The Little Red Foot Part 91

For within the packet were two papers. One was a captain's commission in the Continental Line; and my own name was writ upon it.

And the other paper was a letter, sent express from the Forest of Dean, five days since, and it was from Major General Lord Stirling to me, acquainting me that he had taken the liberty to request a captain's commission in the Line for me; that His Excellency had concurred in the request; that a commission had been duly granted and issued; and that--His Excellency still graciously concurring and General Schuyler endorsing the request--I had been transferred from the State Rangers to the Line, and from the Line to the military family of General Lord Stirling. And should report to him at the Forest of Dean.

To this elegant and formal and amazing letter, writ by a secretary and signed by my Lord Stirling, was appended in his own familiar hand this postscript:

"Jack Drogue will not refuse his old friend, Billy Alexander. So for G.o.d's sake leave your rifle-s.h.i.+rt and moccasins in Johnstown and put on the clothing which I have bespoken of the same Johnstown tailoress who made your forest dress and mine when in happier days we hunted and fished with Sir William in the pleasant forests of Fonda's Bush."

I sat there quite overcome, gazing now upon my commission, now upon my friend's kind letter, now at my beautiful new uniform which his consideration had procured for me while I was wandering leagues away in the Northern bush, never dreaming that a celebrated Major General had time to waste on any thought concerning me.

There was a bell-rope near my bed, and now I pulled it, and said to the buxom wench who came that I desired a barber to trim me instantly, and that the pot-boy should run and fetch him and bid him bring his irons and powder and an a.s.sortment of queue ribbons for a club.

The barber arrived as I, having bathed me, was dressing in fresh underwear which I found rolled snug in the pack I had left here when I went away.

Lord, but my beard and hair were like Orson's; and I gave myself to the razor with great content; and later to the shears, bidding young Master Snips shape my pol for a club and powder in the most fas.h.i.+onable and military mode then acceptable to the service.

Which he swore he knew how to accomplish; so I took my letters from the bed and disposed myself in a chair to peruse them while Snips should remain busy with his shears.

The first letter I unsealed was from Nick Stoner, and written from Saratoga:

"FRIEND JACK,

"I take quill and ink to acquaint you how it goes with us here in the regiment.

"I am fifer, and when in action am stationed near to the colours for duty. d.a.m.n them, they should give me a gun, also, as I can shoot better than any of 'em, as you know.

"My brother John is a drummer in our regiment, and has learned all his flamms and how to beat all things lively save the devil.

"My father is a private in our regiment, which is pleasant for all, and he is a dead shot and afeard of nothing save h.e.l.l.

"I have got into mischief and been punished on several occasions. I like not being triced up between two halbards.

"I long to see Betsy Browse. She hath a pretty way of kissing. And sometimes I long to see Anne Mason, who has her own way, too. You are not acquainted with that saucy baggage, I think. But she lives only two miles from where my Betsy abides. And I warrant you I was put to it, sparking both, lest they discover I drove double harness. And there was Zuyler's pretty daughter, too--but enough of tender memories!

"Anna has raven hair and jet black eyes and is snowy otherwise. I don't mean cold. Angelica Zuyler is fair of hair but brown for the rest----

"Well, Jack, I think on you every day and hope you do well with your Oneidas, who, we hear, are out with you on the Schoharie.

"Our headquarters runner is your old Saguenay, and he is much trusted by our General, they say. Sometimes the fierce fellow comes to visit me, but asks only for news of you, and when I say I have none he sits in silence. And always, when he leaves, he says very solemnly: 'Tell my Captain that I am a real man. But did not know it until my Captain told me so.'

"Now the news is that Burgoyne finds himself in a pickle since the b.l.o.o.d.y battle at Oriskany. I think he flounders like a big chain-pike stranded belly-deep in a shallow pool which is slowly drying up around him.

"We are no longer afeard of his Germans, his General Baum-Boom, his famous artillery, or his Indians.

"What the Tryon County lads did to St. Leger we shall surely do to that big braggart, John Burgoyne. And mean to do it presently.

"I send this letter to you by Adam Helmer, who goes this day to Schenectady, riding express.

"I give you my hand and heart. I hope Penelope is well.

"And beg permission to remain, sir, your most humble and obliged and obedient servant,

"NICHOLAS STONER."

I laid aside Nick's letter, half smiling, half sad, at the thoughts it evoked within me.

Young Master Snips was now a-drying of my hair. I opened another letter, which bore the inscription, 'By flag.' It had been unsealed, which, of course, was the rule, and so approved and delivered to me:

"DEAR JACK,

"I am fearfully unhappy. This day news is brought of the action at Oriska, and that my dear brother is dead.

"I pray you, if it be within your power, to give my poor Stephen decent burial. He was your boyhood friend. Ah, G.o.d, what an unnatural strife is this that sets friend against friend, brother against brother, father against son!

"Can you not picture my wretchedness and distress to know that my darling brother is slain, that my husband is at this moment facing the terrible rifle-fire of your infuriated soldiery, that many of my intimate friends are dead or wounded at this terrible Oriskany where they say your maddened soldiers flung aside their muskets and leaped upon our Greens and Rangers with knife and hatchet, and tore their very souls out with naked hands.

"I pray that you were not involved in that horrible affair. I pray that you may live through these fearful times to the end, whatever that end shall be. G.o.d alone knows.

"I thank you for your generous forbearance and chivalry to us on the Oneida Road. I saw your painted Oneida Indians crouching in the roadside weeds, although I did not tell you that I had discovered them. But I was terrified for my baby. You have heard how Iroquois Indians sometimes conduct.

"Dear Jack, I can not find in my heart any unkind thought of you. I trust you think of me as kindly.

"And so I ask you, if it be within your power, to give my poor brother decent burial. And mark the grave so that one day, please G.o.d, we may remove his mangled remains to a friendlier place than Tryon has proven for me and mine.

"I am, dear Jack, with unalterable affection,

"Your unhappy,

"POLLY."

My eyes were misty as I laid the letter aside, resolving to do all I could to carry out Lady Johnson's desires. For not until long afterward did I hear that Steve Watts had survived his terrible wounds and was finally safe from the vengeance of outraged Tryon.

Another letter, also with broken seal, I laid open and read while Snips heated his irons and gazed out of the breezy window, where, with fife and drum, I could hear the garrison marching out for exercise and practice.

And to the lively marching music of _The Huron_, I read my letter from Claudia Swift:

"Oneida; Aug: 7th, 1777.

"MY DEAREST JACK,

"I am informed that I may venture to send this epistle under a flag that goes out today. No doubt but some Yankee Paul Pry in blue-and-buff will crack the seal and read it before you receive it.

"But I snap my fingers at him. I care not. I am bold to say that I do love you. And dearly! So much for Master Pry!

"But, alas, my friend, now indeed I am put to it; for I must confess to you a sadder and deeper anxiety. For if I love you, sir, I am otherwise in love. And with another! I shall not dare to confess his name. But _you saw and recognized him_ at Summer House when Steve was there a year ago last spring.

"Now you know. Yes, I am madly in love, Jack. And am racked with terrors and nigh out o' my wits with this awful news of the Oriska battle.

"We hear that Captain Walter Butler is taken out o' uniform within your lines; and so, lacking the protection of his regimentals, he is like to suffer as a spy. My G.o.d! Was he _alone_ when apprehended by Arnold's troops? And will General Arnold hang him?