3stalwarts (40 page)

Mrs. Reall was not disturbed.

“I’ve sent in the claim for damages that Kit made out before he got killed. I guess I ought to hear of it pretty soon. I showed it to Mr. Rebus White, and he said it ought to be honored by the state.” She used the words with importance.

“Who’s this Mr. White?” demanded Emma.

“He’s the corporal here. He comes from Massachusetts. He’s a real nice man, Emma, and thinks maybe he’ll settle here. He’s talked about my keeping house for him.”

Emma gave a neutral grunt. “George talks about making a claim. How much did yours mount up to?”

Mrs. Reall began to shuffle among her bedding. “I’ve got it somewhere. The copy, I mean. Oh yes, here it is. It comes to two hundred seventy-one pounds and fifteen shilling.”

“Two hundred pounds! How on earth did you figure it out that way?”

“Jeams MacNod wrote it out for Kitty. One dwelling house, a hundred pounds. One grist mill, twenty-five; one bedstet, fourteen pounds; one hollan’ cupboard, seven pounds.” She rattled off the items, having them by heart.

Emma’s jaw fell open.

“But that ain’t so. They never was worth that much in hard money. That bed. And that hollan’ cupboard— you never had one.”

Mrs. Reall was not disturbed.

“I’ve always wanted one. Mr. MacNod said it was best to put down everything, because sometimes they cut down on the list.”

Emma stared.

“Well,” she said suddenly, “it’s not my business.” Her eyes swung round to Mary. The girl was watching her. Her thin face was dark red. “My Lord!” thought Emma. “She’s ashamed.”

“You see,” continued Mrs. Reall, “we got our government now, we ought to use it for ourselves. That’s what Mr. White says, too.”

“It’s how you look at it, I guess.” Privately Emma considered it stealing; she never had trusted the Realls. But she must not show her thoughts too plainly. “How are you fixed for the winter?”

Mrs. Reall laughed.

“I guess we’ll make out all right. They’re sending food to us, and we all share in here. It’s hard on the little ones, not having shoes. They’ve started chilblains early this year. But there’s always Providence.”

There always was for people like the Realls. Out of her sense of shame, Emma said, “There’s some shoes Cobus.has outgrowed. I’ll send them down.” She got up and said good-bye. She was glad she had two miles to walk home, to get some fresh air into her.

“Good-bye,” called Mrs. Reall.

Emma halted outside the door to put on her snowshoes.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Weaver?”

Mary had come out with her.

Emma said, “I guess I’m still young enough to put them on myself.”

The girl drew back as if she had been slapped. Her thin face was quite white. It made her eyes seem larger.

“Mrs. Weaver,” she said quietly. But her voice had the tenseness of a child’s. She looked like a child in her ragged, poorly sewn petticoat. Even in her rough home-knitted stockings her legs were thin. Emma felt like pitying her as she would pity any miserable object, man or beast.

She got up on her snowshoes and stamped her feet to settle them in the laces.

“What is it, Mary?”

She looked at the child’s face. She wasn’t getting enough to eat. She didn’t look half strong enough for her age; why, at her age Emma had had a breast and shoulders, whatever her face looked like. The girl drew a shuddering breath.

“You mustn’t think too bad about Ma. She doesn’t think that’s stealing. It’s just the way she thinks.”

Emma said heartily, “I know. She can’t help it.”

Then she was caught by the girl’s level gaze. Whatever else you could say about her, the girl was brave. She was scared to death, but she was standing up to it. Emma liked that.

“What you mean is we’re all the same, don’t you? You think so because John and I are in love with each other.”

“In love.” The words bounced from Emma’s lips. “What do you two children know about love?”

“What did you, Mrs. Weaver, when you were fifteen?”

“Nothing,” said Emma, staunchly.

“But you got married, didn’t you?”

The girl had spunk. Her forehead looked too big for her face, thin the way it was. And her underlip was shaky. But she looked straight at Emma, and Emma, instead of getting angry, found herself liking it, to her surprise.

“Have you ever been sorry?”

“Not more than most women, Mary.”

“Has Mr. Weaver?”

Emma suddenly smiled. “He hasn’t said so.” She drew a deep breath. “Will you walk to the gate with me?”

The girl came. The snow seemed to pinch the calves of her legs as she stood beside Emma outside the palisade. She held her hands in front of her and waited for Emma to speak.

Emma thought for several moments before she did speak.

“Do you and John see each other often?”

“He comes down when he can.” Mary’s narrow face was wistful. “It’s not often, though.”

“John’s a good boy.” Lord knows how they make love here in this place, Emma thought.

“Mary, I don’t mean to be hard on you. Or on John. But you don’t know anything about getting married.”

Again the small half-smile.

“I know,” said Emma hastily. “A girl has to begin. I’m thinking of you, too. How do you know you love John? How do you know John loves you? I’d hate for either of you to be unhappy.”

“We ain’t scared to try, Mrs. Weaver.”

“I know. I know. You’re never scared at your age. Or at least not much. Do you think you could make a good wife? Look at it that way.”

Mary’s eyes were downcast.

“I don’t know. I’d try. I never had much chance to learn things.”

“I should think you hadn’t!” Emma’s contempt got the best of her. “Not but what your Ma means well, though— in her own way.”

She saw the girl taking another deep breath. Again the eyes met hers in the same level regard.

“I wanted to tell you, Mrs. Weaver, that John and I are in love and we aim to get married. If he wants to keep on we’ll do it anyway.” Her color rose. “You couldn’t stop me without killing me, Mrs. Weaver.”

“Look here,” Emma said. “I’m not going to stand in your way, Mary. But I want you both to be sure. Will you promise me not to get married for a year?” And meeting the eyes again, “Or not to get married without talking to me first?” Her mouth twisted. “After all, it wouldn’t be easy to do that up here, without banns, you know.”

The girl gulped.

“We won’t.”

Emma believed her. “Don’t start crying,” she said abruptly.

She swung away for home, making her best pace. She didn’t look round; but kept at her work. She felt her blood restored to its racing beat that she enjoyed so much. She was flushed and breathless when she got back to the cabin, barely in time to start the evening meal.

She looked at John’s face. “You can’t guess where I’ve been,” she said, laughing at him. “No you can’t. I’ve been to Fort Herkimer seeing the Realls.”

John blushed.

“I thought it would be nice for John to go down for me with some shoes of Cobus’s I promised. I thought while he was there, he might ask Mary to come up here for Christmas dinner.”

John had turned brick red to his eyes. George merely looked at Emma. He was used to her, but there were times when he felt quite confounded. Her and her romps in the snow!

The winter in German Flats passed uneventfully enough. The cold continued and the snow lay deep. Unmilled wheat was fetching seven shilling a bushel at Little Falls, where Ellis’s Mills were grinding for the army. Al-most every week the mills shipped flour to Albany. When men heard stories of how the Continental army was starving at a town called Valley Forge, they found it hard to believe. They wondered where the flour was going to.

Occasional sleds that passed along the Kingsroad, Lilliputian in the still white world of snow, reminded the inhabitants that men were yet in garrison westward at Fort Stanwix. The sleds stopped the night at Fort Dayton and in the morning put out for the upper fort. They followed the river-hauling on the ice, a natural road. They went without a guard. The army, evidently, had no apprehensions. It made the people feel secure. Some even came to regard the murder of the Mount boys as the trick of drunken Indians; nobody could tell what to expect from a drunken Indian, least of all the Indian himself. It made them discount the story of the presence of white men. That depended entirely on a nigger boy’s say-so.

Up at McKlennar’s, the further the winter drew along, the more Joe Boleo expressed misgivings. When he and Adam and Gil were off hunting in the woods, Joe would keep tracking along the ridges spying across country, and he never came to a creek bottom without following it for half a mile or so. “Indians always hang to water,” he said. Gil and Adam Helmer often laughed between themselves at the figure he made, bent over on his snowshoes, his long neck outstretched, among the snow-loaded balsams. “You can laugh, you twerps,” he would say. “But wait till the snow starts going down.” Then he would strike off and bring them to a deer yard, and he and Adam would begin killing deer.

Adam was inclined to be jealous of Joe’s shooting. In his own overflowing strength, Adam liked to strike cross-country, running on his shoes for miles on end. But it was generally Joe, mousing along quietly, who found the deer. Then he would squat with his narrow tail just over the snow and wait for the other two to come back to him. He would sit there, looking at the deer, who always herded to the far side of the yard and stared back at him with their queerly lambent, soft eyes. Joe would be saying, “Poor pretty, poor pretty,” in a sorry sort of way, like an old woman sort of woodpecker, according to Adam, and then when Adam came he would begin shooting. Sometimes the two of them would shoot three or four deer, picking out the marks, calling the shots, pacing off the distance from the wall of the yard, before Gil stopped their senseless killing.

“Hell,” said Joe, “we got to keep our eye in.”

“Shoot at a tree,” suggested Gil.

Adam would be scornful.

“You can’t waste powder and ball on a tree.”

Then they would select a doe that looked fairly plump and kill her and leave the rest lying in the yard. They kept not only McKlennar’s well supplied with meat, but carried deer after deer to the forts and the settlement, sometimes selling the meat, sometimes giving it away. It depended on how they felt.

In the evenings they would light a great fire in the farmhouse fireplace and lie in front of it, drinking rum and molasses; and Gil generally went down to sit with them. Up at the stone house the women took to sewing things, making things for the baby, spinning. Mrs. McKlennar liked to spin with her big wheel, working the treadle with her vigorous foot, and making a hum come out of the whirling wheel like a voice against the cold. They talked about things, the three women together. Daisy, the negress, sitting in a cor-ner, made a rug for the baby with a wooden crochet hook and strips of rags. Daisy couldn’t sew and she was unhappy till the widow suggested that she make the rug. She embarked upon a five-foot project, though what good a five-foot rug could do a baby nobody ever figured out, unless it was Daisy herself. Sometimes she had a run on a color, like red; sometimes she spent two nights with brown, as if that were the color of her thoughts. It was no place for a man.

In the farmhouse atmosphere, with the two woodsmen sprawled on the floor before the fire, telling each other tales or passing off the gleanings of the valley news, a man could be at ease.

Joe liked to have the news from Herkimer’s house. There was talk of raising a monument that had been voted down in Albany, on the other side of the house from the well. Five hundred dollars had been mentioned. Joe went down one day to see how it would look. He returned still wondering.

In February there was some talk that the Massachusetts garrisons of Dayton and Herkimer were returning to their homes, having completed their service. It was said that they would leave in March. No provision was made for their replacement. Demooth and Bellinger had been down to Colonel Klock in Palatine to organize a protest. All three men were trying to have Fort Stanwix abandoned and the German Flats forts strengthened. But Congress would not listen to their arguments. Congress held that Stanwix was the strategic defense of the valley. It was intimated that they might send some troops to Cherry Valley, but that was all.

Joe shook his head about it.

‘They might just as well have nobody at all. You wait till the snow leaves. You’ll see.”

“See what?” asked Gil.

Joe grunted. “Indians.”

Adam Helmer said skeptically: —

“They got their medicine up there at Oriskany.”

“That’s the trouble. If they hadn’t been whipped so bad, they might wait to come along with the next army. But the way it is they won’t wait. They’ll want to get their face back. They’ll be after scalps. They won’t care whose. They’ll feel they’ve got to. Hell, boy, I’ve lived with the Senecas, and I know.”

“You lived with them, Joe?” asked Gil.

The gangling trapper stretched himself on the hearth to kick over a log with his heel. The fire blazed upward, pouring a ruddy light across his sweating body. The room reeked of the men’s smell, tobacco, and rum. It was stifling hot, making them all drowsy, and Joe’s voice was pitched low.

“Oh yes, when I was young, like you lads. I used to trap up the Chinisee.

I got along real good with the Senecas. I had a wife out there. She was a real nice girl, too.” He stirred himself lazily. “They ain’t as light as the Mohawk girls, but they’re thinner.”

He drank a little rum and turned his eyes thoughtfully on Gil and Adam. Outside the wind had died down with the coming of darkness, and the burning of the fire was even and fierce.

“I never knew you was married, Joe.”

“Sure,” said Joe. “I stayed there with her four years, without ever coming out.” His reminiscent grin made his face unbelievably homely. “My God, that girl was set on me!”

Adam was crouched in front of Joe. The firelight made his big face scarlet and threw lights in his long yellow hair. He held his glass in both hands, his hands passed over his knees. The shadow of his broad shoulders filled all the opposite wall. Now he turned a facetious eye on Gil. Gil grinned.