see if Gilly likes it,” she said. She brought him to the table and sat him on her lap while he stupidly nodded his big head and rubbed his sleepy eyes. They all held their breaths when she put the spoon to his mouth, carefully cooled by her own blowing. He made a face, feebly, then stiffened and was very still. Then he started to cry. Their disappointment was intense.

Lana said defensively, “He’s never tasted any sugar.”

“Don’t be silly,” cried Mrs. McKlennar. “All he wants is more.”

When Lana lifted the spoon again the child opened his mouth eagerly. “See!” cried Mrs. McKlennar. “I told you.”

Everybody felt jubilantly happy.

“Did you find out where they were going?”

“Stanwix,” said Joe and Adam together.

“Just there? There’s two hundred men there already.”

“That’s what they said,” said Adam.

“It’s my idea they’re going to make some kind of pass against Oswego,” said Joe.

“What would they send Rangers for against a fort?” Adam was scornful.

Gil said, “Do you suppose they’re going to go against the Onondagas?”

“By God!” said Joe.

They all remembered what Ellis had said. The Iroquois.

“They’ll need scouts, I’ll bet,” said Adam. Joe met his eye.

“It would be fun going with an army like that and wiping out some Indians,” said Joe quietly. “I always wanted to do some destruction against them.”

He turned to Gil. “If they do, will you come along with us?”

Gil shook his head. Adam said, “You got your planting done, ain’t you? Come on.”

“The womenfolks will be safe enough with an army that size flogging around the woods. You ought to see them. They ain’t like those Massachusetts boys.”

“We ain’t been asked,” said Gil.

“Shucks,” said Joe, blushing, because he had thought of something else to say and barely saved it before women. “You come along. I fixed something for the women in case they should get cut off. It’s a hide-hole. I been working on it for three days.”

“Really?” Mrs. McKlennar was interested. “What is it?”

“Come out,” said Joe. “No, damn it, it’s dark. I’ll show you to-morrow.”

“What’s that, Gil?” Lana had risen.

Adam said soothingly, “That’s just the tattoo, Lana.”

They all went out on the porch with the tattoo of the drums thudding faintly across the valley towards them. It was pitch-dark, but the regularly spaced fires seemed very near.

They stood a long time watching them, in the damp coolness of the night. They saw the sentry figures small and silhouetted. They could even see the stacked rifles.

“They been a long time coming,” said Joe.

Back in the house there was a scraping of silver against china as black Daisy scraped the cups for her own taste of sugar. She was humming softly.

Half an hour after sunrise, young John Weaver galloped into the McKlennar yard, waving a letter for Gil. It was a hasty scrawl from Colonel Bellinger asking Gil, Adam, and Joe to report to him immediately at Fort Dayton. While Gil was reading it, the calling of the robins was hushed by a long roll from the drums across the river. Gil ran round the house. He found Adam and Joe watching the camp. They could see the men breaking away from the fires and rolling their blankets.

“It’s the general,” said Joe. “I’ve heard it before.” He answered Adam’s question scornfully. “Not General Washington, you dumbhead. It just means the army’s going to march.”

Gil gave them Demooth’s orders and the men went into the house together to get their rifles.

Lana confronted them in the doorway.

“Gil!”

“Don’t get worried,” he said.

“Where are you going?”

“Bellinger wants to see us. That’s all.”

“You’re going with the army,” she said accusingly.

Adam interposed awkwardly, “Aw, now, Lana. Nothing can happen to Gil with me and Joe along.”

She looked white and stiff and her arms hung straight at her sides. Gil said to Mrs. McKlennar, “If we do have to go I’ll send John Weaver back. He’ll let you know if you ought to move to the fort.”

Mrs. McKlennar nodded her gray head.

Joe slapped himself. “Lord, ma’am, I’d forgotten clean about it.”

“What, Joe?”

“That hide-hole I made. It’ll only take a minute to show it to you. Come along.”

He led them quickly out into the sunlight and up through the sumac scrub. “You want to come this way, so you won’t leave tracks.”

He stopped a hundred yards up the slope.

“There it is,” he said modestly.