Drums Along the Mohawk (66 page)

In the sunset the militia marched down both sides of the river. The Dayton men stopped at the McKlennar house, but Joe and Gil had already crossed to join those from Herkimer.

They had seen the destructives band beyond the house and take a straight path to the hills, striking for Springfield. Joe led forty men on their beaten trail, but there was no chance of
catching them with the half hour’s start they had. The Indians could outrun militia any day.

Gil stayed long enough to help gather the bodies. They buried them near the house, where the earth was thawed—Mrs. Casler and the two little girls and Casler, all scalped, all with the same lost faces that scalped people had. Only the baby had not been scalped; he had no hair at all.

Like all the other Seneca towns east of the Genesee River, Deodesote had been razed by the American army in September of the preceding year. Only one house remained, and that because it was not near the town, but down the Hemlock Lake Outlet, at the northwest corner of the wide-water pond. The pond was all shored with high hemlock timber hiding Gahota’s cabin, which was on the low ridge. Behind the cabin, where the evergreens gave way to leaf trees, the small field that his wife worked was open to the sun, a hidden place, warm and well-drained.

The squaw had finished planting the corn. The hills stood in rows of patted mounds. She gathered up her basket and her wooden hoe and stared happily at the work she had done. Her own field: her own corn would soon pierce the brown earth; her own squash and pumpkin vines invade the soil between, lacing the whole together; her own beans climb the growing cornstalks. Beans, corn, and squash—the three sisters, Gahota called them.

Though the time of terror and famine had gone by, no other Indians had returned to Deodesote. Gahota said they would not
return. The heavy passage of the army had rolled them irretrievably into the west. But Gahota and Nancy, and the baby, Jerry Log-in-the-Water, and the baby to be born, could all live where they were.

Nancy straightened her back proudly: Gahota would hunt them meat and fish them fish; but it was she who would earn them their indispensable provender of grain. The field was a large one and well hoed. Gahota had grunted and stopped to look at it when he passed it yesterday, and Nancy had been able to tell from his brown lined face that he was satisfied with her.

Her back had rounded slightly, and there was a pad of fleshy muscle across her shoulders. In her doeskin clothes she looked larger than she used to. But her face was as pink and white, her eyes as blue, and her yellow hair fell in two thick braids to the joints of her hips. She left her field like a goddess of earth, placidly secure in her awareness of fruition.

When she reached the cabin, Gahota was sitting beside the door coiling his fish line, with four trout on a pile of ferns before him.

“What big ones!” Nancy said.

Gahota grunted. She passed into the cabin. It had no chimney, only the circular fireplace of stones on the earth floor, and the small opening in the roof above it. All the ceiling was blackened, shiny, and offering a faint bitter smell of soot. In the corner, where she and Gahota slept, the baby was poking his fingers through the eyeholes of the bearskin, laughing the while with long, soft, rich gurgles. He shouted when he saw his mother, rose up on his unsteady legs, and followed his stomach towards her.

She took him by the hand to lead him out and, gathering up the four trout, went down to the lake to clean them for dinner. Gahota found himself a sunny spot against a tree bole and stretched out.

Squatting at the water’s edge, Nancy opened the fish with deft slices of her knife, while her son, imitating her, sat suddenly in
the shallow water. The splash and the chill made him raise furious wails to the four winds; but Nancy laughed, and let him yell.

A hail across the lake caused her to lift her eyes. She saw at first only the surrounding hemlock trees, with their breathless reflections an inverted forest, and the clear sheet where the Onehda entered the wide water in the south. Beside this stream early azaleas coming into bloom gave a first hint of their clear pink, so ineffably soft that even the untouched crystal of the lake had failed to capture it.

Waist-deep in the azaleas, some men were standing.

“Gahota. Come.” Nancy’s voice was quiet, untroubled.

She heard her husband’s feet pad down behind her. He stood over her, his shadow falling across her bent back, shading his eyes.

“Nundawaono,” he said. He lifted his arm and called.

“Who is that?”

“Gahota. You come.”

The men disappeared back into the woods. Nancy finished cleaning the four trout and followed Gahota back to the cabin, the baby tumbling along behind like a hungry puppy.

“Nine come,” Gahota said to her. He got his pipe and tobacco and sat down at the threshold, leaving her to gather wood and start the pot cooking. Luckily there were three rabbits and the quarter of the fawn.

Outside the door she heard the men arrive and squat and talk in the Indian language. But they did not say much for a while, and what they did say failed to interest her.

When she had finished the stew she carried the pot outdoors and set it down before the men. There were nine of them, as Gahota had said, six Senecas, three white men. One of the white men wore a brown coat and battered pants. He had a lean jutting throat from which his small head pointed like a turkey cock’s. Nancy hardly noticed him. She glanced at the other two.

One of them wore Indian clothes. His face was painted with remnants of vermilion and black, and his hair had been awkwardly stained. As she looked at him, he lifted his eyes from the steaming pot, and stared.

“Nancy!”

It was Hon.

Nancy could not speak for several moments. Neither she nor Hon could find words. But the struck silence of their attitudes made the others look at them. Gahota grunted impatiently. A woman’s place was not here. Obediently Nancy turned to go.

“It’s my sister, Nancy,” Hon said. “Don’t you remember me telling you about her?”

“Her, who?” The third man licked his fingers.

“The girl you had at Shoemaker’s.”

“By God.” Jurry McLonis looked up. “I never noticed her.”

Gahota was watching them with small inexpressive eyes. Nancy had just passed into the shadowed interior of the cabin, but there she turned and her white skin and blonde braids made a ghost of her, as if glimpsed in a twilight.

McLonis rose.

“It’s true,” he said. “What’s she doing here?”

“Set down, you fool,” growled the third white man. “Can’t you see the Indian’s took her for a squaw?”

“That ain’t right, Casselman,” exclaimed McLonis. “It’s bad business—Indians taking white women. Butler’s afraid of it at Niagara.”

“Butler!” Suffrenes Casselman’s lean face became contemptuous. “Who talks about Butler now? The Indians won’t go with him any more since Sullivan licked them. Johnson don’t have anything to do with him. Let the Indians alone. It’s hard enough to get them to go with us.”

“Maybe,” said McLonis. “But this girl’s Hon’s sister.”

“Yes,” said Hon. “She’s my sister—Nancy.”

Casselman snarled at them both. “Sit down.” He leaned forward and said in a lower voice: “Listen, you dumbheads. These buggers we got with us ain’t feeling any too good about us. They didn’t get no loot out of that house we burned, and the four scalps wasn’t enough to go round. You’d better not give them the chance to get mad at us.”

The ever-present mistrust of Indians that most of the Tories felt, the knowledge that their scalps, delivered at Niagara, would look the same and fetch as much as any rebel’s, made even McLonis pull in his horns. He sat down in his faded green Ranger coat and stared back at the Indians. Their host was still watching him. Now he said something in Seneca over his shoulder and Nancy obediently closed the door. McLonis dropped his eyes and resumed his eating. It was not that he cared where she was, or who she was: it was just that the sight of her, her handsome pink-cheeked face and yellow hair and vacuous blue eyes, had reminded him of that hour behind Shoemaker’s barn; and he had been away in the woods now for eight weeks.

Suffrenes Casselman explained to their host that Hon was his squaw’s brother, and had not seen her for two years. The Indian nodded understandingly. Such encounters were surprising to a man; he looked more closely at Hon. He realized that Hon was like Nancy, slightly touched.

“You see your sister,” he suggested. “Yes?”

Hon nodded.

McLonis whispered to him, “Fetch her out. I’ll drop back in the woods. We can take her with us, whatever Casselman thinks. If he don’t like it he can go by himself.”

Before Hon moved, McLonis rose and wandered off into the woods. He went with studied aimlessness and the Indians paid no attention to him. Some men always went into the woods after a hearty meal.

McLonis found a fallen tree and sat down on the trunk. The
more he thought about her, the more fun he thought it would be to take her to Niagara. A lieutenant up from the ranks had to content himself with Indian girls. If anything better than Nancy came his way he could always hand her over to the privates. There’d be plenty of men anxious for a girl, with her looks, whatever her brain was like. He thought that they could kill a few days on the march back to Niagara. There was no hurry. They had to collect ammunition and round up another gang since the one they had taken east in March had fallen apart. Suffrenes wanted fifty men. He meant to wipe out Eldridge’s and the other outlying small forts, and if one of the promised expeditions materialized, he would plan to join it. A little fun before a campaign like that would hurt no man.

McLonis sat on the fallen tree and cleaned his nails and thought he would buy her a dollar’s worth of dress goods. It would seem like a fortune to her after a year in that cabin. He had smelled it through the open door. It had the Indian reek. But she looked clean and healthy. She had a kind of perfection, he remembered, a kind of ripe apple roundness to her. It made him realize how eternally tired he was, how lonesome he was, month after month in the woods, with the inevitable return to the barracks and the Indian town and the long uncompromising level of the lake with its level shores, with the everlasting dinning of the falls. Leg-weary and heart-weary.

Hon’s arrival startled McLonis.

“Where’s Nancy?” he asked.

Hon scuffed the hemlock needles with a moccasined toe.

“She’s talking to Gahota,” he said. He looked ashamed.

“What did you say to her?”

“I told her you wanted her to come with us. I said you would take her back to Niagara.”

McLonis nodded. “Sure. Where is she?”

“I said she was talking to Gahota.”

“You mean he won’t let her come?”

“I don’t know,” Hon mumbled.

McLonis got to his feet.

“I’m going to talk to her myself. You’ve made a mess of it.”

“I wouldn’t,” Hon said. He began following McLonis, then thought better of it and branched off to join Casselman.

McLonis walked straight towards the cabin. Before he reached it he saw Nancy emerging from it behind Gahota. They turned towards him. McLonis halted.

Nancy came straight up to him, stopping before him, with her hands clasped in front of her. She stared into his face now with a curious insistence.

“Gahota says you want to talk to me. He says I better talk to you.”

The Indian beamed at her shoulders.

“Yes talk. Yes talk.” He turned away and left them.

McLonis found himself swallowing as he looked at her. She looked so indescribably appealing, big though she was, in her soft doeskin costume, with her clear eyes and her clear skin with the whiteness of winter still on it. She looked cool as snow, the kind of snow that sometimes fell at the end of April, a few flakes suddenly, in a day of heat. And she stood there waiting for him to speak.

“Don’t you remember Shoemaker’s, Nancy?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you want to come with me? I’ll take you to Niagara.”

“No, I don’t want to come.”

Her eyes had dropped and she spoke hesitantly.

He said, “But you don’t want to stay in a place like this. It’s not right. It’s not decent, Nancy.”

“I don’t want to go,” she said, after a moment.

“You needn’t be scared of him. I’ll look out for you. Hon will be along.”

As she did not answer, his speech went on, more quickly, almost desperately. “But I’ll take you to Niagara. Don’t you remember how it was? You said you’d—you said you loved me. I loved you. I never forgot you, Nancy. Honest. I said I’d marry you, don’t you remember? You can’t stay here. I’ll marry you when we get to Niagara.”

She raised her eyes then to his.

“I am married,” she said. “I don’t want to go. Thank you,” she added softly, and turned back to the cabin.

He stood where he was for a long minute, half minded to overtake her; then he noticed Gahota a little way off, leaning against a tree and idly swinging his casse-tête by its thong. From the waterside Casselman and Hon were yelling to him to hurry up.

Days were to come in which Lana would find herself wondering if she were herself, or some fear-deadened creature existing in human flesh. The mounting tide of dread gained impetus with each express that came through German Flats from the east. In April and May they heard successively of smaller settlements cut off, their few inhabitants killed and scalped. The Sacandaga bush, Harperfield, Fox’s Creek, in Schoharie, Getman’s, Stamford, Cherry Valley for the second time, and isolated homesteads, one by one, to which families had returned in their eagerness once more to work their farms. The Indian parties did their work and vanished before rescuers could so much as start from the nearest fort. A puff of smoke against the warm May sky;
the faint sounds of firing; another name crossed off the militia list; and who knew who was with him at the place. His wife? His children? Sometimes later it was learned that he was there alone.

The Indians were not taking many prisoners, for they were not returning all the way to Niagara after every raid. They burrowed off into the woods like dogs, circling, lying hidden till all threat of a pursuit was by, and then entering a new district. Five times that month of May the man at McKlennar’s had been called for the militia. Five times they had marched into the woods. And five times they had found only the burning ruins of the homestead cabin and stayed only long enough to bury such dead as they found.