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  The Herter place was dark when she reached it, but, though she was still sobbing softly, she moved as quietly as she could round the corner of the barn. She had crossed halfway to the house when Clem Coppernol rose up in front of her, surrounding them both with his fog of rum.

  “Who’s that?” he asked unsteadily. As she tried to elude him, he stumbled forward and caught her skirt. He used it to help himself off his knees.

  ” ‘S a pullet anyways,” he mumbled. ” ‘S you Nancy, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Been out. I seen you going. I seen you. You can’t lie.” He nodded against her shoulder. “Been to Shoemaker’s. See Hon?”

  She shivered and the tears gathered under her lids.

  “No. No. I want to go to bed.”

  “Saw somebody. You tell me and I’ll let you go,” he said slyly.

  “Yes. I saw a soldier.”

  He chuckled.

  “Nice girl. So awful nice with me, ain’t you? Bet a dollar you got laid.”

  “No,” she said frantically.

  “Did, though. Or you wouldn’t act this way. Where’s Hon?”

  Her sobs started again.

  “They caught him. They’ve taken him to the fort. What are they going to do, Clem?”

  “That’s good. Good business.” He scratched his head with his free hand. “Probably they’ll hang him. Hang the bunch. Yes, sir.”

  Nancy managed to whisper, “Please let me go.”

  “Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. You got to be nice to me now, or I’ll tell.”

  “I’ll be nice.”

  “I’m still kind of drunk.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I ain’t real drunk, neither.” He paused to wipe his mouth. “You’re a good girl just the same, Nance. I’ll stand up for you. If you’ve got fixed, I’ll marry you if you want.”

  Nancy sprang out of his grasp and fled for the house. He made no move to chase her. He was open-mouthed in the darkness, trying to recollect what he had just said. Long after she had crept inside the house, he remembered.

  “By God!” he said aloud. “I am drunk.”

  7. Death of a Brigadier

  The unexpectedness of Butler’s capture and the ease with which it had been accomplished did much to hearten the Committee members of Ger-man Flats. It had had an immediate effect upon the people, checking all danger of wholesale desertion to St. Leger’s camp. Word got out about when the prisoners were permitted to exercise and curious people went to look at them in their regimental coats, walking up and down the small parade space in the middle of the fort.

  It seemed a wonder to them. The last time they remembered Walter Butler was on that day in the spring two years before when he had ridden up the valley with Sheriff White to cut down the liberty pole in front of Herkimer Church. Then he had been a man to fear, as all the Johnsons and Butlers were, with the law in his fist. Now they saw that he was a slight man of nervous action, who took his exercise deliberately, making ten circles of the parade,— they counted them, always ten —looking neither right nor left, his pale face inclined slightly forward. His soldiers might stop and chat with the guard or with the Palatines themselves; Hon Yost sometimes greeted former acquaintances and asked about his family; but Walter Butler seemed unaware of his surroundings. To the spectators he was more like the four Indians who always kept apart by themselves, not even speaking to each other.

  Gilbert Martin, like the others, stopped one morning to watch, and afterwards went on to speak to Captain Demooth. He found the captain at the Herter house and asked, “When will those men be tried?”

  “They’re under military law. They’ll have to be court-martialed, Gil. And Weston wants to wait for General Arnold. Technically he’s under Arnold now, you see.”

  Gil said, “I should think it was better to get it over with. Some people there at Shoemaker’s will lose their nerve.”

  The captain smiled a little.

  “There are plenty of witnesses who won’t. You, for one. That’s why I sent for you the other night.” His face grew serious. “And personally, Gil, I’m just as glad to have it put into the army’s hands. I used to know the Butlers. They’ve got powerful friends. Some of our Committee would be afraid to convict him if the responsibility was on our shoulders.”

  “What will they do to him?”

  “He’ll be tried for a spy,” Captain Demooth said dryly.

  “How about the others?”

  “I don’t know about them. They were under orders. Prison, I guess. Except Hon Yost Schuyler. He’s a deserter. He’s on the rolls of the Third Company of Tryon militia. We can’t let him off light.”

  “Has Nancy seen him? I’ve heard she was very fond of him.”

  “Mrs. Demooth’s been having trouble with Nancy. She was hysterical when she heard about it. We thought it was better for her not to see her brother. Her mother thought so, too.”

  “He’s just a half-wit,” said Gil. “I don’t see why he should be shot.”

  “It’s not in our hands, Gil. And as I said before, I’m glad it isn’t. How’s your arm?”

  “It’s doing fine. But I can’t use it much yet for work. That’s one reason I came to see you. Mrs. McKlennar wants to know where she can hire a man. Our wheat’s begun dropping.”

  “So has everybody’s. If it isn’t reaped inside the next two weeks we’ll lose more than half the crop.” He shook his head. “I don’t know where you can find a man. There are plenty doing nothing in the forts. But they don’t want to work. They don’t want to do anything until Arnold gets here.”

  Gil said, “Yes.” He hesitated. “Mrs. McKlennar wanted to know if you’d heard how General Herkimer was. She thought she might be able to rent one of his slaves for a week.”

  “I haven’t heard from Herkimer for several days. His leg got mortified. And Petry can’t get down to see it, so we don’t know much.”

  “Do you think it would be all right if I went down to see him?”

  “Why, yes. He’ll probably be glad to have some news. You can tell him from me we’ve heard the First New York has got as far as Klock’s.”

  Gil went down on the brown mare next morning. It was the first time he had ever been at Herkimer’s house, and the size of it, together with the well-kept fields, impressed him.

  A full-breasted negress met him at the door and said, “Gener’l ain’ seem’ nobody,” in an impressive voice. Gil was ready to turn away when the right-hand door opened into the hall and Mrs. Herkimer came out.

  “What is it, Frailty?”

  “Dish yer man he’s askin’ fo’ de Gener’l,” Frailty said contemptuously.

  Gil removed his hat.

  “I’m from Mrs. McKlennar, ma’am. She wanted me to come down and find out if you could rent her a slave for a few days to get her wheat in. I work for her myself, but my arm’s no good, now.”

  She glanced at the arm.

  “Were you at the battle?”

  “Yes,” said Gil.

  The pained look in her eyes increased. But she stepped back through the door.

  “Come in. Honnikol’s always glad to see anyone who was with him up there.”

  The general’s big bed had been set up in the northwest room with its head to the fireplace so that he could look through the windows towards the river. Herkimer was wearing a flannel nightshirt open at the throat, showing the black hair on his chest, and to Gil, seeing him against the pillows, his shoulders looked heavier than he remembered them.

  Herkimer’s face was drawn, the mouth set, and it was obvious that he suffered a good deal of pain. But the black eyes stared keenly at Gil as he said, “Good morning.”

  His wife came over to the bed with a lighted candle for his pipe and he sucked on the stem without turning his eyes from Gil’s.

  “You want to see me about a nigger, ja? I heard you. How’s Mrs. McKlennar? They keep me cooped up here, and I don’t hear anything, not even how my neighbors are. I’m do
ne with— old Herkimer— he lost his army… . Look! Aren’t you the lad who picked me up mit Peter Bellinger and histed me up the hill?”

  Gil turned brick red. It seemed to him a miracle that Herkimer, badly wounded, in the midst of that confusion, should remember a strange face. He nodded.

  Herkimer said nothing either. Then he held his hand out. His grip was still strong.

  “Sure,” he said suddenly in a deep voice, “you can have a nigger.” He looked across at his wife, who had sat down again in a corner, looking on with swimming eyes. “Tell Trip he’s to go back with— what’s your name, young man?”

  “Gilbert Martin.”

  “Tell him with Mr. Martin, Maria. Tell him if he don’t work hard I’ll lick him myself when I get on my two feet.” He made a gesture with his hand, as if he brushed the business aside, and at the same time he lifted his eyes to Gil’s.

  His eyes were tired and sad and, in a queer way, very shy.

  “Will you be honest with an old man?” As Mrs. Herkimer made a cluck of protest, he shook his head. “I know. I’m only fifty-one, Maria, and young women don’t like their husbands to say how old they feel.” His smile made Gil feel the sadness more. “But it makes me feel old, nobody coming down here, nobody telling me anything. The army gets licked and I am brought down here in a boat and left here, ja. Tell me, Martin, what they’re saying about me.”

  Gil did not know what to say, but the general did not help him out. ‘Tell the truth or don’t say anything.”

  “They’re saying nothing.”

  “And what do they think?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gil miserably. Then he remembered the knoll be-fore the second charge. “But, by God, there are plenty who were up there who wish you were back and kicking, Mr. Herkimer.”

  “Kicking.” He looked down at his leg. He looked up again and sucked on his pipe. “I let myself get into a mess. I didn’t have the insides to stand up to all those downriver gentlemens. This house, it was a mistake to build a big house just because I could. They did not like it.” He came back to the point suddenly. “It was a good fight, though, once the fools was killed or run away.”

  The room was silent.

  Finally, Herkimer asked from the pillows, “What’s the news? What are they going to do with Butler?”

  “They’re waiting for General Arnold, sir.”

  “Benedict Arnold. He got up to Quebec, and then he didn’t take it. I heard he was coming. Trip heard it in Frank’s across the river,” he added bitterly.

  His wife spoke. “Honnikol, people don’t think the way you think they do.”

  “No? Hardly anybody comes here. Only Warner und Peter. Und John Roof, because he’s staying with me here.” He shifted his shoulders. “When’s Arnold coming?”

  “Captain Demooth said to tell you the First New York was at Klock’s last night. They ought to come by here this morning.”

  Herkimer’s eyes brightened.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Ja. Maria, open the window, so I can hear them when they come.”

  His depression lifted and for a while he talked to Gil about the early days in the valley. He talked about Oriskany and the men and what he had seen during the fight. It was surprising how many men and how many individual acts he had seen, until Gil remembered how he had sat up on his saddle throughout the whole six hours, in plain sight of everything.

  He was still talking when they heard the first sound of the troops. At the moment it was like the distant ruffle of a drummer partridge in the still air. Then, suddenly, all three people in the room recognized the beat of drums. They heard the slap of bare feet running round the corner of the house from the slave cabins; a boy’s voice shouting down at the dock.

  “I can see them.” The voice was shrill. Some of the negro children took it up. “I can see them. I can see them.”

  Inside the room the three people stared at each other. For a moment all the yelling had obscured the sound of the drums. Mrs. Herkimer moved towards the window.

  “Nein, Maria. Let them make a noise. I feel the same way also.” He put his pipe down carefully. “But I can’t see them.”

  Maria Herkimer’s eyes filled again. Then she looked at Gil. “Do you think we could drag his bed to the window?”

  “No,” said Herkimer. “Call in the men. Trip, Joseph. Martin’s got a bad arm.”

  Gil understood her silent pleading. She couldn’t bear to have anyone else in the room. “Sure we can drag him.” It took all their strength, he with his bad arm, she a slight woman, but they got the bed beside the window, and Herkimer heaved up on his elbow.

  The drums, even from across the river, had now mastered the raised voices of the children. “It’s the flam” said Herkimer. The staccato double tap brought the shivers to Gil’s spine. These drums hadn’t the rattletrap sound of the militia. He felt courage as the flam was repeated, three times, a pulse between each beat. And then the drums with a crash banged out the opening bar of “Roslyn Castle.”

  With the pronouncement of the rhythm a sigh issued from the negroes’ throats. Herkimer’s fingers started picking at the blanket. “Fifes,” he said suddenly. “Ach Gott! It is the army.”

  Through the beating of the drums the squealing of the fifes swept over the river like a cold wind, and close on the heels of the sound, made small by the distance, but clear against the dull green hillside, the troops came marching up the Kingsroad.

  They made a compact blue stream above the fence rails, keeping close ranks, their rifles slanting rays of wood and iron on their shoulders, their cocked hats in rows for the eye to see. They marched like men who were accustomed to covering the ground, with a long stride, their faces stretched forward against the pull of the blanket rolls. They reached along the straight stretch of the road, two hundred and fifty men behind the drums, and slowly covered the great bend westward for the falls.

  A break came in the line, and wagons passed to the same pace, the teamsters alert, keeping their horses up to the mark. Another break and two light cannon bounced on their light carriages. Behind them rode a group of officers, their horses’ heads on the edge of the white powdery rise of dust. Then the rear guard. Fifty men.

  Already the drums had passed from sight behind the river willows. But the fife sound floated behind. Long after it was still and gone, Gil thought he could hear the sound of them. He turned suddenly to Herkimer’s voice.

  “Ach Gott. One gompany. If they had only sent me up one gompany.”

  His face did not change. He didn’t hear the quiet crying of his wife.

  Gil helped to move the bed back to its first place so nothing showed that it had been moved but the scrapes of its feet on the wide boards. Then he left. He did not say good-bye to the general, for it was obvious that the general could not talk. But Maria Herkimer followed him into the hall. “Trip will go back with you, Mr. Martin. God bless you.” She reached up both her hands and took his face and kissed him.

  Outside, Gil looked round him for the negro. He was surprised to see him coming from the ferry with an officer he had just rowed over, a fresh-faced young man in blue regimentals carrying a bag. He asked Gil, “Is this the Herkimer house?”

  Gil nodded, and Mrs. Herkimer came out again to the hall.

  “I’m Maria Herkimer, sir.”

  “General Arnold’s compliments. I had instructions to stop in at General Herkimer’s and see whether I might do anything to help him.” He took his hat off, bowing. “Robert Johnson, ma’am. Surgeon, pro tern, First Regiment, the New York Line.”

  Waiting for Trip to reappear with his belongings, Gil overheard their voices.

  “Come in, doctor. J a. You can look at my leg.”

  A pause.

  “Is Arnold far behind?”

  “Ought to come by tonight, sir. He’s been in a tearing hurry.”

  “It was kind of him to send you here.”

  “He was particular. Said something about you being too good to lose. Said it must have been a g
reat piece of fighting.”

  Herkimer’s voice deepened.

  “J a. He should have been there.” Another silence. The doctor, saying in his fresh young voice, “I see. I see.”

  “You think it should come off? Petry said I should keep it. But he iss hurt und can’t come down.”

  “Off? By gad, sir, it ought to have been off a week ago! With all respect. But these back-country surgeons sometimes …”

  “Petry’s a stubborn cuss. Don’t get sick, Maria. It’s no good to me any-way. I want some rum und my pipe. The one with the big bowl on it. Ja.”

  Gil realized that Trip was standing beside him. The negro’s eyes rolled round to his.

  “Yassah.”

  Without a word, Gil went down to the ferry.

  It was all over in the northwest room. The surgeon, hat in hand, was saying good-bye. “I have to report tonight at Dayton.”

  Herkimer looked at him calmly with his black eyes. The room was full of smoke. The negress Frailty was gingerly carrying out the bloody sheet they had used to cover the table. Mrs. Herkimer, pale face swollen, swayed a little as she waited.

  “Goot luck, doctor. Thank General Arnold for me.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Tell me something. Did you ever cut off a leg before?”

  The surgeon blushed.

  “No, sir.”

  “Don’t pe ashamed. A man has to start somewhere. I remember the first deer I shot.” His face brightened suddenly. “Maria, have one of the poys find out if Boleo’s at Warner’s.” He set down his pipe in the candle-stick. His eye fell on the bundle in the corner.

  “Give it to Johnny Roof to bury. It should please a poy to do that.”

  He sank back and closed his eyes. Nobody had heard him make a sound beyond the grinding of his teeth. Now his breathing was like a blow repeated and repeated against the walls of the room.

  While he slept, two boys took the severed leg and walked with it in the orchard. They did not know where a good place would be until one thought of the ox-heart cherry tree the general was so fond of. They dug the hole and filled it.

  While he slept, one of the negro lads went up to Warner Dygert’s tavern and gave the news of the amputation. Joe Boleo started getting sober then. “My Jesus, what did they do that for?” He picked his rifle from the corner and ambled unsteadily in the negro’s wake. Already it was getting dark.