Mary Derwent

While these events were transpiring, the morning wore on at Mother Derwent’s cottage in the quiet which we have before described. But while Aunt Polly and the old lady held their cheerful conversation by the door, the sound of drums and shrill fifes came from the distance, and confused sounds rose from about Wintermoot’s Fort. The two women started up in affright. Jane Derwent rushed, half-dressed, from the inner room, trembling with terror. Mary was aroused from her solitude, and came forth very pale, but self-possessed and calm.

“Do not be alarmed,” she said, “it will probably only lead to a skirmish.”

“Oh, if Edward should be out!” exclaimed Jane.

“If he is,” returned Mary, solemnly, “God takes care of those who perform their duty—trust to him, sister.”

“If anything should happen to him!” said Jane, weeping; “I have treated him so bad, teased him so dreadfully!”

“Law, Janey, don’t fret!” urged Aunt Polly; “it does the men good to tease ’em afore you’re married, soon enough to give up after the knot is tied.”

“Hark!” exclaimed Mother Derwent. “Hear that shout.”

“I wish we knew,” said Mary; “if I were only on the shore.”

“Don’t go, Mary!” pleaded Jane; “I shall die if you leave me. Besides, I ain’t dressed—oh Mary, do help me; it’ll all turn out well enough, I dare say—come.”

“Yes, go,” said Aunt Polly, smoothing out her dress; “I’ll stay with grandma.” Mary followed the agitated girl into the little bedroom which they had occupied since their childhood. The room was neatly arranged. Mother Derwent’s best blue worsted quilt, with the corners neatly tucked in at the foot posts, covered the high bed, and the white linen pillows lay like snow-heaps upon it. The old lady’s best patch-work cushion was placed in the arm-chair which stood in a corner, and a garland of Princes’ pine hung around the little looking-glass, before which Jane Derwent stood “with a blush on her cheek and a smile in her eye,” arranging the folds of her white muslin bridal dress over a form that would not have seemed out of place in a palace.

“Mary, shall I tie this on the side or behind?” inquired the blooming girl, holding up a sash of the most delicate blossom color, with the usual volatility of her nature, forgetting her alarm in the pleasant excitement of the moment. Mary lifted her face from the wreath of wild roses which she was forming for her sister’s hair, and smiled as she answered; but it was a smile of soft and gentle sadness, patient and sweet as the breath of a flower, though her cheek was pale with anxiety, for she felt that something terrible was close upon them.

“Let me tie it for you,” she said, laying the wreath on the pillow, and removing a handful of roses from her lap to a basket which stood on the rude window seat. “There, now sit down, while I twist the roses among your curls.”

Jane sunk gracefully to her sister’s feet, while she performed her task. When the last blossom was entwined on her temple, the bride raised her beautiful face to her sister’s with an expression of touching love.

“Oh, Mary, should I have been so happy, if it had not been for you? How glad I am that you persuaded me to tell Edward about that bad man!”

Mary did not answer in words, but her eyes filled with pleasant tears, she bent down and laid her cheek against that of the bride, and they clung together in an embrace full of love and sisterly affection.

While they were talking, a boat put off from the opposite shore, and, as Jane looked out, she saw Edward Clark and the missionary land on the island. Edward ran towards the house in breathless haste.

“Oh, Mary, that’s him and the minister. Please go out first, sister, while I get my breath.”

But while she was speaking, Edward Clark ran through the kitchen, and dashing into the bedroom flung his arms around Jane, who stood with her lips apart, lost in astonishment.

“Jane, dear Jane, forgive me! Oh, how beautiful you look! But it cannot be. Mary, Mary, the wedding is all broken up. Wintermoot’s Fort is swarming with Tory troops. The woods are full of Indians! Get ready, I beg of you—get into my boat, and make the best of your way to Forty Fort. The Tories have already taken Fort Jenkins; but we shall give them hot work before they get hold of another block-house. Jane, dear Jane, look up—don’t tremble so! come, be a brave girl, like Mary. Grandmother—Grandmother Derwent, do you know what I am saying? Aunt Polly Carter, you ought to have some courage; do come and help them off! Keep close to the east bank of the river till you get opposite the Fort, then land, and run for your lives. Jane, Jane, in the name of Heaven, do not faint!”

“Edward, Edward, what is it—how can we go—what must we do?” exclaimed Jane, throwing her arms around his neck, wild with terror.

“Our marriage, it cannot take place to-day. The valley is full of enemies. Our people are half-way to Wintermoot’s; I must go back at once—every man is needed,” he repeated, breathlessly.

“They will kill you—they will kill you, and us!” shrieked the bride.

“Hush, Jane!” and Mary drew her sister away; “this is no time for tears; Edward has need of all his strength.”

At that moment the missionary came in.

“Away!” he cried, addressing Clark; “why do you loiter here? your friends are on the move by this time. Away, I tell you! Leave the family to me.”

A scene of confusion followed. Jane Derwent sank fainting in the arms of her sister, and all Mary’s energies were tasked to recover her from that death-like swoon.

“God save her!” cried Edward Clark, pressing a kiss on the forehead of his betrothed, and hastening away.

“Oh!” exclaimed Aunt Polly; “if I only knew where Sim White was!”

“I saw him last at Forty Fort,” replied Clark, rushing past her.

“Then I’m a-goin’ there, too!” she exclaimed. “Here, Grandma Derwent, give me a sun-bonnet, a handkerchief, or somethin’. ’Tain’t no use to spile my best Sunday bonnet.”

“We’ll all go!” cried Mrs. Derwent; “we shall be safe there. Mary, Mary Derwent!”

“What shall we do?” cried Mary, who heard this call from the next room, turning to the missionary—“how must I act? She is quite senseless, and I cannot carry her.”

“Give her to me,” answered the minister. “Go and get something to wrap around her.”

A mantle hung on the wall. Mary left her sister to the minister, and reached up to take the garment down. Her sleeves broke loose in the effort, and fell back from her arms, exposing the jewelled serpent that Catherine Montour had clasped around it. The missionary saw the jewel, and gave a start that almost dislodged Jane from his hold.

“Where—tell me, child—where did you get that?” he said with a sort of terror, as if he had seen a living snake coiled on the snow of her arm.

“She gave it to me—the white queen whom they call Catharine Montour.”

“Where and when?”

“One night—the very next, I remember now, after Walter Butler tried to persuade her. You know all I would say. This strange lady sent for me to meet her at the spring.”

“And you went—you saw her?” cried the minister, forgetting the danger of the insensible girl in his arms—everything in the question.

“Yes, I saw her. She talked to me—ah, how kindly!—and at the end, clasped this on my arm. Now I remember, she told me if danger threatened me or mine from the Indians, to show them this, and it would save us.”

“Trust to it—yes, trust to it, and remain here in safety. This strange lady is in the valley; her tents are pitched on the little island in the mouth of the Lackawanna. Her jewel must have power among the savages.”

“I feel certain of it,” answered Mary, dropping her arm, and leaving the mantle on the wall. “I would risk more than my life on that noble lady’s word.”

The missionary looked on her earnestly, and evidently without knowing it, for his eyes filled with tears, which he made no effort to hide.

“You saw her, and she saw you? Was she kind—was she gentle?”

“Oh, very kind—very gentle. If I dared, perhaps I might say more than kind, for she held me against her heart almost all the time we were talking, and once I am sure she kissed my hair.”

“Stay here; trust to her promise till I come again,” said the minister, laying Jane on the bed, and preparing to leave the room.

“I will stay,” answered Mary, bending over her sister, and kissing her lips, which were just beginning to crimson with new life.

As the missionary passed through the kitchen Aunt Polly ran after him.

“If you’re going over just set me across. Gineral Washington is on t’other side, and I can’t leave him among the Tories anyhow. We’ll set Mother Derwent and the gals afloat, and then every one for his self, says I. There, Miss Derwent, don’t patter round, looking for sun-bonnets any longer. I’ll risk the other rather than wait. Mary—Mary Derwent, I say!”

The missionary did not appear to understand her, but passed through the room as if she had not spoken. Mary left her sister for an instant, and entered the kitchen.

“Come, get ready and go with me,” cried the old maid. “Mrs. Derwent and Janey can pull down in the canoe, and I’ll take you behind me on the Gineral.”

“No,” replied Mary; “we are safe here—the Indians have always liked me. Be calm, grandmother; you are in no danger—we will stay here. I may be able to assist those on the shore if the battle goes against us.”

“I’m gone!” cried Aunt Polly, dashing forward after the missionary. “The Tories ain’t a-goin’ to scare me! I hope to goodness Captain Slocum’ll fight in the rear; I shall never git my pay for that ’ere rum if he don’t turn up safe.”

She followed the missionary, and placed herself in his boat just as it was putting off, leaving old Mother Derwent weeping helplessly on the hearth, and Mary encouraging her sister, full of serene fortitude, and praying silently for the safety of the neighbors and friends who were marching to the fight.

And now the cry of mustering battle rose like wildfire through the valley. The farmers forsook the fields, mechanics left their workshops, and armed with such weapons as presented themselves, gathered in companies, eager to drive out their invaders. Women left their cabins, and with their children sought the shelter of various forts, or armed themselves like the men, and stood at bay on their own thresholds. It was one of these companies, filing off towards Forty Fort, the most extensive fortification on the river, which Aunt Polly had met on her way to Monockonok Island. Col. Zebulon Butler, a staunch patriot and an officer of the Continental army, had chanced to return home on a visit to his family at this awful period, and was, by unanimous consent, made commander-in-chief. Colonels Denison and Dorrance volunteered their aid, and that day came five commissions from the army, accompanied by the missionary, who having attained intelligence of the invasion, went to urge their presence. Thus the raw recruits were officered by experienced men, and there was hope from delay, for Captain Spralding was already on his march to the valley with a well-drilled company.

With these advantages and hopes there arose a division of opinion in the council at Forty Fort; but the impetuous and inexperienced carried the day, and the opinion of the brave commander was overruled. Alas! for that council and the men who controlled it! The fatal order was given. In a body the patriots were about to storm Wintermoot’s Fort, hoping to surprise its garrison.

Having decided their own fearful destiny, this band of martyrs marched out of the fort and mustered under the clear sun, which they would never see rise again.

It was a mournful sight—those old Connecticut women standing in front of the block-house ready to say farewell and call God’s mercy down upon the heads their bosoms had pillowed, in some cases, for fifty years; heads too grey for the general service for which their sons had gone, but not too grey for defence of those grand old wives and mothers, who, fired with patriotism and yet pale with terror, stood to see them go.

Seldom have troops like those gone forth to battle. No fathers and sons marched side by side there, but grandfathers and grandsons, the two extremes of life, stood breast to breast on that fateful day. Congress had drawn the strength and pith of the valley into its own army and left it cruelly defenceless. Thus each household gave up its old men and boys, while the mothers, already half-bereaved, looked on with trembling lips ready to cry out with anguish, but making mournful efforts to cheer them with their quivering voices. Lads, too young for battle, saw their elder brothers file off with reckless envy, while the little grandchildren, who looked upon the whole muster as a pleasant show, clapped their hands in glee, more painful still, and followed the grey-headed battalion with sparkling eyes.

Younger women, with husbands in the wars, strove to console their mothers, but dropped into silence with the vague words upon their lips, while the children tugged at their garments and clamored for one more sight of the soldiers.

When all were gone—when the hollow tramp of those moving masses could no longer be heard, the women looked at each other with a vague feeling of desolation. The bravest heart gave way then; one woman threw an apron over her head, that no one might see her crying; another looked upon the earth with her withered hands locked, and tears finding mournful channels in the wrinkles of her quivering face; another sat down on the ground; gathered her children around her, and wept in their midst, while two or three strove to dash their fears away with wild attempts at boastfulness and defiance, and the rest fell to work preparing to receive the fugitives who were every moment applying for admission to the fort.

Thus the day wore on. For some hours everything outside the fort was still as death, but a little after noon that dull tramp of feet came back, measured and stern, and a little girl who had climbed to a loop-hole in the fort called out that she saw the “sogers going through the trees, with their guns and bayonets a-shining like everything”; and again, that she saw “Colonel Zeb. Butler on his great brown horse, with his cocked hat on, and a grand feather dancing up and down—oh, beautifully!”

“What next, what next—who goes next?” cried the granddame; “look, Hetty, do look if you can see grandpa anywhere.”

“No, grandma,” cried out the child, in great glee, “but there’s Colonel Denison, and Leftenant Dorrance, and Leftenant Ransom, all with their swords out. Oh, Aunt Eunice, Aunt Eunice! here comes Captain Durkee.”

“My son—my son!” cried an old woman in the crowd, while the tears coursed down her face, “look again, Hetty dear, and tell me just how he seems.”

“I can’t, Aunt Eunice, ’tain’t no use; here comes Captain Bidlack ahead of his company. Oh, here’s a lot of folks I know—Mr. Pensil and Mr. Holenback, and there goes Mr. Dana, and, oh dear! oh dear! there’s Uncle Whitton looking this way.”

“My husband—my husband!” cried a fair young girl, only three weeks a bride; “here, Hetty, catch my handkerchief and shake it out of the port-hole; he’ll know it and fight the harder.”

“Do, Hetty darling; that’s a purty gal; do look once more for Captain Durkee. There,” continued the old woman, appealing to the crowd around her with touching deprecation, “I hain’t hardly had a chance to speak to him yet. Mebby you don’t know that when the Continentals wouldn’t give him leave to come hum and take care of his old marm, he just threw up his commission, and there he is a volunteer among the rest on ’em; so du give me one more chance—du you see him yet, Hetty?”

“Yes, Aunt Eunice, I kinder think I see his feather a-dancing over the brush.”

“And not his face? Oh, dear! if I could only climb; will some on ye help me? Du now, I beg on ye.”

The poor old woman made a struggle to climb up the rude logs, but fell back, tearing away a handful of bark and bringing it down in her grasp.

“They’ve all gone now,” cried out the child; “I can’t see nothing but some cows agin the sky, follering arter ’em.”

“Following arter ’em—Lord ’a’ massy upon us then!” whispered the old woman, drawing a heavy breath, and she turned with a deadly paleness on her face, without addressing the child again.

“There they all go on the run now—hurrah—hurrah! Won’t the Injuns catch it—hurrah!”

All the little voices in the fort set up an answering shout as the child clambered down from her post. The younger women received this infant battle-cry as an omen. Their faces, hitherto so anxious, flushed with enthusiasm; those who had wept before, started up and went to work at random, tearing up old sheets and scraping lint, while a group of little boys built a fire within the stockade, and went to work vigorously, moulding bullets from hot lead they melted in the iron skillets, which were yet warm from cooking the last household breakfast.

The women knew that the troops had moved up stream, and would go on till they met the enemy; so, with their hearts leaping at every noise, they waited in terrible suspense for the first shot. Thus two hours crept by—two long, terrible hours, that no human being in that fort ever forgot. Two or three times little Hetty climbed up to her look-out—the loop-hole, but came down in silence, for nothing but the still plain met her search. The third time, however, she called out, but with less enthusiasm than before:

“Here comes somebody down the cart-road, full trot, on a great white horse; oh, it’s Aunt Polly Carter, with her go-to-meeting bonnet on, a-riding like split; I guess somebody ’ed better let her in; for she’s turning right up to the fort.”

“She comes from up stream; she must ’a’ seen the army; some one run and tell the guard to let her in,” cried a score of voices; “she’s got news—she’ll bring news.”

With a clamor of eager expectation, the women rushed up to meet Aunt Polly, who, in defiance of all military laws, rode General Washington within the stockade, and close up to the fort. She was greatly excited; her huge bonnet had taken a military twist, and loomed out from one side of her head, giving her grim features to full view; a large cotton shawl, flaming with gorgeous colors, was crossed over her bosom and tied in a fierce knot behind; she carried a long walnut switch in her right hand, worn to a tiny brush at the end, for in the excitement of that ride she had beaten General Washington into a hard gallop every other minute.

“Have I seen ’em?—of course I have, and a wonderful sight it was—hull battalions of sogers a-moving majestically.”

“Did you see my son—was the enemy near—can they surprise Wintermoot’s Fort?”

“Don’t ask me, neighbors—don’t say a word!” cried Aunt Polly, dismounting from General Washington, and turning from one eager inquirer to another, “for I don’t know much more than you do; but this is sartin, them Tory Butlers know what they’re about; they’re outside the fort, and drawn up in battle array; I never could ’a’ got through the sogers if it hadn’t been for Captain Walter Butler; he knew me at the first sight, and made some of his men ride by Gineral Washington till we got this side his army.”

“How many are there—did you see any Indians?”

“I couldn’t begin to calkerate; yes, I did see a lot of Injuns skulking in the swamp; but, seeing the Tories with me, they didn’t shute.”

“But our side, our side—where did you meet them?”

“About half-way, marching right straight on—Sim White and all—every man of ’em ready to die for his country. Mr. White couldn’t do more than slip out of the ranks, to tell me how he come to be there, instead of waiting on me hum from Miss Derwent’s to-night, when Captain Durkee called arter him.”

“Then you saw my son?” whispered Mrs. Durkee, drawing close to the old maid; “how did he look? Du tell me!”

“Brave as a lion, Miss Durkee; except Sim White there wasn’t a man to match him in the hull company. ‘Fellow citizens, do your duty,’ says I, stopping Gineral Washington as they come in sight.”

“‘We will—God help us, and we will! Tell our women folks at Forty Fort to keep a good heart; every man here’ll die in his tracks afore the enemy reaches them.’”

Aunt Polly drew the back of her hand across her eyes as she said this; her words were answered by a simultaneous sob; even the children began to look wistfully at each other through their tears.

“By-and-by,” said Aunt Polly, “you’ll hear ’em beginning. Lord ’a’ massy on us! that’s a shot.”

A low cry ran through the crowd; then a drawing in of the breath, and a deep hush. Faces, tearful before, became suddenly pale now; the old women locked their withered hands, and sent dumb prayers to Heaven; the children huddled together and began to cry.

“That’s an awful sound,” said Aunt Polly, looking over the crowd. “Let every mother as has got a son up yonder, and every woman as has got a husband tu lose, kneel down with me and say the Lord’s Prayer; we women folks can’t fight, and I don’t know nothing else that we can do. Lord ’a’ massy on us!”

They fell upon their knees—old women, young wives, and little children—uttering broken fragments of prayer, and quaking to the sound of each volley that swept down the forest. At first the shots fell steadily and at intervals; then volley succeeded volley; hoarse cries, the more terrible from their faintness; then the awful war-whoop rose loud and fierce, sweeping all lesser sounds before it.

The words of prayer froze on those ashen lips; wild eyes looked into each other for one awful moment; the horror of that sound struck even anguish dumb; the shots died away, fainter and fainter; a moment’s hush, and then louder, shriller, and approaching the fort, came another whoop, prolonged into a sharp yell.

Old Mrs. Durkee rose from her knees; her voice rang out with tearful clearness over the crowd:

“Mothers, orphans, and widows, lift your faces to Heaven, for nothing but Almighty God can help us now.”