And now, secretly, the rats began to leave for the North, where, behind the Canada border, savage hordes were gathering by clans, red and white alike.
Guy Johnson went on pretense of Indian business; and none dare stop the Superintendent for Indian affairs on a mission requiring, as he stated, his personal appearance at Oswego.
But once there he slipped quietly over into Canada; and Brant joined him.
Colonel Claus sneaked North; old John Butler went in the night with a horde of Johnstown and Caughnawaga Tories. McDonald followed, accompanied by some scores of bare-shinned Tory Mc's. Walter Butler disappeared like a phantom.
But Sir John remained behind his stockade and swivels at the Hall, vowing and declaring that he meditated no mischief – no, none at all.
Then, in a fracas in Johnstown, that villain sheriff, Alexander White, fired upon Sammons, and the friends to liberty went to take the murderous Tory at the jail.
Frey was made sheriff, which infuriated Sir John; but Governor Tryon deposed him and reappointed White, so the plain people went again to do him a harm; and he fled the district to the mortification of the Baronet.
But Sir John's course was nearly at an end: and events in the outer world set the sands in his cloudy glass running very swiftly. Schuyler and Montgomery were directing a force of troops against Montreal and Quebec, and Sir Guy Carleton, Governor General of Canada, was shrieking for help.
St. John's surrendered, and the Mohawk Indians began fighting!
Here was a pretty pickle for Sir John to explain.
Suddenly we had news of the burning of Falmouth.
On a bitter day in early winter, an Express passed through Fonda's Bush on snow-shoes, calling out a squad of the Mohawk Regiment of District Militia.
Nick Stoner, Andrew Bowman, Joe Scott, and I answered the summons.
Snow-shoeing was good – a light fall on the crust – and we pulled foot for the Kingsborough trail, where we met up with a squad from the Palatine Regiment and another from the Flatts.
But scarce were we in sight of Johnstown steeples when the drums of an Albany battalion were heard; and we saw, across the snow, their long brown muskets slanting, and heard their bugle-horn on the Johnstown road.
I saw nothing of the affair at the Hall, being on guard at St. John's Church, lower down in the town. But I saw our General Schuyler ride up the street with his officers; and so knew that all would go well.
All went well enough, they say. For when again the General rode past the church, I saw waggons under our escort piled with the muskets of the Highland Battalion, and others heaped high with broad-swords, pistols, swivels, and pikes. And on Saturday, the twentieth of January, when our tour of duty ended, and our squads were dismissed, each to its proper district, all people knew that Sir John Johnson had given his parole of honor not to take up arms against America; not to communicate with the Royalists in Canada; not to oppose the friends of liberty at home; nor to stir from his Baronial Hall to go to Canada or to the sea, but with liberty to transact such business as might be necessary in other parts of this colony.
And I, for one, never doubted that a son of the great Sir William would keep his word and sacred parole of honour.
CHAPTER IV
TWO COUNTRY MICE
It was late in April, and I had boiled my sap and had done with my sugar bush for another year. The snow was gone; the Kennyetto roared amber brilliant through banks of melting ice, and a sweet odour of arbutus filled all the woods.
Spring was in the land and in my heart, too, and when Nick Stoner galloped to my door in his new forest dress, very fine, I, nothing loath, did hasten to dress me in my new doe-skins, not less fine than Nick's and lately made for me by a tailor-woman in Kingsborough who was part Oneida and part Dutch.
That day I wore a light, round cap of silver mole fur with my unshorn hair, all innocent of queue or powder, curling crisp like a woman's. Of which I was ashamed and eager to visit Toby Tice, our Johnstown barber, and be trimmed.
My new forest dress, as I say, was of doe-skin – a laced shirt belted in, shoulder-caped, cut round the neck to leave my throat free, and with long thrums on sleeve and skirt against need.
Trews shaped to fit my legs close; and thigh moccasins, very deep with undyed fringe, but ornamented by an infinite pattern of little green vines, made me brave in my small mirror. And my ankle moccasins were gay with Oneida devices wrought out of porcupine quills and beads, scarlet, green, purple, and orange, and laid open at the instep by two beaded flaps.
I saddled my mare, Kaya, in her stall, which was a log wing to my house, and presently mounted and rode around to where Nick sat his saddle a-playing on his fife, which he carried everywhere with him, he loving music but obliged to make his own.
"Lord Harry!" cried he on seeing me so fine. "If you are not truly a Viscount then you look one!"
"I would not change my name and health and content," said I, "for a king's gold crown today." And I clinked the silver coins in my pouch and laughed. And so we rode away along the Johnstown road.
He also, I think, was dying for a frolic. Young minds in trouble as well as hard-worked bodies need a holiday now and then. He winked at me and chinked the shillings in his bullet-pouch.
"We shall see all the sights," quoth he, "and the Kennyetto could not quench my thirst today, nor our two horses eat as much, nor since time began could all the lovers in history love as much as could I this April day… Were there some pretty wench of my own mind to use me kindly… Like that one who smiled at us – do you remember?"
"At Christmas?"
"That's the one!" he exclaimed. "Lord! but she was handsome in her sledge! – and her sister, too, Jack."
"I forget their names," said I.
"Browse," he said, " – Jessica and Betsy. And they live at Pigeon-Wood near Mayfield."
"Oho!" said I, "you have made their acquaintance!"
He laughed and we galloped on.
Nick sang in his saddle, beating time upon his thigh with his fife:
"Flammadiddle!
Paddadiddle!
Flammadiddle dandy!
My Love's kisses
Are sweet as sugar-candy!
Flammadiddle!
Paddadiddle!
Flammadiddle dandy!
She makes fun o' me
Because my legs are bandy – "
He checked his gay refrain:
"Speaking of flamms," said he, "my brother John desires to be a drummer in the Continental Line."
"He is only fourteen," said I, laughing.
"I know. But he is a tall lad and stout enough. What will be your regiment, Jack?"
"I like Colonel Livingston's," said I, "but nobody yet knows what is to be the fate of the district militia and whether the Mohawk regiment, the Palatine, and the other three are to be recruited to replace the Tory deserters, or what is to be done."
Nick flourished his flute: "All I know," he said, "is that my father and brother and I mean to march."
"I also," said I.
"Then it's in God's hands," he remarked cheerfully, "and I mean to use my ears and eyes in Johnstown today."
We put our horses to a gallop.
We rode into Johnstown and through the village, very pleased to be in civilization again, and saluting many wayfarers whom we recognized, Tory and Whig alike. Some gave us but a cold good-day and looked sideways at our forest