University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
RANGERS' REVELS.

Hamilton Bogart.

A year has passed away—the second year of the
Revolution—and Greyslaer is not nearer the fruition
of his hopes than in the hour when they first dawned
anew upon his soul. The calls of military duty
have, in the mean time, carried him far from his native
valley, to which, with a sword whose temper
has been tried on many a Southern field, he is now
returning; for New-York at this moment needs all
her children to defend her soil. Burgoyne upon
the Hudson, and St. Leger along the Mohawk, are
marching to unite their forces in the heart of the
province, and sweep the country from the lakes to
the seaboard.

The ascendency which, upon the first outbreak
of hostilities, the Whigs of Tryon county attained
over the opposite faction, seemed, at this period of
the great struggle, about to be wrenched from their
hands. The conspiring bands of Tories which had
been driven out or disarmed when Schuyler marched
upon Johnstown and crushed the first rising of
the royalists, had lifted the royal standard anew
upon the border, and rumours of the thousands who
were flocking to it struck dismay into the patriot
councils. Brant and his Mohawks had always kept
the field in guerilla warfare, and the frontiersmen
were habituated to the terror of his name; but now
Guy Johnson, who had been stirring up the more
remote tribes, was said to have thickened his files
with a cloud of savage warriors. The combined
Indian and refugee forces had rendezvoused at Oswego
thoroughly armed and appointed for an efficient
campaign; and Barry St. Leger, who took
command of the whole, boasted confidently that he
would effect a conjunction with Burgoyne, if that
leader could make good his march upon Albany.

Availing himself of the numerous streams and
lakes of the country to transport his artillery and
heavy munitions, St. Leger advanced with forced
marches from the wilds of the North and the West,
and, penetrating into the Valley of the Mohawk, invested
Fort Stanwix, the portal of the whole region
beyond to the Hudson. The province far and wide
was alarmed at this bold and hitherto successful invasion;
and some of the sturdiest patriots of Tryon
county stood aghast at the incoming torrent which
threatened to overwhelm them. But the anxiety of
the mass was more akin to the alarm that arouses
than to the terror which paralyzes action. There
is a spirit abroad among the people; a spirit of determined
resolve, of vengeful hatred against those

who have come back to desolate the land with fire
and sword. Sir John Johnson, who stands high
in the councils of the invading general, has approached
the threshold of his fortified patrimony;
but the arrogant though brave baronet, should he
penetrate as far as the broad domain over which his
family once exercised an almost princely sway, will
find that strange changes have taken place among
his rustic and once humble neighbours.

The march of armies, the pomp and parade of
martial times, with many of the dark incidents of
civil feud shadowing the pageantry of regular war-fare,
have been beheld in the Valley of the Mohawk,
and the lapse of a short two years has markedly
altered the character of the district in which
the principal scenes of our story are laid. The inhabitants
are no longer gathered together in village
or hamlet to reason calmly about their rights, and
pass formal resolutions upon the conduct of their
rulers. The reckless assertion, the hot and hasty
reply, the careless laugh or fierce oath which cuts
short the laggard argument, show that men's tempers
have altered, and the times of debate have long
since given way to those of action. The soldier has
taken the place of the civilian; the military muster
supplanted the political assemblage; and the plain
yeomanry of a rural district are no longer recognisable
in the gay military groups that seem to have
usurped their place at the roadside inn. Now, especially,
when the proclamation of the commandant
of the district has summoned every male inhabitant
capable of bearing arms to the field, the high-ways
are filled with yeomanry corps, battalions of
infantry, volunteers from the villages, and squadrons
of mounted rangers from the remote settlements, all
urging their way to the general rendezvous at Fort
Dayton.

Hitherward, too, occasionally, intermingled with
these raw levies, were likewise marching bodies of
experienced partisan troops, which, as the scene of
war shifted from one part of the northern frontier to
another, had kept the field from the first. Armed
and trained to serve as either cavalry or infantry,
the “Mohawk Yægers,” as they called themselves,
were found acting now as videttes and foraging
parties for the Congressional forces; fighting now
by themselves with the Indians in guerilla conflict,
and now again co-operating with the Continental
army in regular warfare. The public-house of
Nicholas Wingear, which lay immediately upon the
road to Fort Dayton, was at this time a favourite
stopping-place of refreshment with the different
corps which composed this motley army, and a
small command had halted there for the night at the
time we resume the thread of our story.

The old stone-built inn, with its ruined sheds and
outhouses of half-hewn logs, which used to stand
somewhere about midway upon the road between
Canajoharie and German Flats, has probably long
since given place to some more modern hostelrie.
Mine ancient host, too, the worthy Deacon Wingear
—unless the flavour of his liquor lives in the memory
of some octogenarian toper—is perhaps likewise
forgotten. It is not less our duty, however, to
chronicle his name here while opening this act of
our drama beneath the hospitable roof of Nicholas.

The apartment in which the ranger corps were
carousing was large and rudely furnished, containing
only—besides the permanent fixture of a bar
for the sale of liquors, which was partitioned off under
the staircase at one end of the room—a small
cherry-wood table and a few rush-bottomed chairs
as its customary moveables. Temporary arrangements
seemed, however, to have been lately made

for a greater number of guests than those would
accommodate. An oaken settle had been brought
from its place in the porch, and arranged, with several
hastily-constructed benches, around a rude substitute
for a dining-table, formed by nailing a pair
of shutters upon a stout log placed upright upon the
floor; the convenience being eked out in length by
some unplaned boards resting upon an empty cask
or two.

The rudeness of this primitive banqueting furniture
could hardly be said to be smoothed away
by a soiled and crumpled tablecloth which scantily
concealed less than half of its upper surface. It
appeared, however, to answer the purpose with the
bluff campaigners who were now seated around it,
filling beaker after beaker from a huge pewter flagon
which rapidly circulated around the board. Nor did
they, while making the most of these ungainly appliances
for their comfort, envy the burly and selfish
lounger who occupied and monopolized two or three
of the chairs, as well as the smaller and neater table
in one corner of the apartment. Of this privileged
and loutish individual we shall speak hereafter. A
heavy black patch covered one of his eyes; but the
curious glances which he with the other ever and
anon casts upon the carousing soldiery would intimate
that they are worthy of a more minute description
than we have yet given of them.

Their—stacked arms and knapsacks flung carelessly
in the corners might indicate that they are
only some fatigue party of militia that has stopped
here for refreshment; or it may be a detachment
from some larger body of light troops which has
halted for the night upon their march through the
country. The absence of all military etiquette, and
the free and equal tone of their intercourse, as they
sit all drinking at the same board, would imply that

they are only privates of some volunteer company
of foot. And yet, if his sabre and spurs were wanting,
there is still that in the appearance as well as
the equipments of more than one of their number
which would anywhere distinguish him from the
common soldier of a marching regiment, much less
from an ordinary militia-man. His looks are too
intelligent for those of a mere human machine, accustomed
only to act in mechanical unison with
others. His features are earnest, but not rigid.
His air is martial, but yet not strictly military.
It betrays the schooling of service rather than the
habit of discipline. It bespeaks the soldier, who
has been made such by circumstance rather than by
the drill sergeant. In a word, it is the air of a guerilla,
and not of a regular.

But listen; the partisan grows musical in his
cups. There is a grave pause in his wild wassail;
he has linked hands with his comrades; and now,
with one voice, they raise their battle hymn together.
It is that half-German gathering song which, in the
days of the Revolution, used to stir the Teuton blood
of “The old Residenters,” as the men of the Mohawk
called themselves.

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.

The solitary lounger, who sat aloof from the soldiers,
exhibited every sign of boorish impatience
short of being directly offensive, as each new verse
followed the repetition of the chorus from the other
table. He was a strong-featured, bull-necked fellow,
whose slouched drab beaver, huge loaded whip,
and blanket-cloth overcoat indicated the occupation
of a teamster or drover. A pipe and pot of beer had
been placed before him while the soldiers were in
the midst of their song, with whose soothing luxury
he seemed not fully content, however, judging by
the growling impatience with which, ever and anon,
he now asked about some toasted cheese that it appeared
was preparing for him in the kitchen. His

remarks were addressed to mine host, a thin-faced,
lank-haired worthy, in a complete suit of black velveteen,
who stood behind the bar with slate in hand,
ready to make any addition to his reckoning at the
first call for replenishing the jorum of the soldiers;
and partly to a tight lass that glided to and fro
through the room, on the alert to receive the orders
of the company.

“Why, Tavy, gal,” said the drover, “I shall have
drank up all my ale before that cheese is forthcoming.
Your mammy ought to be able to toss up
such a trifle at five minutes' notice. I must ride
far to-night, and that right soon, to overtake my cattle,
which must be driven to Fort Dayton before
breakfast to-morrow. And here on moment—I
would tell you something, my pretty Tavy.”

“Octavia Sarah Ann,” cried a shrewish female
voice from the kitchen.

“Go, Tavy, my good girl, to your mother,” said
mine host, evidently uneasy to get the girl out of the
way of the cheese customer. “Your call shall be
obeyed in a moment, worthy sir; only have a little
patience. We are anything but strong-handed in
this house just now. My son Zachariah went off
with the Congress soldiers yesterday, and Scotch
Angus stole away to join the king's people last week.
The niggers are all sorting the horses that came in
to-night, and my good woman has no one to split a
stick for her till Zip comes in from the stable.”

“Well, Bully Nick, you might have spared all
that long palaver if you had left spry-tongued Tavy
to tell me the same thing in three words, instead of
squinting and blinking to her to clear out, as you did
just now. Hark ye, Nicholas, I would say a word
to you;” and the man, whose lawless features put
on a scowl, as if some angry thought had struck
him, beckoned to the innkeeper to approach near

enough for them to exchange a whisper together.
But this mark of confidence Wingear seemed sedulously
to avoid; and the traveller, at last rising
abruptly from his seat, strode up to the bar, and,
flinging down his reckoning, stalked out of the apartment;
not, however, before he had leaned over the
counter, and, catching the shrinking Nicholas by
the collar of his coat, muttered in his ear,

“I see you know me, worthy Nick! and, seeing
that you do, I've half a mind to slit your weasand
for fighting so shy of an old acquaintance. Schinos!
breathe but a syllable to this rebel gang, and
I'll roast you and your household among those rotten
timbers before morning. Remember! I have
an eye upon you, even among that batch of fools
yonder.”

“I say, deacon,” cried one of the Yægers, as the
innkeeper, stooping down behind the bar, as if busied
in arranging something, managed thus to conceal
the terror which this formidable speech had
inspired, “I say, deacon, my boy, who the devil's
that surly chap who's just left us?”

“That's more than I can tell you, Captain De
Roos,” replied Wingear, with difficulty mastering
the trepidation into which he had been thrown, and
still averting his face as he plied his towel industriously
along the shelves over which he leaned.
“The man's in the cattle business, I believe, sir,
as he talked of driving some critturs to Fort Dayton
for the troops there.”

The officer paused for a moment in mere idleness
of thought, as it seemed from the intentness
with which he watched the smoke-wreaths from his
mouth curling upward toward the rafters; and then
knocking the ashes from his segar, he resumed abruptly,
before replacing it in his lips,

“Did you ever see anything of Wolfert Valtmeyer
in these parts, Nicky?”

“Oh yes, sir,” answered Octavia, who that moment
entered with a fresh flagon from the cellar;
“he stopped here about harvest time two years ago
with Mr. Bradshawe, just as the troubles were beginning.
They went off in a hurry; folks said because
old Balt the hunter came down here to look
after their doings.”

“You are mistaken, Tavy,” said her father, uneasily;
“Bradshawe and the drover—and Valtmeyer
I mean—put down the pitcher, gal, and don't
stand gaping at me so. The drover and Brad—I
mean Wolfert—”

“You mean! and what the devil do you mean?”
said the soldier, turning round fiercely, and fixing a
stern eye upon the innkeeper. “Keep a straight
tongue between your teeth, Nick, or you may wish
it bitten off when too late.”

The abashed publican, quailing beneath the penetrating
glance of De Roos, was glad of any excuse
for remaining silent, while the other, addressing the
girl, thus pursued his inquiries:

“And so, my pretty Tavy, you saw Valtmeyer
about two years since, eh? About the time of
Greyslaer's fight, wasn't it?”

“Yes, sir, either just before or just after Brant
carried off Miss Alida.”

The features of the gay soldier darkened as she
spoke; but, quickly resuming his air of unconcern,
he continued his questions by asking,

“What kind of a looking fellow was Wolfert
then? Did he bear any resemblance to the drover
that was here but now?”

“He was about as tall as the drover, sir, but not
so fleshy. When the drover had his back turned I
almost mistrusted it was Mr. Valtmeyer; but then

the drover was much younger and rounder-faced, and,
in spite of the black patch over his eye, altogether
more likely looking than Mr. Valtmeyer, who looked
mighty homely with his great sprangly beard, he
did;” and the girl smoothed down her apron, and
cast a glance over her shoulder at a bit of looking-glass
stuck against a post of the bar, as if she questioned
the taste of the unshorn Wolfert in having,
by his toilet, shown such indifference to her charms.

“He was thinner, and wore a long beard, eh? a
razor and good quarters would easily make all the
difference,” soliloquized De Roos. “But the impudent
scoundrel would scarcely dare thus to put his
head in the lion's mouth. Yet I must have an eye to
the puritanical curmudgeon that this simple lass has
the courtesy to call father.” And then resuming
aloud, he added, “Did your, father ever know—”

“Octavia Sarah Ann,” interrupted the shrill voice
from the kitchen.

“Curse the beldam!” muttered De Roos, as the
nuisance was instantly repeated.

“Octavia Sarah Ann, come take this toasted
cheese to the cattle merchant.”

“Yes, mother, yes, I'm coming! Had you any
more questions to ask me, captain?”

“Go, gal, go,” growled old Wingear, in a low
voice. “You are too fond, young missus, of keeping
here among the sogers.”

“Any more questions? no—stay one moment,
sweet Tavy, my blooming Tavy. Where got you
those gay ribands which lace that bodice so charmingly?”

“Law, sir,” replied the girl, bashfully retiring a
step or two as the gallant soldier stretched out his
hand as if to draw her near and examine the trim
of her tasteful little figure more curiously; “law,
sir, it's only the blue and buff, the Congress colours,

you know, that old Balt brought me, with other fixings,
from Schenectady.”

“Octavia Sarah Ann, if ye're not here in the
peeling of an inion, 'twill be the worse for you,”
screamed the virago mother.

“You see, captain, I must go.”

“Zounds! what a tight ankle the girl has, too,”
quoth the captain, as she tripped out of the apartment.
“And so that queer quiz, old Balt, has induced her
to mount the patriot colours! Well, I hope a finer
riband will not induce her to change them for the
blue and silver of `The Royal New-Yorkers,' as
Johnson's motley gang call themselves. For `Bold
and true, in buff and blue, &c.;”' and the mercurial
ranger strolled off to the stables, humming some
verses of an old song, which was quickly taken up
and echoed by his comrades.

“There he goes—God bless him—singing for all
the world like a Bob-a-linkum on the wing—a crittur

whose very natur it is not to keep still for a moment,
and to make music wherever he moves.”

“And what mare's nest has our singing bird
found now, corporal?”

“Well, I don't know, sargeant; only, if the captain
has got upon the trail of Wild Wolfert, as his
words belikened, it would be a tall thing for us boys
to seize that limb o' Satan, and carry him along
with us to German Flats.”

“Ay, ay, it would indeed; but though our scouts
would make us believe that both he and Bradshawe
are snooping about the country among the Tories,
I rather guess that they are both snug in St. Leger's
lines before Fort Stanwix.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” said a trooper, rapping an
empty flagon with the hilt of his sabre, as if tired
of the discussion of so dry a subject. “Butler
could never spare such an officer as Bradshawe at
such a time as this.”

“Yes,” rejoined another; “and if he were really
skulking about among the Tories, the hawk-eyed
Willett must have lighted upon him while screwing
his way through such a ticklish region to come
down and alarm the lower country as he did.”

“Come, lieutenant,” cried one who had not yet
spoken, “give us another song; and be it a merry
or droll one, if it suits you; this is the last night
we are to mess together like gentlemen volunteers.
To-morrow we shall be mustered with the old Continentals,
and then the cursed etiquette of army discipline
puts an end to all fun among us. It takes
Captain Dirk a whole campaign to thaw out into a
clever fellow after passing a week with his company
in the regular lines; and as for you, Tom Wiley,
who've sat the whole evening—”

“Spare me, worthy Hans; I hate to find myself
under the command of a Congress officer as much

as you do, only you know that, for the honour of the
corps, we Yægers should keep up the observances
of military rank when acting with the government
forces.”

“That's a fact, boys,” said the corporal. “What!
would you have our free companies confounded with
the common-draughted milishy, and laughed at by all
the Continentals as they be? No, no; I may wince
as much as any on ye when I feel the screws o' discipline
first beginning to set tight, but I like to see
our captain take airs upon himself with the best on
'em when it's for the honour of the corps. There
now's the Refugee partisans that fight on their own
hook just like ourselves—Johnson's Greens and
Butler's Rangers, Tories though they be—toe the
mark like real sodgers upon a call of duty. Oh,
you should have been in Greyslaer's company to
see discipline, and that, too, jist when the war was
breaking out; only ask Cornet Kit Lansingh, when
the poor boy comes safe to hand again from that
wild tramp of hisn! As sure as my name's Adam
Miller, if Major Max ever comes back from the
South—”

“It will be to haunt you, Adam, for prosing about
these gloomy byergones instead of drinking your liquor.
Major Greyslaer has been dead these six
months, and his ghost ought to be laid by this time.
As for poor Cornet Kit, the only service we can
render him is to drink his memory all standing.”

“Don't tell me that,” said the corporal, his face
reddening with indignation. “You can't riley me
about the major, Tom Wiley; for, though folks
would make out that he fell at Fort Moultrie, I
knows what I knows about him! As for Kit Lansingh,
you needn't waste liquor by drinking to his
memory yet a while; for hasn't old Balt got scent
of him clean off in the Genesee country? and aint

he upon his living trail by this time with the friendly
Mohegan that I myself heerd tell about having seen
Kit with his own eyes among the Oneidas last winter?”

“What, Balt try to carry his scalp safely through
the Seneca nation, not to mention the Onondagoes
and Cayugas, through all of which he'll have to run
the gauntlet before reaching the Genesee? Pshaw,
man, the old hunter is as cold as my spurs long before
this.”

Though the reckless trooper spoke thus only for
the sake of teasing his comrade, yet the partisan
corporal was familiar enough with the dangers of
the wilderness not to fear that what Wiley said
was true. But, as if to shake off the ungrateful
conviction, he emptied his beaker at a draught,
shook his head, and was silent, while another of the
Yægers changed the subject by saying,

“Well, well, let's have Wiley's song. Come, Wiley,
if it must be the last time we have a bout of
free and equal fellowship like this together, just tune
up something we can all join in.”

The vocalist began to clear his throat, filled a
bumper, threw himself back in his chair, and had
got more than half through the usual preliminaries
with which most pretenders to connoiseurship chill
and deaden the impulsive flow of festive feeling
(in instantaneous sympathy with which their song
should burst forth if they mean to sing at all), when
he was suddenly superseded in his vocation.

“Tavy, my light lass! Tavy, my border blossom!”
cried the gay voice of De Roos without; and
then, as entering the room from one door, while the
girl peeped shyly in from the other, “Come hither
—hither, my flowering graft of a thorny crab; come
hither, my peeping fawn, and learn news of the kind
old forester who has always played the godfather to

you. They have succeeded, boys. Kit Lansingh
lives and thrives. Here's a messenger from Fort
Dayton, bringing the news from Balt himself, now
at that post. Carry on, carry on, and tell us your
tidings; but hold, the poor fellow's athirst, perhaps.
Wash the dust from his mouth with a cup
of apple-jack, Adam, and then he'll speak.”

The countryman, who, entering the room at the
heels of De Roos, had cast a wistful eye upon the
table from the first, advanced without saying a word,
and tossed off the liquor which the corporal filled
out for him, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with
his coat-sleeve, and thus delivered himself:

“All I have to say, gentlemen, is nothing more
or less than what I was telling the capting here when
he broke away from me like mad at the stable-door;
where, who should I first happen upon but the capting
when I went to put up my pony, before looking
round for him here. `Is there anything astir
among the people?' says the capting, says he, when
I delivered him that note from Colonel Weston
which he holds in his hand, and which, if I don't
make too bold, is an order—”

“Yes, yes, an order for me to move forward tonight.
Carry on, man, carry on with your story,”
cried the impatient De Roos.

“Well, as I was saying, `Is there anything astir?'
says the capting, says he. `Why, to be sure there
is,' says I; `and a mighty pretty stir it is, too,' says
I. `Hasn't old Balt got back from his wild tramp,
and doesn't he bring the best of news for us in times
as ticklish as these? I guess he does, though,' says
I. `There's the young chief Teondetha and a white
man he rescued from the Cayugas, and took home
among his people for safety, are coming down to
help the country, with three hundred Oneida rifles
at their backs,' says I; `and didn't they send Balt

a short cut ahead to warn our people not to move
upon Fort Stanwix until they could have time to
crawl safely round the enemy and join old Herkimer
at the German Flats? To be sure they did,'
says I; and then the capting what does he do but,
instead of hearing me out, he ups at once and asks
me the name of the white man as furiously as if it was
for dear life he spoke; and when I told him it was
Mr. Christian Lansingh, the likely young nephew of
old Balt, he tore away from me as if I had the
plague; and I—I ups and follows at once to see the
end of his doings; and there, now, gentlemen, you
have the hull history o' the matter, so I'll jist put
another drop o' liquor in this glass and drink sarvice
to all on ye, not forgetting that right snug young
woman, whose colour has been coming and going
like all natur while I told my story—meaning no
offence whatever, miss.”

“Offence to Tavy, my lad! no one suspects you
of that. There are mettlesome chaps enough here
to take care of her,” said a soldier.

“Ay,” echoed another, “she has a brother in
every man in the troop.”

“And she shall choose a husband among the best
of ye, when the wars are over,” cried De Roos.
“But carry on, men, carry on; we must sound for
the saddle in twenty minutes; and, unless you would
leave your liquor undrunk, carry on, carry on.”

“Ay, ay, fill round for our last toast,” said the
sergeant, rising; “war and woman—wassail we've
had enough of to-night—war and woman—the myrtle
and steel.”

“The myrtle and steel,” echoed a dozen voices.
“Your song, your song now, Wiley.”

“War and woman—the myrtle and steel,” shouted
De Roos; and then, before the twice-foiled lieutenant
could collect his wits for the occasion, the

spirit of the wild partisan broke forth in the song
with which we close this record of the rangers'
revels.