3stalwarts Page 9

  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.

  9. Fate of Wolff

  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 afo
re 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.”

  “Oh, that!” Mrs. Demooth gave a brittle little laugh. “Do you think it matters much?”

  Lana said slowly, “Yes, it does. Gil wouldn’t say anything. But I don’t want him to have an awful thing like that on his conscience.”

  “My dear,” said Mrs. Demooth, “what can women do? It’s men’s business. Killing each other. I believe personally that the man must be guilty.”

  “Not to be killed,” said Lana.

  “I try to keep things peaceful here. It’s hard enough to make life pleasant. Mark gets so fretted. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  Lana’s small dark face became almost grim.

  “I’m bound and determined to do something. What I can. I can’t sleep myself, thinking of Mrs. Wolff.” She stopped. She had seen Mrs. Demooth look up. Now an automatic brightness came over her face.

  “Oh, there you are, Mark. Have you met Mrs. Martin? She’s been so obliging as to call on me.”

  Captain Demooth stepped into the room.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Martin.”

  Lana rose and curtsied, hardly knowing how to look at him. Nor did she know how to judge a man like Demooth. The doctor may have been gentry, as Weaver maintained, but he had none of the captain’s air of self -containment. By his very politeness in bowing to her he put her definitely outside of his life.

  “It’s so nice to have you back, Demooth,” his wife said. “Are you going to favor me for any time?”

  “A day or so,” he said, looking straight at Lana. But when he spoke it was to his wife. “My dear, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard you and Mrs. Martin talking about John Wolff.” He helped himself to a little snuff, flicked himself, and sniffed. Lana thought he did it like any other man, except more quietly. Then he looked at Lana and his smile was quite pleasant. “What is it you want of me?”

  Lana took hold of her courage.

  “Are they going to shoot Mr. Wolff?”

  “I’m not sure. You don’t want it to happen?”

  “No,” said Lana passionately.

  “Neither do I. For the same reason.”

  Lana discovered that she and Captain Demooth could talk quite frankly. She was afraid to look at his wife. She knew that if she did, she could not go on talking, even though he sounded so impersonal.

  “For Gil,” she said with a little nod.

  “For the whole company. They were just lit. And they tried to find an excuse.”

  “Gil didn’t!”

  “No, he was just doing his duty. He took orders. That Jeams MacNod is the whole trouble. School-teachers ought to get more pay. They sometimes have brains. Then they get discontented. I’m afraid Jeams MacNod is going to make trouble.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “He’s honestly patriotic. To me patriotism doesn’t mean a great deal. So are the Butlers, you see. I wish they weren’t.”

  Slapping his boot, he walked over to the window. He saw a hundred yards of worked ground, a split rail fence, then the rising waves of treetops, all the way up the Hazenclever hill to the sky line. No break, but the running water, all the way to Canada. The split rail fence was a frail dam against the wilderness.

  He turned so that his face was in shadow against the clean panes. “I tried to get John Wolff off. The best I could do was to get a stay of one week. Dr. Petry went down to see Colonel Herkimer. He was willing to back the petition in confidence, but he could not put his name to it. It’s essential that we get him appointed general of our militia because he’s the only man that could pull the valley together in war. Otherwise it would be easy to get Wolff off.”

  Lana said “Yes,” but her righteous anger was aroused. Now Wolff would die because a man wished to become a general. She raised hot eyes to the captain, and she was surprised to see him smile.

  “Mrs. Martin,” he said, “believe me, Herkimer doesn’t like this. We advised him to keep out of it. We had to. But Petry will have to get other names and he’s blistering mad about it. I was trying to keep him calm enough to write to Schuyler. We’ll get John Wolff off, though. I promise.” He paused. “And I understand your feeling, and I think you’re dead right.”

  Lana could not think of anything to say.

  He turned to Mrs. Demooth.

  “Sara, don’t you thing we might have a glass of sack?”

  “Yes, of course. Mrs. Martin ought to have something against the walk home.” Mrs. Demooth’s voice was smoothly acid. But she left the room. The captain said quietly, “You’ll understand, Mrs. Martin, that I think John Wolff has been working against us. That he was a dangerous man to have around?”

  “I know,” she said. “I guess so. But what’s going to happen to him, sir?”

  “Well, if he does get off, he’ll have to go to jail anyway. A lot of people have already been sent for less offense than his.”

  “Where will they send him?”

  “Simsbury, I suppose. The mines.” He let the matter drop. Lana understood t
hat she was supposed to do the same. She took the slender stemmed glass and drank the sack without tasting it.

  Dr. William Petry was boiling with rage. He marched through the front door and out on the verandah that faced the river. He stopped there, thinking of some of the things he might have said to Nicholas Herkimer. It would be beneath his dignity to go back and stick his head inside the door like a fishwife; but if he waited a moment or two Nicholas Herkimer might come out to see why. Then he would tell him.

  The Herkimer place was the finest farm west of Johnstown. A lot of people thought that the high brick house, painted a bright red, was as impressive to look at as Sir William Johnson’s fancy hall. Certainly the wheat and corn were as good as any you could see in the valley; and the herd of mares in the willow pasture along the river bank were the kind that most men only dreamed of.

  The mere sight of them served to enrage the doctor more. When Herkimer obliged him by coming out and saying, “Well, Bill,” Dr. Petry started swearing, without even turning his head.

  “Now, Bill,” said Herkimer.

  But the doctor had remembered something.

  “I forgot you don’t speak English decent,” he said, and repeated his remarks in German. His translation was free, fluent, and forceful. German was a good language to curse in.

  They stood in the sunlight— the doctor at the edge of the steps, red-faced, twitching his black eyebrows, standing very erect in his rusty black coat, and fixing with his eye the astonished little black negro who was holding the old gray saddle horse. Behind him Nicholas Herkimer came barely to his shoulder blades. He had round shoulders and a big head with an unkempt mop of grizzled hair. His eyes were coal black, passionate, and very sharp. But just now, like the long upper lip of his loose mouth, they showed amusement. He looked more like a farmhand than the owner of this opulent farm.

  As the doctor caught breath, he said quietly in his heavy accent, “All right, Bill. If you say so. But it don’t make any difference. I won’t do it. You can get Wolff off all right; but I can’t. If I make a move for Wolff there is a lot of people who will say I’m interested in the other side— with my brother in Canada.”

  “You don’t have to give a damn,” exploded the doctor.