Drums Along the Mohawk (41 page)

“But I said why I came.”

“What’s his name? Why isn’t he here himself?”

“His name is Christian Reall,” said Mrs. Reall. “He’s dead.”

The little man examined his list.

“He ain’t marked so. Now, ma’am, will you kindly get out?”

“Just a minute.” Colonel Bellinger came forward. “I don’t know why Christian Reall isn’t marked on the list as dead. But he was killed and scalped. I saw him myself. I think his widow is entitled to his pay.”

The little man looked angrily at the colonel.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He seemed to swell with the importance of his position. “I’m appointed to pay militia wages. I don’t pay dead men.” He gave his little barking cough.

“But where do I get his pay? I’m entitled to it. I’m his lawful wedded widow,” said Mrs. Reall.

“Claim against the state. Swear it to a justice. File the claim.
Hak, hak
.”

“But I ain’t got any money. I need it. I’ve got children, mister.”

“They’re no business of mine.”

“Look here,” said the colonel. “Surely he earned his money as well as any man could. I’ll swear to the time of his death and to Mrs. Reall’s being his wife. Can’t you pay her for his time up to then?”

“My dear sir,” said the paymaster. “We don’t do things that way. I’ve explained the procedure. The claim will be filed before the auditor-general and passed by an act of Congress.”

“Jesus Christ, listen to the bug-tit.”

Adam Helmer’s voice was heavy with admiration.

“Sir?”

No one answered.

Colonel Bellinger took Mrs. Reall’s arm. “I’ll see you get it, and I’ll see you have something on account.” He led her to the door.

The men turned back to the paymaster, who was clearing his throat. “Give your names,” he said. “I’ve got the money sorted for you.”

A man named Hess and a man named Stoofnagle drew pay. Then it was Gil’s turn.

“Gilbert Martin.”

“Company?”

“Mark Demooth’s.”

“Oh yes, Captain Demooth’s. Here you are. The account’s different from the other companies. You get no pay for the five days’ service with General Arnold. You were requested to act as scouts for Continental troops. Therefore your expenses will be due you from the United States Congress. You will receive it in due course. That makes your pay $4.27 instead of $5.52, which is the regular private’s pay for last summer’s militia service in this regiment.”

A stunned silence fell upon the room. The two men who had already received pay began counting it. Gil looked down at the money in his hands. Four dollars and twenty-seven cents. Suddenly his throat swelled. He thought of Oriskany. He didn’t feel like waiting for the others to be paid. He went towards the door.

Perhaps the little man felt uneasy, for he started coughing again as Joe Boleo gave his name. The gangling woodsman slouched over him.

“Thanks,” he said. “It sure is fun to lick the British.”

The little man coughed.

“It’s the regular pay according to the regulations of the New
York Congress. Militia serving in its own precincts draws pay only for actual duty. In your case, expedition to Unadilla—fourteen days. You were then discharged. Expedition to relieve Fort Stanwix, unsuccessful—five days. You were again discharged. Expedition under General Arnold, successful—five days. Twenty-four days at twenty-three cents a day is five dollars and fifty-two cents. It seems plain to me.”

“You said the word, bug-tit.”

Joe followed Gil out into the snow. The roofs of the buildings were whitened. The stockade looked black against it. The air was getting colder; soldiers blowing into their hands on sentry walks made clouds of steam that whipped rapidly away among the swirling flakes.

Adam Helmer overtook them. He was laughing loudly. “I ought to have brought my purse along.”

Gil had nothing to say. He went out through the fort gate and turned left for home. The snow was making fast.

The other two men walked in his footprints, Joe at the tail end, muttering to himself.

“What you talking about?” Adam demanded.

“I was wondering how in hell those buggers got to be that way.”

“How in hell what buggers got to be what way, Joe?”

“Those Congresses.”

The snow lay two feet deep when the storm cleared. The weather remained cold. Winter, thought Emma, had come to stay; and
she walked along on her husband’s bear-paw shoes with a feeling of complete security.

She hadn’t told any of her menfolk where she was headed for. She had merely announced at dinner that she was feeling housebound and that a romp in the snow would do her good. The cabin seemed awfully small for four large people: herself; and George, a solid man; and John, nearly a man; and now Cobus was catching up to John. All three had looked at her from over their plates; all three had said, “All right, Ma,” grinning their boys’ grins. She was proud of her menfolk, and as she left the house she had a comforting assurance that they were proud of her. Even John was, preoccupied though he had been these past months with the Reall girl. She felt sure that he had no idea that she was going to Fort Herkimer, with the deliberate intention of talking to Mary Reall.

She had not seen the girl since they left Fort Herkimer to live in the cabin on Peter Weaver’s place, where George had agreed to give his time and the boys’ for a third share in the farm produce. She had had no intention of ever seeing the girl; when George announced that he was going to take Mrs. Reall to the pay-off, Emma had been hurt, as if by doing this George were taking John’s and Mary’s side against herself. But as soon as he told her how the paymaster had treated Mrs. Reall, all Emma’s natural wrath had risen blazing.

“I wish I’d been along,” she said; and “I wish you had, Emma,” said George. “The girl seemed to take it hard, ashamed to see her Ma put down, and all.”

“It’s a wonder you men didn’t stand up for them.”

“There wasn’t nothing we could do. Bellinger was there. He couldn’t and he’s the colonel, too.”

She let it drop. But the idea came to her, now that she felt the Realls had been put upon, that maybe Mary could be talked into a state of sense. It was just as important for the girl, after all, as for Emma’s John, not to hasten to a wedding.

As the blood started flowing through her body, she pulled the shawl back from her gray hair, drawn uncompromisingly to its honest knot. The cold whipped up the color in her cheeks. Her stride was masculine; the weight of the snowshoes made her swing her feet. She ought to have been wearing trousers. She kept kicking the loose snow from the webs. It was powdery and it glittered when she flung it off. She trod down hard to hear the squeak, putting her weight forward over her knees.

God hadn’t granted it to Emma to have a pretty face; but she had a fine, well-working body. Walking by herself made her conscious of its strength and vigor, feeling herself in every part; yet to tramp this way, for the sheer muscular delight, was an expression of her underlying femininity. Where pretty women who had looking-glasses might have examined their naked selves, Emma, instead, renewed acquaintance with herself by means of what she called her romps.

To Mary Reall, who saw her swing through the gate, Emma’s hearty good health was an expression of ruthlessness. The girl was afraid of her. She knew instinctively, even as Emma asked to see Mrs. Reall, that John’s mother had come down to talk to her.

They had a corner of the northwest blockhouse, which they shared with two of the Andrustown families. Mary’s mother was lying on one of the bunks originally built for a garrison. A fire in the centre of the floor gave all their heat to the three families. The smoke had blackened the rafters and the ceiling boards. It found its way upwards through the trap and out of the spy loft when the wind allowed. It was a miserable place.

“It’s surely nice of you to call, Emma!” said Mrs. Reall.

“I was just out for a walk.” Emma looked round her. No chance in here to talk to Mary. “How are you making out?”

Mrs. Reall explained that Colonel Bellinger had lent her money out of his private purse. He was such a nice man. So gentrified.

“Yes,” said Emma, forcing herself to be agreeable. “But you can’t live like that forever. What will you do next year?”

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.”