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  The people in Fort Herkimer did not move. All of them watched the destructives eating breakfast. None of them thought of cooking breakfast for themselves. They were unable, even for a minute, to tear their eyes away. Indians were herding the cattle from the woods. The Indians ran like active dogs, uttering yapping cries; and the cows, confused by the smoke and fire, went in a blind panic-stricken flight before them. Such bands came from all over the valley, apparently erratic, but always converging on the spot where the men were eating. As they approached, the men got to their feet and made ready to mill them.

  Other men, white men, were rounding up horses, riding them in singly, or leading a string of them, or driving them hitched in their carts. The process seemed endless.

  In reality it took only three hours. The rounding up of the cattle had been thoroughly organized. By ten o’clock the entire herd, inextricably mixed together but moving steadily in their ordained direction to the south, began to stretch out over the flats. They followed the road towards Andrustown. Long after they had disappeared, the bellowing of the cows came back to Fort Herkimer from the hills.

  In the fort the people leaned against the pickets in exhaustion, staring with bloodshot eyes at the place they had been accustomed to live in. The wind had died and the fires burned low, but the smoke rose steadily as far as the eye could see in bars against the limitless blue sky.

  Gradually the people stirred. Their movements were halting, their voices fumbled at words and gave over the attempt to speak. They looked into each other’s blank faces and looked away. Someone had started a fire in the yard and women gathered round it to cook. They did it mechanically, apathetically, silently, as if they sought comfort in the routine of regular existence.

  When he came down, Gil found Lana among the other women. She was bending in front of the fire with the same burdened apathy, but when he touched her she lifted her face. Neither of them spoke for several seconds.

  Then he said, “The stone house didn’t burn.”

  Lana nodded.

  “We were lucky,” he said.

  She was looking at him.

  “The corn’s standing,” he said.

  “And there’s the potatoes,” she said gravely.

  13. Brief Activities of the Military

  The express rider who had taken the news to Cherry Valley returned late in the afternoon with a message that Colonel Alden could spare one hundred and eighty men and was sending them under Major Whiting across country north of the Little Lakes, in the hope of cutting off the enemy. Half an hour later, Bellinger, with two hundred men, recruited during the day from the two forts, Eldridge’s and the Palatine companies, set out on Brant’s trail.

  They knew that they could not expect to give battle to Brant’s army; they went with a sense of futility. It was more for something to take their minds off the destruction of the valley. They did not hope to consummate a rendezvous with Alden’s troops— if that had been Alden’s intention, it was a delusion that any man, they supposed, was entitled to. They had not even bothered to ask for soldiers from Fort Stanwix, where Major Cochran commanded two hundred and fifty line troops in garrison. They knew that his orders from headquarters were definite to hold that fort and let the valley go hang.

  They spent two days on Brant’s trail without getting anywhere near him. They would have liked to find and kill some stragglers from the army; but the only men they found were the three dead scouts on the hill over Edmeston. They buried the scouts. The people of Edmeston had fled be-hind Brant, taking their livestock with them.

  The militia half-heartedly set fire to their dwellings and turned back towards home with twenty or thirty cows and horses which had eluded the Indian herders. They brought the animals to the forts and tethered them.

  It took the people more than a week to figure out the extent of the damage. A few men returning to the ashes of their barns and houses found a cow or a horse waiting uncertainly near by. A few flocks of sheep still remained, but these were being harried by the dogs, which, homeless now, had taken to the woods like wolves, and at night could be heard howling over the hills.

  Colonel Bellinger’s tabulation, which he sent to General Stark in Albany, offered the following figures: —

  To buildings burned:

  Houses 63

  Barns 57

  Gristmills 3

  Barracks of wheat 62

  Hay stacks 87

  To stock taken and carried away:

  Horses 235

  Horned-cattle 229

  Sheep 269

  Oxen 93

  Those figures made an impression on even the dogged wits of the hero of Bennington. He began casting round for something he could do, something to balance the German Flats accounts when he sent in his report to headquarters. In this foggy process of thought he remembered that in August Governor Clinton had persuaded him to send in a regiment of Pennsylvania riflemen to the Schoharie Valley. Stark, in a pique, had ordered the commanding officer, Colonel William Butler, to act only defensively, in the only district of Tryon County that was not seriously threatened. Now that he remembered where they were, he dispatched an express ordering Colonel Butler to destroy the Tory base at Unadilla.

  For three weeks the regiment had been expecting a shipment of shoes. They continued to wait for three weeks more. Finally they marched without them; but by that time all the hostile Indians and Tories had fled south to Cookoze on the Delaware, where they did some unmolested depredating. The riflemen, however, performed a brilliant march, half barefoot as they were. When at last they reached the Unadilla towns, they found only four or five Oneida and Tuscarora families, who had remained because they were friendly to the American cause.

  But Colonel William Butler had come to make war. His orders were to wipe out the Indian towns, so he wiped out the friendly Indians in them, men and women. His riflemen were hard-bitten Morgan men and they had been bored in the Schoharie Valley: they made a spree of the process. Consequently Colonel Butler did not mention the Indians killed in his re-port. He wrote instead:—

  I am well convinced that it has sufficiently secured these Frontiers from any further disturbances from the savages, at least this winter.

  General Stark, feeling that at last he had done something, piously echoed the conviction. He considered James Dean’s reports that Walter Butler had left Niagara with a hundred and fifty Rangers and fifty regulars, ostensibly to defend Tioga and possibly to make an attack on the Mohawk Valley, were sheer delusions. Anyway they were not headed for the Hampshire Grants. And shortly thereafter he resigned his portfolio to Brigadier General Hand.

  Edward Hand found that there were several reports from spies in the west, all predicting the same raid, and there seemed to be a general trend of agreement that the raid would strike Cherry Valley. Being an earnest man, General Hand decided he would visit Cherry Valley himself in November. He found the fort short of bread and powder and returned to rectify the mistake. He also sent copies of his reports to Colonel Klock and ordered him to collect militia and hold them ready to march to Cherry Valley should occasion arise. He directed Colonel Butler at Schoharie to keep a watch in the same direction. He stopped in to see Colonel Van Schaick, commanding line troops at Johnstown, and said the same thing to him. Then, apparently, General Hand settled himself in for the winter at Albany.

  14. Prospects

  By the end of October two clusters of log cabins had been erected round the two forts in German Flats. Even to the men who had rolled up the walls, they looked small and pathetic. They had had to work too fast to hew the logs. They were the same as the cabin a man would erect for himself when he first went into the wilderness. To some of the old ones in the community, they restored memories of German Flats when it was known as Burnetsfield— just after the French raid of ‘57. Though the fields were, perhaps, ten times as wide as the cleared land of those days, they lay as desolate under the thin sifting of the snow. The black jagged lumps that once were barns and houses looked just the same
to the old men, except that there were more of them now. The river ran dark and swift and cold in its white banks; and at night the northwest wind howled down West Canada Creek. The expectation of winter confronted everyone.

  In the noon sunlight, under the slow downward drift of flakes, children laboriously puddled clay that was stiff with frost, and women were sealing the cracks between the logs. Men worked with adzes on planks for the doors. The few horses and oxen remaining to the community were all at work drawing in firewood and the cornstalks from the outlying farms. Boys were guarding the stooks set up among the cabins. Browse was already scarce in the woods and the cows anxiously tailed the carts in from the fields and had to be driven away.

  Men had not felt like building again out of reach of the forts, though it meant that they must travel back and forth to work, next spring. Since the September raid several families who had gone back had been taken up by marauding parties; and as the autumn waned the Indians took fewer prisoners and more scalps. It was difficult to feed prisoners on a two-hun- dred-mile march through a snowy wilderness.

  The surprising thing was that so many people stayed at all. A dozen or so of men who had relatives to the east had left the flats with their wives and children and what remained of their possessions; and a few had gone in the dubious hope of finding work. But most of them felt that they could not afford to leave. With the destruction of their wheat, their only source of income had been obliterated. Besides, many of them did not want to move. They had brought the land from wilderness to farm. In the past two years they had been tasting their first prosperity. To abandon their homes would be, it seemed to them, to give up the human right to hope.

  On November first, a train of seven wagons hauled slowly up the Kingsroad. As it passed McKlennar’s, Gil came out of the stone house and hailed the driver of the leading wagon. The driver pulled in his steaming team and yelled back.

  “We’re hauling to Fort Stanwix.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Mostly flour and salt beef.”

  “You’ve got a lot of wagons.”

  “Yes,” said the driver. “We’re the last train for this year. I ain’t sorry, either.”

  “Haven’t you got an escort?”

  “We will have. They’re sending down a company from the fort. We’ve got to wait this side of Dayton till they get to us.”

  “Why this side?” asked Gil. “We haven’t heard of any Indians.”

  The driver laughed. He was a red-faced, lantern-jawed man, a Continental teamster, in a battered campaign coat.

  “They ain’t afraid of Indians,” he said. “They’re afraid some of you people will get together and steal one of our wagons.”

  He spat between the rumps of his wheelers and swung his arms to warm his hands. He added, with a drawled tolerance, “I guess they need wheat up there, too.”

  “I guess they do,” Gil said grimly.

  “Ain’t you pretty far off, living here?”

  “There’s always two men, here,” Gil said. “There won’t be any big parties down now, I guess, with the snow coming.”

  “I guess not,” said the driver jovially. “I guess you’ve got a pretty comfortable place there. Didn’t the destructives burn it?”

  They tried to. They burned the barn and the log house.”

  “I thought it looked different somehow.” His red face shifted and admiration came into his eyes. Behind his wagon the other teamsters had begun to yell. He motioned with his arm for them to haul past. “I’m having a talk with my friend,” he bawled. “You go ahead.”

  Lana had come out beside Gil. She looked small and bright-cheeked in the cold, but there was a queer kind of speculation in her eyes as she stared at the wheat wagon. Now she raised them to look at the driver and smiled.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Did you come up the valley?”

  He said with a sort of gallantry, “From Ellis’s Mills, ma’am.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I thought you might have come from Schenectady.”

  “No. Why?”

  “I was wondering how things looked like in Fox’s Mills.”

  “I was through there last month. Hauled down to Johnstown with wheat for Van Schaick’s regiment.”

  “How was it in Fox’s Mills?”

  “It looked just the same as any place. Why? Do you know folks down there?”

  “My family lives there,” said Lana. “I haven’t heard from them in two years now.”

  “Well, they ain’t been much troubled with destructives. Only at the outside farms, some.”

  Lana’s sigh made a little cloud before her face.

  “I ought to be starting, I guess,” said the driver. His voice was vaguely suggestive. He looked down at the lines in his mittens.

  “Say, mister.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ellis will sell you wheat all right, or flour. He’s asking nine shilling English money, or old York, if it’s silver.”

  “Nine shilling?” It was incredible.

  “It’s a good bargain.”

  “He knows we can’t get flour. Our mills are burned.”

  “I guess so.”

  Gil said bitterly, “The damned Scotchman.”

  “I don’t like the Scotch so good myself,” said the driver. “Look here. I’m a neighborly man. Would you like a sack out of this wagon? I’ll sell it for five shillings hard cash.”

  “No!” said Gil, suddenly.

  “It’s the best price you’ll get this winter. But it’s got to be hard money. I don’t deal with Continental money, generally,” he went on as Gil turned, “but I’ll let you have the sack for $6.25 in notes if you like. Seeing it’s you, mister.”

  Gil turned back and stared.

  “That’s five to one,” he said incredulously. “Money’d dropped to four to one the last I heard.”

  “Oh, no,” said the driver. “I was in Schenectady last month. It’s down to eight to one now. You’ll get a real good bargain, see.”

  “Go to hell!” said Gil.

  “You needn’t act like that to a favor.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “It’s a highway.”

  “Get out of here before I drag you off your wagon, by God.”

  The driver stared a moment and then spoke to his horses. “My Jesus,” he said. “I never seen such a crazy fool.”

  Adam Helmer came round the house with his rifle. He had been listening, apparently, for he said to Gil, “Shall I shoot the bug-tit? We could drag his wagon down the road and make it look like destructives. We’d burn the wagon.” He lifted his rifle suggestively. “I could scalp him. I ain’t very good at it, but I could get it off all right. Then we could give an alarm.”

  The driver took one look at Adam’s great bulk and started to flog his horses.

  Going back to the house, Gil said bitterly over his shoulder:—

  “Save your powder for something we can eat.”

  But Adam could not resist putting a ball through the canvas top. The rifle made a roar in the snowy sunshine and as the powder smoke drifted gently away from Adam’s big red face he gave a whole-souled grin. The wagon was careening round the bend of the road; the four horses bucking up their rear ends like unanimous rabbits while the driver screeched and flogged them with all his might.

  Gil had turned back at the shot.

  “You damn fool. Now he’ll probably report on you and come back with a squad.”

  “No!” said Adam. “I hadn’t thought of that.” And he beamed all over.

  Gil had worked hard. He and Adam had rigged up a small log shelter for the horse and the sole remaining cow. It was a great streak of luck that had let the Indians find the other three and leave the freshened cow; but she was already feeling the pinch of light rations and was falling off in her bag. She gave only about a quart at each milking, and Gil figured gloomily that by January she would be giving less than a quart a day. The quality of the milk, too, had changed. It had turned whiter and t
hinner and it had a peculiar pungent, barky taste that the baby still gagged over.

  That did not trouble Lana, who said that she could take care of the baby, whatever happened. She was sure of it, too. It was a kind of inward confidence that made her seem to bloom, even on the day they came back to the farm and saw the familiar sights obliterated— the barn, the log house, even the fence rails leading from the barn, had been burned up. But Gil was not sure in his own mind of Lana’s ability to nurse the baby. He felt that they would have meat enough with Adam around most of the time. Joe Boleo was expected to come back also. But Gil doubted whether Lana’s milk would hold up on a meat diet.

  He cursed himself now for persuading Mrs. McKlennar to let him put practically all the ploughed land into wheat. They had been banking on the rising market of course. But he wished to God he had put more in corn.

  The corn was all gathered, the husks braided, and the ears hung by them along the red and black rafters of the kitchen in long rows of gold and maroon. But considered in terms of six adult people, it looked like a small supply.

  Occasionally he found Mrs. McKlennar watching him when she thought he wasn’t noticing her. She herself was quite happy now that she had got back to her own house. She continually breathed defiance and war at the thought of ever leaving it again, vowing she would rather lose her scalp a dozen times than go away. But she was worried about Gil and spoke to Lana about him.

  “He lies around too much,” she said. “You ought to get him out. Working. Doing something.”

  Lana lifted her dark eyes.

  “What can I get him to do?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Mrs. McKlennar. “Anything.”

  “But he’s done all he can. Now the little stable’s finished and he’s got the wood cut. Adam doesn’t do anything, and he’s all right. I guess Gil is.”

  The widow snorted.

  “Adam’s not the same. He’s just a bear, a big brainless yellow-haired bear. Bears naturally lie up in winter. They lie around and scratch their bellies.” She smiled to herself. “I like Adam.”