Drums Along the Mohawk (12 page)

“I know he’s always stood out for the King’s side. Mr. Thompson went after the Johnsons this summer. John’s always said the way he stood on things.”

“He is known for a Loyalist?”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant considered. Then he asked Gil to tell what he had found in the attic, and Gil did so. He further described the man he and Lana had seen at Billy Rose’s tavern. He was asked for and gave his deductions. He did so plainly and simply.

“Why hadn’t you arrested Wolff when you first caught him in the store?”

“We didn’t have nothing on him. Only the powder.”

“Were you drunk when you got to the clearing?”

“Some of us was a little lit up, sir.”

“That will do,” said the lieutenant. Lana felt the doctor touch her leg.

“Your boy’s done all right,” he whispered. “He was fair enough to John, too.”

Gil had stepped back. He stood quite still, perspiring. People murmured and nodded. It was all how you looked at the matter. Nine-tenths of them thought that there was reasonable cause to judge the prisoner guilty. But there wasn’t much proof, not the way the lieutenant was asking questions. Only that business about the eye patch.

The lieutenant turned to Captain Demooth. He asked if there were any other witnesses against the prisoner. There were.

Story Grebb was called. He said he lived the west side of Fall Hill, beyond Bellinger’s. He testified that three days before the arrest he had been awakened by his negro man, Hans. He had shut the negro out because the negro had been in the habit of sneaking down to the Herkimer place where they had a black wench named Frailty, and Esquire Herkimer was being annoyed. Hans was frightened because he said there was two Indians on the road. They was asking the way to John Wolff’s store. He yelled to them to keep on moving, and he let in Hans and tied him up in the pantry and gave him a hiding.

The following witness made the greatest impression. He was a heavy-handed oldish man, with a white moustache stained at the ends and edges. He said his name was Hon Yerry Dorsch. He lived just west of Eldridge Patent. He testified that on the evening of July 14 he came home from settling a paper with Isaac Paris. That he had taken all day to the trip back, and in the evening when he got to James Jones’s house there was a man with a lame left hand sitting in it. That he had on a speckled under jacket, a brown surtout coat, blue woolen stockings and strings in his shoes.…

Lana caught her breath as Dorsch continued with circumstantial relish.

That the said man was lame in his left hand; that Dorsch asked him, Jones, where the man came from, and that Jones said he did not know; that the man stood him, Dorsch, a drink, and that then the three of them set out along the Kingsroad in company; that as they went he asked the lame-handed man what his name was, but he would not tell him, but told him that he came up from Albany; that Dorsch was sure the lame-handed man was carrying a bundle of letters, because he stumbled against him once and felt them crackle inside the man’s shirt; that the lame-handed man said he was meeting a man with a blind eye,
and did Dorsch know such a person, which Dorsch said he did not and would take oath to same now before the lieutenant if need be.

Lieutenant Biddle, listening to the tortuous slow testimony, became aware of the excitement in the audience. The stupid Dorsch had brought with him a peculiar nervous tension. The prisoner Wolff stood against the counter, apparently not hearing a word. The woman who had said she was the prisoner’s wife had her hand to her mouth. The pretty girl beside the doctor looked a little better now that her husband had testified, though the stuffiness of the store seemed to be getting on her nerves.

Dorsch droned on in his monotone:—

That they had had to spend the night in the woods, but that in the morning they had come to Billy Rose’s tavern and he, Rose, had asked them to come in and sign their names to the Committee Register, and that he, Dorsch, had done so, but that Jones and the lame-handed man had gone out and sat under the apple tree in Rose’s yard.

Next witness, William Rose, tavern keeper, corroborated the occurrence, as also Martin’s testimony about the man Caldwell. Further said, when he went out into the yard with the register, the lame-handed man had gone, but that Jones was sitting there with Jacobus Seeney.

The lieutenant felt sorry for the prisoner, who had to bear all this on his feet.

“Any more, Captain Demooth?”

There was some similar testimony that took fifteen minutes. It began to seem as if the whole United States had been converging on Cosby’s Manor, but Captain Demooth made the point that nobody ever knew the business of any of these people; that it stood to reason from what was reported that many of them
were hostile to the United States; and that indubitably some of them had stopped with John Wolff.

A little murmur went out of the room and into the group of people outdoors.

“John Wolff, have you heard the testimony of the witnesses?”

Wolff’s mouth twisted sarcastically.

“Some of it.”

He met the lieutenant’s eye. He saw that the lieutenant looked friendly. But he had lost his own temper listening to all these insinuations.

“John Wolff, have you ever assisted King’s people?”

“Yes, I have,” he replied in a loud voice. His face was a little pale and his jaw was set. His wife stifled an “Oh, John!” The lieutenant did not notice. His voice went on quietly, with a queer sort of encouragement.

“How did you assist them?”

“If they came to my place without grub, I gave them something.”

“When they couldn’t pay?”

“Sometimes they paid.”

“You haven’t a permit under the Committee of the County to run a public house.”

“Hell, no. But I don’t sell likker over the counter.”

“Did you sell them any?”

“In jugs if they could pay for it. Store purchase.”

His jaw snapped. His voice was beginning to sound ugly.

“Have you done so lately?”

“I haven’t any more to sell,” said John Wolff.

“Would you if you had?”

“Yes, I would. I got to make a living.”

“Did you feed the two Seneca Indians referred to?”

“Yes.”

“Did they pay?”

“No.”

“You gave them the food?”

“They was hungry.”

“Did you do so willingly?”

He was giving the prisoner every chance to crawl out. But John Wolff was raw. He was sick of the business.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I couldn’t turn them out, could I? They behaved decent. Didn’t break in nor nothing like those God-damned drunken Dutch!”

The lieutenant hammered his pistol butt on the counter.

“Talk decent, Wolff.”

“Nobody else has.”

“Would you have assisted these people on their illegal King’s business if you had known?”

“I knew they was on King’s business. I didn’t know what it was. Why, mister? I didn’t ask. I minded my own business, see?”

The lieutenant patiently overlooked it. He could see how the man felt.

“Would you willingly assist the King in his oppression of the United States?”

“If he’d promise to exterminate these damned Dutch I would.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“Do you want more?”

“If you can’t justify yourself under the law you’d better not say anything.”

“There ain’t any law I know of. Except the King’s law. I ain’t busted that.”

“That will be all.”

Lieutenant Biddle looked down at his hands on the counter. He
hoped he hadn’t marred his pistol hammering with it. As far as he could see, the prisoner was only suspected. Suspected persons, however, were not wanted here. It was his business to call him guilty.

He thought, “Guilty of what?”

“John Wolff,” he said, “you have been heard before this court, with the witnesses against you. You have produced no witnesses in your own cause. In the opinion of this court sufficient testimony has been given to prove reasonably that you have entertained people whose business is hostile to this country. You have not denied your entertainment of them, and you have not shown that you have not shared in their business. I therefore find you guilty as charged of being a Loyalist. Therefore, according to regulations, you shall be taken back to Fort Dayton and there imprisoned until such time as you shall be taken out by a squad and shot. The court is now adjourned.”

A little murmur again flowed out of the room. Outside people said, “They’re going to shoot him.”

Lana saw Mrs. Wolff standing like a post, a peeled post, white and brittle.

Gil Martin’s jaw dropped open. George Weaver went white and red. The man was a neighbor. The lieutenant got up and signaled to the sergeant. The men took the prisoner by the arms and walked him out the length of the store. Then the lieutenant followed them.

Clumping along on his old horse, George Weaver overtook the brown mare just outside of Schuyler. The mare was moving at a
walk for the comfort of Lana, who sat sidewise behind Gil. She asked, as if George had happened into the midst of an argument, “Are they really going to shoot him, Mr. Weaver?”

“They are, according to law, I guess.”

“But why
shoot
him? I can’t see that he’s done any real harm.”

“Why,” said George, “I don’t know that he has, either.”

“Then,
why?
”

Gil spoke from the encirclement of her arms, crossly, so that she thought she felt the words rise through his body.

“That’s what she’s been asking me till I’m just about ready to get sick.”

Lana lifted her chin and stared at George.

“What did you really arrest him for, Mr. Weaver?”

George uncomfortably scratched his head. Lana’s dark eyes had a sort of seeking-after-truth look that made him want to get the rights of it in his own dim way.

“I don’t know, Lana. It was Jeams MacNod’s idea it would keep me out of trouble for letting the lads into Thompson’s house. I didn’t have no idea John Wolff would get killed for it.” He colored. “Honest, Lana.”

“Of course,” she said. “I know you wouldn’t want to hurt anybody, Mr. Weaver.”

“What makes it real bad,” continued George, “is that it didn’t do no good anyhow. I got a regular tongue roasting off the lieutenant. Why, you’d have thought I was a thief, the way he talked. Mark Demooth stood up for us, though. He said it wasn’t a cobbler’s patch on the way the Yankees have been stripping women and girls down in Albany County.”

“I know, I know. But this is terrible. We ain’t Yankees.”

“Yes,” said George. “I expect it really is. I asked the lieutenant. Mister, I says, are you going to shoot poor John
dead?
And he said, well, what do
you
expect? As if I was responsible.”

“What’s ever going to become of Mrs. Wolff?”

“I don’t know. She’s a sour kind of person. Doc Petry offered her a place in his house (she’s his wife’s stepmother), but she said she’d go back to Cosby’s and starve afore she’d do that.”

“I don’t blame her.”

“Doc ain’t so bad,” George replied earnestly. “He’s the only doc hereabouts, but he takes care of anybody he can get to, whether they pay or not. He don’t press you. It took us a year to pay for Cobus. Eggs and a sucking pig. Me and Emma made our minds up to pay for Cobus afore he got weaned, and we did.”

“I thought he looked cruel.”

“Oh, I guess he’ll get John’s life saved. He’s got influence. He’s gentry.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Gil broke in, “Oh, hush your noise, Lana. It couldn’t be helped. The King’s people didn’t think anything of beating the tar out of unarmed men while they had the strength. Look at the way they licked Jake Sammons when they raised the liberty pole in Caughnawaga, last year.”

Lana was silent. She could tell that the business was preying on Gil’s mind. She made up her own mind to see if she could do anything about it. She thought, maybe, she could get Mrs. Demooth to interest the captain.

Next day, while Gil was away at Christian Reall’s, helping the little man clear logs off a piece, she went down to Demooth’s. When she came into the clearing she saw Clem Coppernol leading the captain’s horse round to the barn. She went herself to the kitchen.

“Is Mrs. Demooth inside?” she asked the hired girl.

“God!” said Nancy, dropping a platter. “I don’t know.”

She stared with petrified blue eyes at Lana. But the crash had brought in Mrs. Demooth.

“Nancy!” she said in a hard voice. “If you’ve broke it I’ll have Clem put his belt on you this time.”

“It ain’t broke, Mrs. Demooth.” Nancy began to blubber. “Honest it ain’t, only a piece. I’ll fix it. I got startled so.”

Mrs. Demooth then saw Lana. The swing of her skirts stilled and she became calm all in a gesture.

“How do you do, Mrs. Martin? It’s nice you came down. Come into the sitting room with me.”

The incongruity of polished dark wood furniture, of fine chairs, and board floors with carpet on them, all within log walls, made Lana feel shy. She sat down straight and silent and did not look at Mrs. Demooth. Overhead she could hear the quick steps of the captain moving back and forth.

“Captain Demooth’s just got back,” explained Mrs. Demooth. “Will you move out of the sunlight or shall I draw the curtain for you?”

“Please don’t trouble. I like the sun,” said Lana, not without a momentary malicious pleasure as she looked at Mrs. Demooth’s carefully powdered face. “Mrs. Demooth, I came down to see you. To see if you would speak to Captain Demooth. About John Wolff.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Demooth, who had sat down beside an embroidery frame. “Oh. You don’t mean the man that got arrested in Cosby’s Manor?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a friend of yours? I understand Mr. Martin was one of the men who arrested him. He found the evidence of that awful blind man’s being in Thompson’s house. I never had much of an opinion of the Thompsons,” she ended with satisfaction.

“Gil was there,” said Lana slowly.

“Yes, Mark said some very complimentary things about your husband.”

“I know. Gil was trying to do what he ought.” Lana had a
momentary thought of the silk piece, but let it go. “But he feels bad about Wolff’s being shot.”