Chambers Robert William
The Little Red Foot

Christie told me that the alarm in Johnstown and at Mayfield was great; that hostile Indians had been seen near Tribes Hill, and had killed a farmer there; that some people were leaving Caughnawaga and moving their household goods down the river to Schenectady.

"By God," says he, "and I don't blame 'em, John Drogue! No! For a Mohawk war party is like to strike Caughnawaga at any hour; and why foolish folk, like old Douw Fonda, remain there is beyond my comprehension."

"Douw Fonda!" said I, astonished. "Why, he is gone to Albany."

"He came back a week ago," says Christie. "They tell me that the young Patroon tried to dissuade the old gentleman from going, but could do nothing with him – Mr. Fonda being childish and obstinate – and so he had his way and summoned his coach and his three niggers and drove in state up the river to Caughnawaga. We passed that way on scout, and I saw the old gentleman two days ago sitting on his porch with his gold-headed walking stick and his book, and dozing there in the sun; and the yellow-haired girl knitting at his feet – "

"What!"

He looked at me, startled by my vehemence.

"Sir," said he, "did I say aught to offend you?"

"Good God, no. You say that the – the yellow-haired girl, Penelope Grant, is at Caughnawaga with Douw Fonda!"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you see her?"

"I did; and spoke with her."

"What did she say?" I asked unsteadily.

"She said that Mr. Fonda had sent a negro servant to Johnstown to fetch her, because, having returned to Caughnawaga, he needed her."

"I think Mr. Fonda's three sons and their families must all be mad to permit the old gentleman to come to Caughnawaga in such perilous times as these!" I said sharply.

"And so do I think likewise," rejoined Christie. "Let them think and say what they like, but, Mr. Drogue, I am an old Indian fighter and have served under Colonel Claus and Sir William Johnson. I know the Iroquois; I know their ways and wiles and craft and subtle designs; and I know how they think, and what they are most likely to do.

"And I say to you very solemnly, Mr. Drogue, that were I Joseph Brant I would strike Caughnawaga before snow flies. And, sir, under God, it is my honest belief that he will do exactly that very thing. And it will be a sorry business for the Valley when he does so!"

It was a dreadful thing for me to hear this veteran affirm what I myself already feared.

But I had never dreamed that the aged Douw Fonda would return to Caughnawaga, or that his sons would permit the obstinate, helpless, and childish old gentleman to so have his say and way in times like these.

Nor did I dream that Penelope would go to him again. I knew, of course, that she would surely go if he asked for her; but thought he had too completely forgotten her – as the Patroon wrote – and that his childishness and feeble memory no longer retained any remembrance of the young girl he had loved and had offered to adopt and to make his legatee.

The news that Captain Christie brought was truly dismal news for me and most alarming.

What on earth I could do about it I had no idea. Penelope, the soul of loyalty, believed that her duty lay with Mr. Fonda, and that, if he asked for her, she must go and care for him, who had been to her a father when she was poor, shelterless, and alone.

I realized that no argument, no plea of mine could move her to abandon him now. And what logic could I employ to arouse this childish and obstinate old gentleman to any apprehension of his own peril or hers?

To think of it madded me, because Mr. Fonda had three wealthy sons living near him, who could care for him properly with their ample means and all their servants and slaves. And why in God's name Captain John Fonda, Major Jelles Fonda, or Major Adam Fonda did not take some means of moving themselves and their families into the Queens Fort, or, better still, into Albany, I can not comprehend.

But it was a fact, as Christie related to me, that scarce a soul had fled from Caughnawaga. All the landed gentry remained; all people of high or low degree were still there – folk like the Veeders, Sammons, Romeyns, Hansens, Yates, Putmans, Stevens, Fishers, Gaults.

That night my dreams were horrible: I seemed to see Dries Bowman's body spinning in the sunshine, whilst he darted his swollen tongue at me like a snake. And always I seemed all wet with blood and could not dry myself or escape the convulsed embrace of the Little Maid of Askalege.

Moaning, waking with a cry on my lips to gaze on the red embers of our fire and see my Indians stir under their blankets and open slitted eyes at me – or to lie exhausted in body and all trembling in my thoughts, while the slow, dark hours dragged to the dead march beating in my heart – thus passed the night at Stone House, full of visions of the dead.

Long ere the cavalry trumpet pealed and the tired troopers awakened after near fifty miles of riding the day before, I had dragged my weary Indians from their sleep; and almost immediately we were on our way, eating a pinch of salted corn from the palms of our hands as we moved forward. For, after a brief ceremony in the Wood of Brakabeen, I meant to make Johnstown without a halt. My mind was full of anxiety for Caughnawaga, and for her who had promised herself to me when again I should come to seek her.

But first we must halt in the Wood of Brakabeen to fulfill in ceremony that office due to the memory of a brave and faithful Oneida warrior – our little Maid of Askalege.

It was not yet dawn, and the glades of Brakabeen Wood were dark and still; and on the ferns and grasses rested myriads of fire-flies, all pulsating with faint phosphorescence.

I thought of Thiohero as I had beheld her in this glade, swaying on her slender feet amid a dizzy whirl of fire-flies.

Tahioni had gathered a dry faggot; Kwiyeh carried a bundle of cherry-birch, samphire, and witch-hopple. The Water-snake laid the fire.

All seated themselves; I struck flint, blew the tinder to a coal, and lighted a silver birch-shred.

The scented smoke mounted straight up through the trees; I rose in silence; and when the first burning stick fell into soft white ashes, I took a few flakes in my palm and rubbed them across my forehead. Then I spoke, facing the locked gates of morning in the dark:

"Now – now I hear your voice coming to us through the forest in the night.

"Now our hearts are heavy, little sister. The gates of morning are still locked; the forest is still; everywhere there is thick darkness.

"Thiohero, listen!

"Now we Oneidas are depressed in our minds. You were a prophetess. You foretold events. You were a warrior. We were your clansmen of the Little Red Foot. You were a sorceress. Empty moccasins danced when you touched the witch-drum. Now, in white plumes, you have mounted to the stars like morning mist.

"Oyaneh! Continue to listen.

"Our lodge is empty without you. Our fire is lonely without you. Our hearts are desolate, O Thiohero Oyaneh!

"Little Sister, continue to listen!

"We have heard your voice at this hour coming to us through the Wood of Brakabeen. It comes in darkness like light when the gates of morning open.

"Thiohero Oyaneh, virgin warrior of the People of the Rock, we are come to the Wood of Brakabeen to greet and thank you.

"We give you gratitude and love. You were a warrior and wore the Little Red Foot. You struck your enemies where you found them. They are dead and without scalps, your enemies. The Canienga howl. Your war-axe sticks in their heads. The Hessians are swine. Your scarlet arrows turn them into porcupines. The green-coats flee and your bullets burn their bowels.

"O my little sister, listen now!

"Our trail is very lonely without you. We are dejected. We move like old men and sick. We need your wisdom. We are less wise than those littlest ones still strapped to the cradle board.

"Thiohero!

"We have placed food and a cup of water for you lest you hunger and thirst.

"We have laid a bow and scarlet arrows near you so that you shall hunt when you wish.

"We have given you moccasins so that the strange, bright trail shall not hurt your feet.

"We have placed paint for you so that Tharon shall know you by your clan. And we have made for your grave a cross of silver-birch, so that our white Lord Christ shall meet you and take you by the hand in a land so new and strange.

"Oyaneh!

"We have said what is in our hearts and minds. We think that is all we have to say. We turn our eyes to the morning. When the gates open we shall depart."

As I ended, the three Oneidas rose and faced the east in silence. All the sky had become golden. Minute after minute passed. Suddenly a blinding lance of light pierced the Wood of Brakabeen.

"Haih!" they exclaimed softly. "Nai Thiohero Oyaneh!"

Tahioni covered the fire. The Screech-owl marked us all with a coal still warm.

Then, in silence, I led my people from the misty Wood of Brakabeen.

CHAPTER XXX
A LONG GOOD-BYE

On the evening of the 15th of August, the Commandant of Johnstown Fort stood aghast to see a forest-running ragamuffin and three scare-crow Indians stagger into headquarters at the jail.

"Gad a-mercy!" says he as I offered the salute, "is it you, Mr. Drogue!"

I was past all speech; for we had wolf-jogged all the way up from the river, but from my rags I fished out my filthy papers and thrust them at him. He was kind enough to ask me to sit; I nodded a like permission to my Oneidas and dropped onto a settle; a sergeant fetched new-baked bread, meat, buttermilk, and pipes for my Indians; and for me a draught of summer cider, which presently I swallowed to the dregs when I found strength to do it.

This refreshed me. I asked permission to lodge my Oneidas in some convenient barn and to draw for them food, pay, tobacco, and clothing; and very soon a corporal of Continentals arrived with a lantern and led the Oneidas out into the night.

Then, at the Commandant's request, I gave a verbal account of my scout, and reminded him of my instructions, which were to report at Saratoga.

But he merely shuffled my papers together and smiled, saying that he would attend to that matter, and that there were new orders lately arrived for me, and a sheaf of letters, among which two had been sent in with a flag, and seals broken.

"Sir," he said, still smiling in kindly fashion, "I have every reason to believe that patriotic service faithfully performed is not to remain too long unrecognized at Albany. And this business of yours amounts to that, Mr. Drogue."

He laughed and rubbed his powerful hands together, peering good-humouredly at me out of a pair of small and piercing eyes.

"However," he added, "all this is for you to learn from others in higher places than I occupy. Here are your letters, Mr. Drogue."

He laid his hand on a sheaf which lay near his elbow on the table and handed them to me. They were tied together with tape which had been sealed.

"Sir," said he, "you are in a woeful plight for lack of sleep; and I should not detain you. You lodge, I think, at Burke's Tavern. Pray, sir, retire to your quarters at your convenience, and dispose of well-earned leisure as best suits you."

He rose, and I got stiffly to my feet.

"Your Indians shall have every consideration," said he. "And I dare guess, sir, that you are destined to discover at the Tavern news that should pleasure you."

We saluted; I thanked him for his kind usage, and took my leave, so weary that I scarce knew what I was about.

How I arrived at the Tavern without falling asleep on my two legs as I walked, I do not know. Jimmy Burke, who had come out with a light to greet me, lifted his hands to heaven at sight of me.

"John Drogue! Is it yourself, avic? Ochone, the poor lad! Wirra the day!" says he, – "and luk at him in his rags and thin as a clapperrail!" And, "Magda! Betty!" he shouts, "f'r the sake o' the saints, run fetch a wash-tub above, an' b'ilin' wather in a can, and soft-soap, too, an' a-bite-an'-a-sup, or himself will die on me two hands – "

I heard maids running as I climbed the stairway, gripping at the rail to steady me. I was asleep in my chair when some one shook me.

Blindly I pulled the dirty rags from my body and let them fall anywhere; and I near died o' drowning in the great steaming tub, for twice I fell asleep in the bath. I know not who pulled me out. I do not remember eating. They say I did eat. Nor can I recollect how, at last, I got me into bed.

I was still deeply asleep when Burke awoke me. He had a great bowl of smoking soupaan and a pitcher of sweet milk; and I ate and drank, still half asleep. But now the breeze from the open window and the sunshine in my room slowly cleared my battered senses. I began to remember where I was, and to look about the room.

Mine was the only bed; and there was nobody lying in it save only myself, yet it was evident that another gentleman shared this room with me; for yonder, on a ladder-back chair, lay somebody's clothing neatly folded, – a Continental officer's uniform, on which I perceived the insignia of a staff-captain.

Spurred boots also stood there, and a smartly cocked hat.

And now, on a peg in the wall, I discovered this unknown officer's watch-coat, and his sword dangling by it, and a brace o' pistols.

But where the devil the owner of these implements might be I could not guess.

And now my eyes fell upon the sheaf of letters lying on the table beside me. I broke the sealed tape that bound them; they fell upon the bed clothes; and I picked up the first at hazard, which was a packet, and broke the seal of it. And sat there in my night shift, utterly astounded at what I beheld.

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 God's sake leave your rifle-shirt 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 assortment 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 fashionable 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. Damn 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 hell.

"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 bloody 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, God, 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. God 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 God, 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 God! Was he alone when apprehended by Arnold's troops? And will General Arnold hang him?

"This is the urgent news I ask of you. I am horribly afraid. In mercy send me some account; for there are terrible rumours afloat in this fortress – rumours of other spies taken by your soldiery, and of brutal executions – I can not bring myself to write of what I fear. Pity me, Jack, and write me what you hear.

"Could you not beg this one mercy of Billy Alexander, that he send a flag or contrive to have one sent from your Northern Department, explaining to us poor women what truly has been, – and is like to be – the fate of such unfortunate prisoners in your hands?

"And remember who it is appeals to you, dear Jack; for even if I have not merited your consideration, – if I, perhaps, have even forfeited the regard of Billy Alexander, – I pray you both to remember that you once were a little in love with me.

"And so, deal with me gently, Jack. For I am frightened and sick at heart; and know very little about love, which, for the first time ever in my life, has now undone me.

"Will you not aid and forgive your unhappy, "Claudia."

Good Lord! Claudia enamoured! And enamoured of that great villain, Henry Hare! Why, damn him, he hath a wife and children, too, or I am most grossly in error.

I had not heard that Walter Butler was taken. I knew not whether Lieutenant Hare had been caught in Butler's evil company or if, indeed, he had fought at all with old John Butler at Oriska.

Frowning, disgusted, yet sad also to learn that Claudia could so rashly and so ignobly lavish her affections, nevertheless I resolved to ask Lord Stirling if a flag could not be sent with news to Claudia and such other anxious ladies as might be eating their hearts out at Oneida, or Oswego, or Buck Island.

And so I laid aside her painful letter, and unfolded the last missive. And discovered it was writ me by Penelope:

"You should not think harshly of me, Jack Drogue, if you return and discover that I am gone away from Johnstown.

"Douw Fonda is returned to Cayadutta Lodge. He has now sent a carriage for to fetch me. It is waiting while I write. I can not refuse him.

"If, when we meet again, you desire to know my mind concerning you, then, if you choose to look into it, you shall discover that my mind contains only a single thought. And the thought is for you.

"But if you desire no longer to know my mind when again – if ever – we two meet together, then you shall not feel it your duty to concern yourself about my mind, or what thought may be within it.

"I would not write coldly to you, John Drogue. Nor would I importune with passion.

"I have no claim upon your further kindness. You have every claim upon my life-long gratitude.

"But I offer more than gratitude if you should still desire it; and I would offer less – if it should better please you.

"Feel not offended; feel free. Come to me if it pleaseth you; and, if you come not, there is in me that which shall pardon all you do, or leave undone, as long as ever I shall live on earth.

"Penelope Grant."

When Snips had powdered me and had tied my club with a queue-ribbon of his proper selection, he patched my cheek-bone where a thorn had torn me, and stood a-twirling his iron as though lost in admiration of his handiwork.

When I paid him I bade him tell Burke to bring around my horse and fetch my saddle bags; and then I dressed me in my regimentals.

When Burke came with the saddle-bags, we packed them together. He promised to care for my rifle and pack, took my new light blanket over his arm, and led the way down stairs, where I presently perceived Kaya saddled, and pricking ears to hear my voice.

Whilst I caressed her and whispered in her pretty ear the idle tenderness that a man confides to a beloved horse, Burke placed my pistols, strapped saddle-bags and blanket, and held my stirrup as I gathered bridle and set my spurred boot firmly on the steel.

And so swung to my saddle, and sat there, dividing bridles, deep fixed in troubled thought and anxiously concerned for the safety of the unselfish but very stubborn girl I loved.

I had said my adieux to Jimmy Burke; I had taken leave of the Commandant at the palisades jail. I now galloped Kaya through the town, riding by way of Butlersbury;⁴² and saw the steep roof of the Butler house through the grove, and shuddered as I thought of the unhappy young man who had lived there and who, at that very moment, might be hanging by his neck while the drums rolled from the hollow square.

Down the steep hill I rode, careful of loose stone, and so came to the river and to Caughnawaga.⁴³

All was peaceful and still in the noonday sunshine; the river wore a glassy surface; farm waggons creaked slowly through golden dust along the Fort Johnson highway; fat cattle lay in the shade; and from the brick chimneys of Caughnawaga blue smoke drifted where, in her cellar kitchen, the good wife was a-cooking of the noontide dinner.

When presently I espied Douw Fonda's great mansion of stone, I saw nobody on the porch, and no smoke rising from the chimneys, yet the front door stood open.

But when I rode up to the porch, a black wench came from the house, who said that Mr. Fonda dined at his son's that day, and would remain until evening.

However, when I made inquiry for Penelope, I found that she was within, – had already been served with dinner, – and was now gone to the library to read and knit as usual when alone.

The black wench took my mare and whistled shrilly for a slave to come and hold the horse.

But I had already mounted the stoop and entered the silent house; and now I perceived Penelope, who had risen from a chair and was laying aside her book and knitting.

She seemed very white when I went to her and drew her into my embrace; and she rested her cheek against my shoulder and took close hold of my two arms, but uttered not a word.

Under her lace cap her hair glimmered like sun-warmed gold; and her hands, which had become very fine and white again, began to move upward to my shoulders, till they encircled my neck and rested there, tight linked.

For a space she wept, but presently staunched her tears with her laced apron's edge, like a child at school. And when I made her look upon me she smiled though she still breathed sobbingly, and her lips still quivered as I kissed her.

We sat close together there in the golden gloom of the curtained room, where only a bar of dusty sunlight fell across a row of gilded books.

I had told her everything – had given an account of all that had befallen my little scout, and how I had returned to Johnstown, and how so suddenly my fortunes had been completely changed.

I told her of what I knew of the battle at Oriskany, of the present situation at Stanwix and at Saratoga, and of what I saw of the fight at the Flockey, where McDonald ran.

I begged her to persuade Mr. Fonda to go to Albany, and she promised to do so. And when I pointed out in detail how perilous was his situation here, and how desperate her own, she said she knew it, and had been horribly afraid, but that Caughnawaga folk seemed strangely indifferent to the danger, – could not bring themselves to believe in it, perhaps, – and were loath to leave their homes unprotected and their fields untilled.

But when I touched on her leaving these foolish people and, as my wife, travelling southward with me to the great fortress on the Hudson, she only wept, saying, in tears, that she was needed by an old and feeble man who had protected her when she was poor and friendless, and that, though she loved me, her duty still lay first at Douw Fonda's side.

Quit him she utterly refused to do; and it was in vain I pointed out his three stalwart sons and their numerous families, retainers, tenants, servants, and slaves, who ought to care for the obstinate old gentleman and provide a security for him whether he would or no.

But argument was useless; I knew it. And all I obtained of her was that, whether matters north of us mended or grew worse, she would persuade Mr. Fonda to return to Albany until such time as Tryon County became once more safe to live in.

This she promised, and even assured me that she had already spoken of the matter to Mr. Fonda, and that the old gentleman appeared to be quite willing to return to Albany as soon as his grain could be reaped and threshed.