Роберт Чамберс - The Hidden Children

Of any intentional injustice to our enemies, their country, and their red allies, I do not hesitate to acquit myself; yet, because I have related the history of this campaign as seen through the eyes of a soldier of the United States, so I would not deny that these same and daily episodes, as seen by a British soldier, might wear forms and colours very different, and yet be as near to the truth as any observations of my own.

Therefore, without diffidence or hesitation—because I have explained myself—and prejudiced by an unalterable belief in the cause which I have had the honour and happiness to serve, it is proper that I bring my narrative of these three months to a conclusion.

With these same three months the days of my youth also ended. No stripling could pass through those scenes and emerge still immature. The test was too terrible; the tragedy too profound; the very setting of the tremendous scene—all its monstrous and gigantic accessories—left an impression ineradicable upon the soul. Adolescence matured to manhood in those days of iron; youthful ignorance became stern experience, sobering with its enduring leaven the serious years to come.

I remember every separate event after the tragedy of Chenundana, where they found me dazed with grief and privation, digging with my broken hunting knife a grave for my dead companions.

The horror of their taking off passed from my shocked brain as the exigencies of the perilous moments increased, demanding of me constant and untiring effort, and piling upon my shoulders responsibilities that left no room for morbid brooding or even for the momentary inaction of grief.

From Tioga, Colonel Shreve sent forward to us a wagon train of provisions, even wines and delicacies for our sick and wounded; but even with this slight aid our men remained on half rations; and for all our voluntary sacrifice we could not hope now to reach Niagara and deliver the final blow to that squirming den of serpents.

True, Amochol was dead; but Walter Butler lived. And there was now no hope of reaching him. Bag and baggage, horse, foot, and Indians, he had gone clear out of sight and sound into a vast and trackless wilderness which we might not hope to penetrate because, even on half rations, we had now scarcely enough flour left to take us back to the frontiers of civilization.

Of our artillery we had only a light piece or two left, and the cohorn; of cattle we had scarcely any; of wagons and horses very few, having killed and eaten the more worn–out animals at Horseheads. Only the regimental wagons contained any flour; half our officers were without mounts; ammunition was failing us; and between us and our frontiers lay the ashes of the Dark Empire and hundreds of miles of a wilderness so dreary and so difficult that we often wondered whether it was possible for human endurance to undergo the endless marches of a safe return.

But our task was ended; and when we set our faces toward home, every man in our ragged, muddy, brier–torn columns knew in his heart that the power of the Iroquois Empire was broken forever. Senecas, Cayugas, Onondagas, might still threaten and even strike like crippled snakes; but the Long House lay in ashes, and the heart of every Indian in it was burnt out.

Swinging out our wings east and west as we set our homeward course, burning and destroying all that we had hitherto spared, purposely or by accident, we started south; and from the fifteenth of September until the thirtieth the only living human being we encountered was the aged squaw we had left at Catharines.

Never had I seen such a desolation of utter destruction, for amid the endless ocean of trees every oasis was a blackened waste, every town but a heap of sodden ashes, every garden a mass of decay, rotting under the autumn sun.

On the 30th of September, we marched into Tioga Fort, Colonel Shreve's cannon thundering their welcome, and Colonel Proctor's artillery band playing a most stirring air. But Lord! What a ragged, half–starved army it was! Though we cared nothing for that, so glad were we to see our flag flying and the batteaux lying in the river. And the music of the artillery filled me with solemn thoughts, for I thought of Lois and of Lana; and of Boyd, where he lay in his solitary grave under the frosty stars.

On the third of October, the army was in marching order once more; Colonel Shreve blew up the Tioga military works; the invalids, women and children, and some of the regiments went by batteaux; but we marched for Wyoming, passing through it on the tenth, and arriving at Easton on the fifteenth.

And I remember that, starved as we were, dusty, bloody with briers, and half naked, regiment after regiment halted, sent back for their wagons, combed out and tied their hair, and used the last precious cupfulls of flour to powder their polls, so that their heads, at least might make a military appearance as they marched through the stone–built town of Easton.

And so, with sprigs of green to cock their hats, well floured hair, and scarce a pair of breeches to a company, our rascals footed it proudly into Easton town, fifes squealing, drums rattling, and all the church bells and the artillery of the place clanging and booming out a welcome to the sorriest–clad army that ever entered a town since Falstaff hesitated to lead his naked rogues through Coventry.

Here the thanksgiving service was held; and Lord, how we did eat afterward! But for the rest or repose which any among us might have been innocent enough to suppose the army had earned, none was meted out. Nenny! For instead, marching orders awaited us, and sufficient clothing to cool our blushes; and off we marched to join His Excellency's army in the Highlands; for what with the new Spanish alliance and the arrival of the French fleet, matters were now stewing and trouble a–brewing for Sir Henry. They told us that His Excellency required pepper for the dose, therefore had he sent for us to mix us into the red–hot draught that Sir Henry and my Lord Cornwallis must presently prepare to swallow.

I had not had a letter or any word from Lois at Fort Tioga. At Easton there was a letter which, she wrote, might not reach me; but in it she said that they had taken lodgings in Albany near to the house of Lana Helmer; that Mr. Hake had been more than kind; that she and her dear mother awaited news of our army with tenderest anxiety, but that up to the moment of writing no news was to be had, not even any rumours.

Her letter told me little more, save that her mother and Mr. Hake had conferred concerning the estate of her late father; and that Mr. Hake was making preparations to substantiate her mother's claim to the small property of the family in France—a house, a tiny hamlet, and some vineyards, called by the family name of Contrecoeur, which meant her mother was her father's wedded wife.

"Also," she wrote, "my mother has told me that there are in the house some books and pictures and pretty joyeaux which were beloved by my father, and which he gave to her when she came to Contrecoeur, a bride. Also that her dot was still untouched, which, with her legal interest in my father's property, would suffice to properly endow me, and still leave sufficient to maintain her.

"So you see, Euan, that the half naked little gypsy of Poundridge camp comes not entirely shameless to her husband after all. Oh, my own soldier, hasten—hasten! Every day I hear drums in Albany streets and run out to see; every evening I sit with my mother on the stoop and watch the river redden in the sunset. Over the sandy plains of pines comes blowing the wind of the Western wilderness. I feel its breath on my cheek, faintly frosty, and wonder if the same wind had also touched your dear face ere it blew east to me."

Often I read this letter on the march to the Hudson; ever wondering at the history of this sweet mistress of my affections, marvelling at its mystery, its wonders, and eternally amazed at this young girl's courage, her loyalty and chaste devotion.