Mary Derwent

In a lonely, deserted spot, on the outskirts of the little village called the German Flats, stood a dreary-looking board house, inhabited by a man named Shoemaker, who enjoyed the unenviable reputation of being a Tory in disguise.

One evening in the early part of the month of August, in 1777, this man and his family were gathered about their supper-table, in one of the lower rooms of the house. The heat of the weather precluded the idea of fire, but after the fashion of many farmers of that period, the hearth was filled with blazing knots of pitch pine, which served to illuminate the apartment in place of candles. The evening meal of samp and milk was just concluded, and they were moving back from the table, when a cautious knock sounded at a door in the rear of the house.

Seated at the table with the family was a workman, a staunch Whig, who had for some time watched his employer with vigilance, and the slightest occurrence of an unusual nature was enough to rouse his suspicions.

He saw Shoemaker start when the knock was repeated, and, rising hastily, offered to open the door.

“Keep your seat,” exclaimed the farmer; “I open my own doors, and don’t thank any man to be putting on airs, as if he was the owner.”

“Some neighbor, I dare say,” suggested the wife, as her husband walked towards the door in answer to a third signal.

“They’re mighty afeard of coming in,” muttered the Whig, moving restlessly in his chair.

“Manners is manners,” retorted the old lady, sententiously. “You don’t expect strangers to pull the string without knocking; if you do, I don’t.”

As she spoke, the farmer opened the door; a few whispered words passed between him and some one outside; but instead of ushering the visitor into the house, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. Before those within could express their surprise, except by looks, Shoemaker returned, slamming the door, and saying, with a rough laugh:

“Who do you think it was, but that tarnal Jim Davis, come up here, thinking to find Betsy Willets that he was sparking last winter. That are was the rap he used to give by way of sign, to call her out. I told him she wasn’t here now, and sent him off about his business.”

If Shoemaker thought by this to quiet his suspicious friend—he had only awakened a new uneasiness, for during several months back, Master Sim had regarded the aforesaid Betsy with wistful appreciation.

“Consarn the fellow’s impudence!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet; “if I don’t larn him better manners than to be knocking after gals that like his room better’n his company, my name isn’t Sim White.”

He made a stride towards the door, with the look of a man quite ready to extinguish the claims of half a dozen rivals; but the farmer caught his arm.

“Jest set down and mind your business—I’ll have no muss about my house—set down, I say.”

“Wal,” muttered Sim, sinking slowly into his chair again, and ejecting his tobacco with great violence among the blazing pine knots, “only wait till I meet him with that new Sunday coat of his on—ef I don’t embroider it off for him in fine style, I miss my calculation—that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“Don’t be a fool,” expostulated Shoemaker; “never quarrel about a gal—you don’t know where you’ll find yourself. I wish you’d go down to the tavern for me, and ask Jacob Harney to come up here to-morrow; if he wants that grey mare of mine, he’s got to take her now.”

“It’s getting late,” suggested Sim.

“You can stay all night, and come back in the morning. Consarn me, if I don’t believe the fellow’s afeard of meeting Jim Davis.”

Sim disdained to reply either to this taunt or the housewife’s laughter; but, planting his old straw hat firmly on his head, was going out of the back door.

“That’s a new fit of yourn,” called out the farmer; “don’t you know that t’other door leads to the road, you blockhead you!”

Sim turned back without a word, and passed out of the door Shoemaker had named; but once in the road he stopped and looked back at the house.

“There’s something wrong,” he muttered. “Old Ike Shoemaker, you ain’t cute enough yet for this chap, by a long shot. I’m bound to see what’s going on here; that wan’t Jim Davis, no how; the darned old Tory has got some mischief afloat, and I’m a-goin’ to find it out.”

He turned and hastened down the road, for at that moment the door opened, and the farmer’s wife appeared, looking eagerly around, evidently to discover if he were lingering about the house. Sim walked quickly on, and waited till everything should once more be restored to tranquillity before he ventured to return and verify his suspicions.

As soon as they believed him gone, Shoemaker opened the back door and gave a low whistle. Instantly a number of men started up in the gloom and filed into the stoop, moving very cautiously. Shoemaker grasped the hand of their leader, and drew him into the room. When the flame of the pine knots fell upon his face, it exposed the features of Walter Butler.

“What on earth, captain!” exclaimed Shoemaker, looking out in astonishment at the group of men.

“I will explain all to you,” returned Butler; “but first you must find some place for my men—we are too many to stay in this open room—we want some supper, too.”

“Up this way,” said Shoemaker, opening a door that exhibited a stairway leading to an upper story. “Light a dip, Sally—I’ll take ’em up; they’ll be safe there; and the old woman will find ’em some supper, I guess.”

Butler made a signal, and a band of twenty-eight men, fourteen whites and fourteen savages, with arms concealed under their blankets and outer garments, entered the room, and passed almost noiselessly up the staircase.

As they mounted the stairs, unremarked by any of the occupants of the room a human face appeared at the window and looked cautiously through a gap in the curtain, watching every movement with keen vigilance.

When the farmer had seen the men safely stored in the loft, he closed the door behind them and returned to the room, where Walter Butler had thrown himself into a chair, like one wearied by a long march.

“Why, captain, who’d a-thought of seeing you here?” said Shoemaker, taking a seat near him, and lighting his pipe, with all the phlegm of his Dutch ancestors. “You oughtn’t to come on a fellow so sudden; you might have been ketched as easy as not, if I hadn’t had the gumption to get rid of a fellow who was here.”

“Well, we’re safe now, at all events,” said Butler, carelessly; “there’s nothing to be gained, if we don’t dare all; my men and I have been in greater peril than this during the last few days, I can tell you, Shoemaker.”

“Why, where do you come from?”

“From Seneca Lake, where the Shawnees have made their headquarters most of the time for the past year. The old queen don’t lead off as she used to, but she’s out again now.”

“But what brings you to this place—what on earth do you expect to do here?”

“Give us some supper before you ask me to open my mouth; I am fairly worn out.”

“Hurry up, old woman!” said Shoemaker. “While she’s about it, captain, here’s what’ll set you all right,” he continued, producing from a cupboard a bottle of rum and a couple of tin cups.

Butler poured out a quantity of the spirits, and drank it off at a swallow.

“That has the right flavor,” he said, wiping his lips; “we haven’t had a drop since yesterday.”

In the meantime the farmer’s wife had been busy frying a large platter of ham and pork, and, assisted by her daughter, began spreading a homespun cloth upon the table, to prepare Butler’s meal. A liberal portion of this savory food was carried to the men above stairs; and when all was ready, Butler seated himself before the table, with the keen appetite of a man who had not tasted food for twelve hours.

“Fall to, captain,” said Shoemaker, pushing the bread and butter within his reach; “the victuals arn’t handsome much, but I guess you’ll find ’em good, especially after a long fast.”

Butler’s appetite proved that hunger had given a keen relish to the humble fare, and the farmer smoked his pipe in silence, until his guest pushed back his plate, and filled his glass again from the bottle of spirits.

All this while the face at the window was intently regarding them. Picking loose the putty from one of the window-panes with his fingers, Sim took the glass softly out, as the old woman and girl prepared to leave the room, and the two men drew close together, and began their conversation. Thus, with his ear close to the opening, he listened to all that passed.

“So you can’t understand what brings me here,” Butler said, sipping his rum. “You see, I’ve doffed my regimentals,” he added, pointing to the hunter’s frock which he wore, “and am ready for any kind of work.”

“I wouldn’t ’a’ known you, I do believe, cap’n. Wal, fine feathers do make fine birds, and no mistake. You look like one of us now.”

“Wesson is in command of Fort Dayton, isn’t he?” Butler asked.

“Yes, and keeping a sharp look-out. You don’t mean to attack him, do you?”

“No; but before morning I intend to sack old Davis’s house—he’s got some papers of Sir John Johnson’s that we must have, and we may as well take his useless life along with them.”

“Wal, I guess the neighborhood can spare him,” said the farmer, indifferently. “He’s one of the worst rebels in the district. Jest set fire to his haystacks while you’re about it—I’d like to see ’em burn.”

“His house isn’t near the fort, is it?”

“No; it’s on the other road, and stands as much alone as mine does; you won’t have any difficulty about settling his hash.”

“I’ll have the papers, if I murder and burn the whole settlement!” exclaimed Butler, with an oath.

“Wal, they’d do the same by you if they ketched you. It isn’t a week since I heard old Davis himself say he’d hang you if ever he laid hands on you.”

“Let him look to himself!” muttered Butler, all the ferocity of his nature breaking forth in his glance. “My men shall tie him hand and foot, and burn him in his own house.”

“When will you start?”

“About midnight. By that time the whole neighborhood will be quiet, and my men refreshed—we’ve had a long march, and they are tired enough, but always ready for this kind of work.”

“There’s no trouble about it,” said Shoemaker; “we’ll make it as merry as a wedding.”

The face which had long watched them disappeared from the window, and the fugitive fled lightly down the road towards the fort.

“Will you, indeed?” muttered Sim White, as his long legs measured off the ground at a tremendous pace. “We’ll see about that! I’ve got you this time, you old Tory; I haven’t watched you two months for nothing! Old Davis, indeed! and to think I wanted to lick Jim—only jest wait a little!”

The two men continued their conversation in fancied security. At length Butler flung himself upon a rude settle, with his Indian blanket under his head for a pillow, and fell into a heavy slumber. The farmer remained in his chair, but after a time his head fell forward, the pipe dropped from his fingers, and he also sank into a quiet sleep.

Sim White made no pause for breath until he reached the little block-house which was dignified by the name of fort. His violent knocking speedily aroused the sentinels, and the door was cautiously opened.

“A pooty set of fellers,” exclaimed Sim, as he rushed in panting and exhausted, “to be snoozing here, while all our lives are in danger! Call up Colonel Wesson!”

“What is it, Sim?” echoed a dozen voices.

“The Tories and Injuns are at us, that’s all!” returned Sim. “Call the colonel, you darned blunder-heads!”

“Here I am!” exclaimed a manly voice, and the commander appeared from the inner room. “What has happened?”

Sim explained in a few energetic words the scene that he had witnessed, and the projected attack upon Davis’s house.

“You hain’t got no time to lose,” continued Sim. “There’s twenty-eight of ’em, Injuns and Tories, and that Walter Butler at their head, and old Ike Shoemaker is as bad as any, cuss him! Only let me get my grip on him! Only to think that I’ve lived in his house a’most a year, and he a flat-footed Tory all the time!”

Colonel Wesson quickly arranged the plan of action, and in a few moments the men he selected were in marching order.

“All you’ve got to do is to surround the house,” said Sim. “The men are up in the loft, and there’s no winder for ’em to fire out of. We’ll have them like so many rats in a haystack.”

“Come on, men,” said the colonel. “Sim, do you go with us?”

“Go with you? Wal, now, that’s a pooty question, ain’t it? When did you ever know Sim White to shrink out of a fight with the bloody Tories? Give me a pitchfork, or a scythe, or anything that comes handy. I’ll stick ’em, or mow off their heads to the tune of Yankee Doodle. Go with you? I wonder what you mean by that!”

“We’ll look you up a gun, Sim,” said the colonel, laughing; “you’ll find that more useful.”

“I ain’t no ways perticler about the weapon,” replied Sim; “all I ask is a shy at old Ike. Ef I don’t stuff his pipe down his piratical old throat, I hope I may have to sarve crazy George to the end of my days, that’s all!”

“Shed as little blood as possible, men,” said Colonel Wesson; “and, by all means, take Walter Butler alive.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sim; “there’s an old rope in Shoemaker’s barn, that they tie the kicking heifer with—the noose in it’ll fit that feller’s neck to a T.”

“We are all ready,” said the colonel. “File out, men—steady and quiet. Forward, march!”

Walter Butler still slept upon the wooden settle, moving restlessly in his slumbers, and uttering broken exclamations which betrayed how even his dreams took a share in the cruel and bloody projects he had formed. The farmer dozed quietly upon the hearth, the pine knots had burned almost to ashes, and the kitchen was wrapped in gloom, save when the dying embers crackled and sent up a lurid flame for an instant, only to die out and leave the gloom and stillness deeper than before.

Up the road came that little band of faithful Whigs, in stern and silent indignation against the men who had so often laid waste their peaceful homes, and scattered ruin and desolation wherever they passed.

The troops surrounded the house with noiseless caution, but still there was no sound within. The door had been left unfastened in their secure carelessness, and yielded without an effort to the assailants’ touch.

Suddenly there was a tread of heavy feet—the room was bright with the glare of torches, and Walter Butler sprang to his feet from a troubled dream, to find himself in the sure grasp of the men he had so often persecuted.

“The rebels are on us!” he shouted. “Here, men, men!”

This cry was echoed by a war-whoop from the Indians above, but as the foremost of his men burst upon them, he fell dead, pierced by a bullet from one of the Whigs. Another and another shared the same fate, and the savages and Tories retreated in confusion to their place of concealment.

Walter Butler struggled with the desperate energy of a man fighting for his life; striking aimlessly with his hunting-knife, but he was speedily overpowered and thrown upon the floor.

Shoemaker, as soon as he could collect his wits, had sought refuge in the pantry, but Sim White speedily discovered his hiding-place, and dragged him back into the kitchen, where he fell upon his knees, writhing and supplicating in abject fear.

“I’m not to blame—I’m an innocent man!” he cried. “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me, Sim White; it’s agin nature that you should kill a man you’ve sat at table with.”

“Shut up!” said Sim, giving him a vigorous shake; “nobody wants yer cussed old life, you ain’t worth killin’!”

Butler shouted again to his men with loud curses; once more they essayed to force a passage into the room, but the foremost fell under the unerring aim of the Whigs, and they retreated again. Before the Whigs discovered it, they had found means of egress through the only window the loft contained, and escaped, leaving their leader behind.

“Cowards!” cried Butler, writhing himself free from the grasp of his captors and seeking to draw his pistols, “I’ll sell my life dearly, any way!”

Again he was overpowered, flung upon the settle, and tied securely hand and foot, so that he could only vent his rage in impotent blasphemies.

Sim stood guard over the farmer, who besought him in vain to be released.

“Only let me go, Sim; I’ll tell you the whole. I will, sartin as you live.”

“As if I didn’t know the hull—didn’t I hear every word you said? Jim Davis, indeed, you pesky varmint. Shut up, not a word out of yer Tory head!”

“Just let Jim Davis lay his hands on you, that’s all!” added another; “he’ll settle your affair sudden, now I tell you.”

Walter Butler lay writhing in ineffectual efforts to free himself; his struggles attracted Sim’s attention.

“Somebody hold the old chap a minute,” he said; “while I get the halter for the captain, the noose ’ill fit his neck as well as any other wild colt’s.”

Colonel Wesson checked them in their project.

“He is here taken on our ground—a spy, and worse than a spy. Mr. Butler must be brought before a court-martial,” he said; “we will give him a fair trial. You have no right to commit murder.”

“Who wants to commit murder?” said Sim. “I only meant to noose him, that’s all. Here, old shaking bones, stand up and have your hands tied—come along.” “Oh, don’t, don’t!” shrieked the trembling coward. “Let me go—I’ve got a wife and child!”

At this moment the mother and daughter rushed into the room, where they had remained concealed, quaking with fear, and besought Colonel Wesson to spare his life.

“We shall not harm him,” replied the soldier; “but he must go with us; his fate is in the hands of others.”

“They’ll hang me! They’ll hang me!” groaned the farmer.

“Of course they will,” said Sim, consolingly; “but it’s quick over! Set fire to old Davis’s haystacks, will you? you pesky old weasel!”

Conducting their prisoners, the party returned to the block-house, where a court-martial was speedily formed, to decide upon the fate of Walter Butler.

He listened in sullen silence to the arguments, smiling ferociously when different acts of his cruelty were cited, and exhibiting a callous unconcern, which was the effect of desperation rather than manly courage.

He was sentenced to be hung as a spy at daylight, and when the court-martial broke up, was placed in rigid confinement during the few hours which must elapse before his death. After his removal, Colonel Wesson debated the validity of their sentence, and deemed it more prudent to grant the prisoner a reprieve, and have him removed to Albany, where the Commander-in-chief might control his fate. This was received with disfavor by the Whigs, but Wesson’s arguments finally prevailed, and it was decided that instead of meeting his sentence at daybreak he should be conveyed at once, under a strong guard, to Albany.

The old Tory, Shoemaker, was condemned to receive a score of lashes, and left to return home. Sim listened to the sentence with the utmost glee, and made strange confusion amid the solemnity of the scene, by offering to apply the lashes with his own hand.

When morning dawned, Walter Butler was sent forth from the settlement a prisoner. For once his cruel schemes had failed; and as he possessed only the courage of a weak, wicked man, he looked forward, with inward trembling, to the doom that awaited him.

For a year he pined in the close confinement of a jail; at the expiration of that time he was reported ill, and through the intercession of his father’s friends among the patriots, he was still closely watched, but allowed more liberty of action, and surrounded by the comforts and luxuries which his sensuous nature found so essential, in spite of the training and capability for enduring hardships, which a long residence in the backwoods had given him.