3stalwarts (33 page)

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 done 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 great 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.

There was no light in the northwest room while Herkimer slept, for Maria, from exhaustion, had fallen asleep herself in the chair by the hearth. She was awakened by Joe Boleo’s hand on hers. “It’s Joe.”

“Oh, Joe,” she whispered back.

“They took his leg off?”

“Yes.”

“I thought the nigger was lying.”

She stirred softly under his hand and left the chair and went into the dim light of the hall. She fetched a candle back. Together she and the gangling trapper leaned over the bed.

“Poor old Honnikol. He never could get round very fast, anyways.”

She gasped. She wasn’t pointing at the white face in which the nose seemed to have grown overlarge. Her finger pointed at the blanket.

Joe looked at the drench of blood and swore. He went right out himself and woke the entire lot of negroes.

“Get up to Fort Dayton,” he ordered. “Get Petry. Doc Petry. Bring him down in a canoe if he can’t ride. Tell him a fool army man cut off Honnikol’s leg and it’s still bleeding.”

He returned to the house.

“Hello, Honnikol.”

“Joe?”

“Shut up,” said Joe. He helped Maria Herkimer twist a tourniquet on above the bloody stump. “We’d better leave the bandage on. It might clot yet.”

“I don’t think so.” Herkimer spoke quietly. “Get me my pipe, Maria, and one for Joe, and beer for both of us. We both need beer. Me, I’m thirsty. How about you, Joe?”

“Oh, my Jesus, Honnikol. I ain’t drank in two weeks.”

They smoked and drank through long hours, while Herkimer talked fitfully about old hunting trips. They didn’t mention war. “Remember the trout above Schell’s riff?”

“Sure,” said Joe. “Sure, Honnikol.”

“I don’t know what’s become of all the fishing, Joe.”

When Herkimer finally went to sleep, Joe left the room, wandering hopelessly to the river side. There was nothing to see. They couldn’t bring Petry down before morning. And the bleeding did not stop.

Making a restless circuit of the house, he met Johnny Roof and the other lad standing in the orchard with two spades. “What you doing?” Joe asked sourly. They said they’d heard the general was dying. They were wondering about digging up his leg. “What for?” They said to bury with him. He merely cursed them. He walked around for an hour in the dark, leaving Honnikol to his wife. It was what a woman expected.

In the morning, Herkimer was not talking. Even when Colonel Willett came over the river and reported that General Arnold was passing on the north shore, Herkimer did no more than stare.

About nine, however, he rallied and asked for his pipe. When he had been smoking a little while he asked for his Bible, opened at the Thirty-eighth Psalm. He started to read aloud in a strong voice, but as he went on the voice started to fail. He did not appear to be aware of it, but read on, moving his lips slowly, and only now and then achieving utterance, so that his wife and the lank, uneasy woodsman, who leaned against the sunny window frame, heard only snatches:—

” ‘O Lord, rebuke me not in thy wrath… .’ “

The death of Herkimer shook the people. He had been the squire, the man with the money who had built a great house that rivaled Sir William Johnson’s Hall. Now they remembered that he had been one of themselves, a quiet man, who came to dinner in his shirt, likely as not. They missed his steadfastness. The men who had been with him at Oriskany battle recalled how he had lit his pipe. Now that he was gone they had no one to depend on.

For three days. On the morning of the twentieth, officers on good mounts, wearing the blue coats of the regular army, rode the length of German Flats reading a proclamation.

By the Hon. Benedict Arnold, Esq., Major-General and Commander-in-chief of the army of the United States of America on the Mohawk River.