The Little Red Foot. Chambers Robert William
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which was going down red as a cherry.
But what held me in spell was the sight that met my eyes across the open meadows, where moving ranks of musket-barrels glanced redly in the last gleam of sunset and the naked swords and gorgets of mounted officers glittered.
Godfrey Shew emerged from the edge of the forest on my left and stood knee deep in last year's wild grass, one hand shading his eyes.
"What troops are those?" I shouted to him. "They look like the Continental Line!"
"It's a reg'lar rig'ment," he bawled, "but whose I know not!"
The clanking of their armament came clearly to my ears; the timing tap of their drum sounded nearer still.
"There can be no mistake," I called out to Godfrey; "yonder marches a regiment of the New York line! We're at war!"
We moved out across the pasture. I examined my flint and priming, and, finding all tight and bright, waded forward waist high, through last year's ghostly golden-rod, ready for a quick shot if necessary.
The sun had gone down; a lilac-tinted dusk veiled the fields, through which the gay evening chirruping of the robins rang incessantly.
"There go our people!" shouted Godfrey.
I had already caught sight of the Fonda's Bush Company filing between some cattle-bars to the left of us; and knew they must be making straight for Johnson Hall.
We shouldered our pieces and ran through the dead weeds to intercept them; but there was no need for haste, because they halted presently in some disorder; and I saw Joe Scott walking to and fro along the files, gesticulating.
And then, as Godfrey and I came up with them, we witnessed the first shameful exhibition of disorder that for so many months disgraced the militia of New York – a stupidity partly cowardly, partly treacherous, which at one time so incensed His Excellency the Virginian that he said they were, as a body, more detrimental than helpful to the cause, and proposed to disband them.
In the light of later events, I now realize that their apparent poltroonery arose not from individual cowardice. But these levies had no faith in their companies because every battalion was still full of Tories, nor had any regiment yet been purged.
Also, they had no confidence in their officers, who, for the greater part, were as inexperienced as they themselves. And I think it was because of these things that the New York militia behaved so contemptibly after the battle of Long Island, and in Tryon County, until the terrific trial by fire at Oriskany had burnt the dross out of us and left only the nobler metal.
Our Fonda's Bush Company presented a most mortifying spectacle as Godfrey and I came up. Joe Scott stood facing the slovenly single rank which he had contrived to parade in the gathering dusk; and he was arguing with the men while they talked back loudly.
There was a hubbub of voices, angry arguments, some laughter which sounded more sinister to me than the cursing.
Then Charlie Cady and John Howell of Sacandaga left the ranks, refusing to listen to Scott, and withdrew a little distance, where they stood sullenly in their defiance.
Elias Cady called out that he would not march to the Hall to take Sir John, and he, also, left the ranks.
Then, and despite Joe Scott's pleading, Phil Helmer and his sullen son, John, walked away and joined the Cadys, and called on Andrew Bowman to do the like.
Dries wavered; but Baltus Weed and Eugene Grinnis left the company.
Which so enraged me that I, also, forgot all discipline and duty, and shook my rifles at the mutineers.
"You Tory dogs!" I said, "we're well purged of you, and I for one thank God that we now know you for what you are!"
Godfrey, a stark, fierce figure in his blackened buckskins, went out in front of our single rank and called to the malcontents:
"Pull foot, you swine, or I'll mark you!"
And, "Pull foot!" shouted Nick Stoner, "and be damned to you! Why do you loiter! Do you wait for a volley in your guts!"
At that, Balty Weed turned and ran toward the woods; but the others moved more slowly and sullenly, not exactly menacing us with their rifles, but carrying them conveniently across the hollow of their left arms.
In the increasing darkness I heard somebody sob, and saw Joe Scott standing with one hand across his eyes, as though to close from his sight such a scene of deep disgrace.
Then I went to him. I was trembling and could scarce command my voice, but gave him a salute and stood at attention until he finally noticed me.
"Well, John," said he, "this is like to be the death of me."
"Sir; will you order the drums to beat a march?"
"Do you think the men will march?"
"Yes, sir – what remains of them."
He came slowly back, motioning what was left of the company to close up. I could not hear what he said, but the men began to count off, and their voices were resolute enough to hearten all.
So presently Nick Stoner, who acted as fife-major, blew lustily into his fife, playing the marching tune, which is called "The Little Red Foot"; and the drums beat it; and we marched in column of fours to take Sir John at his ancestral Hall, if it chanced to be God's will.
CHAPTER IX
STOLE AWAY
Johnson Hall was a blaze of light with candles in every window, and great lanterns flaring from both stone forts which flanked the Hall, and along the new palisades which Sir John had built recently for his defense.
All gates and doors stood wide open, and officers in Continental uniform and in the uniform of the Palatine Regiment, were passing in and out with a great clanking of swords and spurs.
Everywhere companies of regular infantry from Colonel Dayton's regiment of the New York Line were making camp, and I saw their baggage waggons drive up from the town below and go into park to the east of the Hall, where cattle were lying in the new grass.
An officer of the Palatine Regiment carrying a torch came up to Joe Scott, where our little company stood at ease along the hedge fence.
"What troops are these, sir?" he inquired, indicating us with a nervous gesture.
And when he was informed:
"Oho!" said he, "there should be material for rangers among your farmer-militia. Pick me two men for Colonel Dayton who live by rifle and trap and who know the wilderness from Albany to the Lakes."
So our captain told off Nick Stoner and me, and we stepped out of the ranks into the red torch-glow.
"Thank you, sir," said the Palatine officer to our Captain. And to us: "Follow me, lads."
He was a brisk, handsome and smartly uniformed officer of militia; and his cheerful demeanor heartened me who had lately witnessed such humiliations and disgrace.
We followed him through the stockade gate and into the great house, so perfectly familiar to me in happier days.
Excepting for the noise and confusion of officers coming and going, there was no disorder within; the beautiful furniture stood ranged in stately symmetry; the pictures hung on the walls; but I saw no silver anywhere, and all the candlesticks were pewter.
As we came to the library, an officer in the uniform of a colonel of the Continental Line turned from a group of men crowded around the centre table, on which lay a map. Nick Stoner and I saluted his epaulettes.
He came close to us and searched our faces coolly enough, as a farmer inspects an offered horse.
"This is young Nick Stoner, of Fonda's Bush, sir," said the Palatine officer.
"Oh," said the Colonel drily, "I have heard of the Stoner boys. And what may be your name?" he inquired, fastening his piercing eyes on mine.
"John Drogue, sir."
"I have heard of you, also," he remarked, more drily still.
For a full minute, it seemed to me, he scrutinized me from head to