3stalwarts (71 page)

But when John reached the top of the hill and the wind surrounded him, he forgot about his mother and thought only of his wife. He had felt a month before that Mary had something on her mind— apparently she had known then, but she had wanted to be sure. She was sure now. Her face shone with her tidings. She had stood with him outside the door in the cold October sunlight, proud and straight, tilting her thin face to speak over the wind, her eyes beaming on him— he could not tell that at last Mary felt that she had raised herself to his level, nor could he ever know the love and gratitude and pride she had in him.

Instead, with the silent Joe on the hilltop, he had been wondering all day, remembering that time when Mrs. Martin’s boy was born: how he had been frightened, how slow the hours had gone by, how dark the night had been. He knew that Mary would laugh at him if she ever suspected how he dreaded it. Her face had been gallant and taut like a flag in the wind when she told him.

It made him think of the first time he had noticed her, in Fort Herkimer: the same thin eagerness in her face, the same anxiety to know what he was thinking. It used to make him feel foolish to think how often he had played with her in Deerfield without being aware. He might so easily never have discovered her at all.

Her face stayed before his eyes so vividly all day; she still seemed so young to him. He thought of her now at different times transformed by the same eagerness: that first time in the fort; and again in the fort when he had taken her up on the sentry walk to break the news of her father’s death at Oriskany; and again the cold day when they had walked towards McKlennar’s and been married, when Mrs. McKlennar put it up to them both; and again when he had gone away to join the expedition against the Iroquois, and when he had come home; and the day that Bellinger had made him corporal in the Herkimer garrison; and once there in the blockhouse when they were planning their own stone house like the McKlennar house.

Sometimes she had been anxious, sometimes sorrowful, and sometimes overflowing with joy; but always in every part of her he felt her love, her eagerness for their life together, and her pride in him. It made him wonder whether Gilbert Martin, for instance, felt the same way about Mrs. Martin, or whether, like most men, he took his wife for granted. At times John thought there must be something unmanly in feeling the way he did about Mary. He would try to be short with her and resolve not to answer her questions, but on those occasions Mary invariably was quiet. She was a quiet girl anyway. He had no chance to act like other men; and he always found out that he had no wish to once he was with her.

He knew that the coming winter would probably bring more months of short rations, and he did not think that Mary was the sort of woman who could nurse a child. A child needed a lot of food in cold weather. Suppose that it was born in March. But Joe Boleo had just told him that the winter would break early. Suddenly he decided to believe Joe. It would have to be a short winter.

John felt that divine Providence had taken a hand in all his life. His eyes were so rapt that the old woodsman hesitated momentarily before touching his elbow.

“Express coming in from the falls,” he said.

John saw the rider driving his horse to a sluggish trot through the sticky going. It was growing dark.

“Come on,” said Joe. “We might as well go down.”

Mary met him at the door.

“Come in, John. I’ve got supper ready for you.”

She kissed him, putting her thin arms hard about his shoulders, but her eyes were tender and calm. He supposed that women acted that way.

“I’ve told Mother,” she said softly. “I thought it was best. There may not be much time.”

She had closed the door behind them and was leaning against it with her hands clasping the latch. He now saw that she was pale and was watching him with that level regard that invariably stirred him so, as if she were hoarding him up like a treasure.

“Time, Mary?”

He heard his mother rise from the hearth. Emma’s gaunt face showed that she had been crying.

“I’m glad she did, John. It’s made me happy. I ain’t been so happy since when … I can’t think, hardly. I wish your Pa knew of it. Maybe he does.”

The door swung open, putting Mary aside, and Cobus entered with some wood.

“I wish they’d let me go too. Can’t you make ‘em, John? You’re a corporal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Gil Martin was here just a short spell ago. He said for you to come up to the fort. Butler’s this side of Johnstown heading this way.”

It was hard to take it in. Even Joe Boleo had thought that the raiding must be over for the year. John stood for a moment staring from one to the other.

“I guess I’d better go up there,” he said.

“Can I go with you, John?”

John turned to his brother.

“You stay here, Cobus. I want to know somebody’s looking after Ma and Mary.”

Cobus looked down at his feet.

“All right, John.”

Emma came up to John and put her arms round him. “We’ll look after her while you’re away, John. Don’t you worry. But come back here before you leave, if they’ll let you.”

“I will,” John promised.

He looked at Mary as he picked up his musket, and she went to the door ahead of him. It had begun to snow. He could see the flakes snared in her hair against the light from the small window.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then Mary said, “I told her we’d call the baby after your Pa, John. Do you mind? It made her happy.”

“I don’t mind.” He answered without thinking, mechanically. He was thinking of the long marches through the woods with Sullivan’s army, in the Indian country. He suddenly shook himself out of it. They wouldn’t be going into Indian country. “I think it’s fine,” he said. “Did she ask you?”

“Oh, no. I just thought of it, when I started telling her.”

Mary was silent again.

When she lifted her face her eyes were clear.

“You’d better go up now, John.”

She hated for him to go. But she didn’t want men thinking John behind-hand, now he was corporal.

“Yes,” he said. “Good-bye, Mary. I’ll try to come back before we leave. But take care of yourself.”

“Don’t worry about me.” She made herself smile, not thinking how dark it was. “I’m tougher than I look. You ought to know that, John.”

He leaned over her quickly, kissing her, and turned away towards the dark wall of the fort.

The wind was going down. Already, under the falling snow, a heaped bonfire in the centre of the parade was putting light on the inner walls of the blockhouses. The points of the stockade stood out needlelike and black. John saw men moving in through the snow, carrying their guns under their arms, the muzzles pointed down. The dark tracks they left on the whitening ground were like the gathering of a web towards the open gate.

There was no noise inside the fort, except the crackling of the fire and the mutter of men’s voices. When John entered, he found them lining up in companies along the four sides of the parade. They went to then-own companies; Demooth’s (Demooth was gone, but young Lieutenant Tygert was in command of it) had only twelve men left. John, the corporal, Gil Martin, Boleo and Helmer, the Rangers. Clem Coppernol was not fit for a march. And a few men who used to live in Schuyler; Spankrable and the two Kasts. John moved over to join them, asking Martin in a low voice whether he had heard the news.

“The express came in just a little while before you did. The British have burned Warrensbush and crossed the river to Johnstown. They had six hundred men. Willett chased them. He licked them outside of Johnstown. But they got away. They headed west, north of Stone Arabia. Willett was at Stone Arabia when he sent the express up. He’s waiting to find out which way they’re headed and he wants us ready to cut them off.”

“Willett licked them?”

“Yes, with four hundred.”

Gil’s thin face looked set and red against the leaping firelight.

Before the fire Bellinger was checking in the militia as they entered the fort. The sentries on the rifle platform stood up over him, half lighted against the snowing night, watching the parade inside as much as the surrounding darkness.

Every now and then a man came forward to the fire with an armful of logs and threw them on the flames. Ten minutes later, after another freshening of the fire, Bellinger closed his book.

The men fell silent. He stood, with his rounded shoulders, staring back at them. He did not seem to speak loudly, but everyone heard him plainly.

“I guess you know what’s happened. Butler’s in the valley. Butler and Ross with six hundred men. They ain’t just Indians. They’re Tories and regulars, trained soldiers. But Willett’s licked them with four hundred militia.”

The silence continued. But Bellinger did not look as if he expected a cheer or anything like that. He was thinking about things, the way all of them were thinking.

“We’ve had our farms wiped out. It’s been four years. We’ve had the Butlers down here and we had John Johnson last year, and we’ve never had a real crack at them since Oriskany. We had Nicholas Herkimer then, and we’ve got Willett now. And we licked them then.”

He was looking at the ground, watching the snow melt back from the fire.

“Willett wants the whole bunch of you ready when he gives the word. I don’t know when that’s going to be. But last June I promised him we’d have ninety men when he asked for them. I want you all to make sure you got powder and ball. If you ain’t filled up, get it to the magazines. I guess we all feel just about the same. Go back to bed when you get done. If I want you tonight I’ll let off the gun.” He raised his face towards the swivel on the southeast corner. “Bring a blanket with you and the warmest shirt you’ve got. Herkimer men better stay here in the fort.”

He turned his back on them and trudged into his room.

So they weren’t to go yet. John drew a deep breath. He had powder enough and ball; he had filled his flask that morning. He heard Gil ask Joe Boleo if he wouldn’t come back to the Martin cabin, so he himself asked Adam Helmer to the Weavers’. Adam thanked him, but declined.

Adam had figured that he could perfectly well get over to Herkimer and tell Betsey Small what was going to happen. If the gun went off he could run back long before any body of men could leave the fort.

As he slipped out of the gate he saw Doc Petry stumping back to his office in which he now lived, ate, dispensed, and slept.

Adam trotted down to the river crossing and hopped into a boat and rowed himself over. In thirty minutes he was inside the Herkimer stockade. Five minutes later he had got Betsey out and told her.

They stood in the lee of the church wall.

“Listen, Betsey,” he said, “Butler’s coming up the valley.”

“Yes, Adam,” she said quietly. “But what are you doing over here?”

“Oh hell,” he said, “can’t I do anything to suit you?”

Her voice was slow with the same quiet amusement she always showed towards him.

“A lot of things you do suit me fine. But what do you expect me to do? Cry? Laugh? Kiss you, I expect.”

“Kissing’s better than nothing.”

You could have cut his head off with a feather when she said quietly:—

“All right. Where are you?”

She put her arms around his neck, and Adam locked her in his arms. He gave it to her, but he couldn’t even make her gasp. And he had been saving up two years just to give it to her. Beside her, Polly Bowers was like putty. It made him mad, and he started casting his eyes round for a place they could get away to, under cover. You couldn’t take a girl out in the snow, somehow; but while he was thinking about it, she had slipped out of his arms.

“There. That ought to suit you.”

Adam felt suddenly hurt.

“Betsey!”

“What is it?” She sounded so kind, God damn her, she was probably laughing at him.

“I thought we was just beginning,” he muttered. “I was just thinking where we could go.”

“I’m not one of your girls, Adam.” She laughed softly. “Can’t you tell the difference?”

“I can,” he said glumly. “What do you want me to do, marry you?”

“You’ve never asked me.”

Adam knew he was a fool to say it.

“All right. Will you marry me?”

“You sound as if you was swearing, Adam. But I will. When you leave me to go horning round the country, I want the law.”

As she laughed again, he caught hold of her.

“Come on, where can we go?”

“I’ll tell you after we’re wedded.”

“But we can’t get married now.”

“Well, then, we can’t go anywhere. I’m not taking chances, Adam.”

He swore at her, cajoled, pleaded with her; but nothing could shake her amused silence.

“By God. I’ll wake the domine.”

That jolted her. “You can’t do that. You’ll make a scandal.”

“For God’s sake, what do you want me to do?”

He stood like a muddled bear, confronting the snow and darkness. She laid her long hand on his arm. “Poor Adam,” she said. Her voice grew sober. “You’ve promised me, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll marry me when you come back? You’ll swear it?”

“I’ll swear it. Cross my heart. Honest to God, Betsey.”

“I want banns read. I want the whole business. So everybody will know I’ve got you.” She gave a low, delicious laugh.

He didn’t answer her with words. He knew now that she was acting like a skittish mare, all along. But he knew that she would hold him to his word. He didn’t care. As he reached out for her she put aside his hands. “Come with me.”

She led him to the door of the northwest blockhouse. Captain Moody’s men were quartered in the other. There was no one here but Moody himself, and he slept on the bottom floor.

She put her hand on Adam’s lips. Her fingers felt cold as rifle iron, so cold that he had a sense of heat beneath the icy skin.

“He’s deaf,” she whispered. “But be quiet.”

They stole past the captain’s bunk and up the stairs to the loft. The paneless window frames were faintly marked by snow upon the sills. The place was empty and bare and smelled of cold; but when Adam followed her up through the loft she met him quietly. There was a sureness in the way she came to him in the dark. He might have known. And then when he had her she went all soft, shaking as if her soul had gone away from her.