In the general paralysis1 of suffering and despair which rested now upon the Valley, the terrible double tragedy of the gulf2 passed almost unnoted. Women everywhere were mourning for the husbands, sons, lovers who would never return. Fathers strove in vain to look dry-eyed at familiar places which should know the brave lads--true boys of theirs--no more. The play and prattle3 of children were hushed in a hundred homes where some honest farmer's life, struck fiercely at by a savage4 or Tory, still hung in the dread5 balance. Each day from some house issued forth6 the procession of death, until all our little churchyards along the winding7 river had more new graves than old--not to speak of that grim, unconsecrated God's-acre in the forest pass, more cruel still to think upon. And with all this to bear, there was no assurance that the morrow might not bring the torch and tomahawk of invasion to our very doors.
So our own strange tragedy had, as I have said, scant8 attention. People listened to the recital9, and made answer: "Both dead at the foot of the cliff, eh? Have you heard how William Seeber is to-day?" or "Is it true that Herkimer's leg must be cut off?"
In those first few days there was little enough heart to measure or boast of the grandeur10 of the fight our simple Valley farmers had waged, there in the ambushed11 ravine of Oriskany. Still less was there at hand information by the light of which the results of that battle could be estimated. Nothing was known, at the time of which I write, save that there had been hideous12 slaughter13, and that the invaders14 had forborne to immediately follow our shattered forces down the Valley. It was not until much later--until definite news came not only of St. Leger's flight back to Canada, but of the capture of the whole British army at Saratoga--that the men of the Mohawk began to comprehend what they had really done.
To my way of thinking, they have ever since been unduly15 modest about this truly historic achievement. As I wrote long ago, we of New York have chosen to make money, and to allow our neighbors to make histories. Thus it happens that the great decisive struggle of the whole long war for Independence--the conflict which, in fact, made America free--is suffered to pass into the records as a mere16 frontier skirmish. Yet, if one will but think, it is as clear as daylight that Oriskany was the turning-point of the war. The Palatines, who had been originally colonized17 on the upper Mohawk by the English to serve as a shield against savagery18 for their own Atlantic settlements, reared a barrier of their own flesh and bones, there at Oriskany, over which St. Leger and Johnson strove in vain to pass. That failure settled everything. The essential feature of Burgoyne's plan had been that this force, which we so roughly stopped and turned back in the forest defile19, should victoriously20 sweep down our Valley, raising the Tory gentry21 as they progressed, and join him at Albany. If that had been done, he would have held the whole Hudson, separating the rest of the colonies from New England, and having it in his power to punish and subdue22, first the Yankees, then the others at his leisure.
Oriskany prevented this! Coming as it did, at the darkest hour of Washington's trials and the Colonies' despondency, it altered the face of things as gloriously as does the southern sun rising swiftly upon the heels of night. Burgoyne's expected allies never reached him; he was compelled, in consequence, to surrender--and from that day there was no doubt who would in the long-run triumph.
Therefore, I say, all honor and glory to the rude, unlettered, great souled yeomen of the Mohawk Valley, who braved death in the wildwood gulch23 at Oriskany that Congress and the free Colonies might live.
But in these first few days, be it repeated, nobody talked or thought much of glory. There were too many dead left behind--too many maimed and wounded brought home--to leave much room for patriotic24 meditations25 around the saddened hearth-stones. And personal grief was everywhere too deep and general to make it possible that men should care much about the strange occurrence by which Philip and Tulp lost their lives together in the gulf.
I went on the following day to my mother, and she and my sister Margaret returned with me to Cairncross, to relieve from smaller cares, as much as might be, our poor dear girl. All was done to shield both her and the stricken old gentleman, our common second father, from contact with material reminders26 of the shock that had fallen upon us, and as soon as possible afterward27 they were both taken to Albany, out of reach of the scene's sad suggestions.
From the gulf's bottom, where Death had dealt his double stroke, the soldier's remains28 were borne one way, to his mansion29; the slave's the other, to his old home at the Cedars30. Between their graves the turbulent stream still dashes, the deep ravine still yawns. For years I could not visit the spot without hearing, in and above the ceaseless shouting of the waters, poor mad Tulp's awful death-scream.
During the month immediately following the event, my time was closely engaged in public work. It was my melancholy31 duty to go up to the Falls to represent General Schuyler and Congress at the funeral of brave old Brigadier Nicholas Herkimer, who succumbed32 to the effects of an unskilful amputation33 ten days after the battle. A few days later I went with Arnold and his relieving force up the Valley, saw the siege raised and the flood of invasion rolled back, and had the delight of grasping Peter Gansevoort, the stout34 commander of the long-beleaguered garrison35, once more by the hand. On my return I had barely time to lease the Cedars to a good tenant36, and put in train the finally successful efforts to save Cairncross from confiscation37, when I was summoned to Albany to attend upon my chief. It was none too soon, for my old wounds had broken out again, under the exposure and travail38 of the trying battle week, and I was more fit for a hospital than for the saddle.
I found the kindliest of nursing and care in my old quarters in the Schuyler mansion. It was there, one morning in January of the new year 1778, that a quiet wedding breakfast was celebrated39 for Daisy and me; and neither words nor wishes could have been more tender had we been truly the children of the great man, Philip Schuyler, and his good dame40. The exact date of this ceremony does not matter; let it be kept sacred within the knowledge of us two old people, who look back still to it as to the sunrise of a new long day, peaceful, serene41, and almost cloudless, and not less happy even now because the ashen42 shadows of twilight43 begin gently to gather over it.
Though the war had still the greater half of its course to run, my part thereafter in it was far removed from camp and field. No opportunity came to me to see fighting again, or to rise beyond my major's estate. Yet I was of as much service, perhaps, as though I had been out in the thick of the conflict; certainly Daisy was happier to have it so.
Twice during the year 1780 did we suffer grievous material loss at the hands of the raiding parties which malignant44 Sir John Johnson piloted into the Valley of his birth. In one of these the Cairncross mansion was rifled and burned, and the tenants45 despoiled46 and driven into the woods. This meant a considerable monetary47 damage to us; yet our memories of the place were all so sad that its demolition48 seemed almost a relief, particularly as Enoch, to whom we had presented a freehold of the wilder part of the grant, that nearest the Sacondaga, miraculously49 escaped molestation50.
But it was a genuine affliction when, later in the year, Sir John personally superintended the burning down of the dear old Cedars, the home of our youth. If I were able to forgive him all other harm he has wrought51, alike to me and to his neighbors, this would still remain obstinately52 to steel my heart against him, for he knew that we had been good to his wife, and that we loved the place better than any other on earth. We were very melancholy over this for a long time, and, to the end of his placid53 days of second childhood passed with us, we never allowed Mr. Stewart to learn of it. But even here there was the recompense that the ruffians, though they crossed the river and frightened the women into running for safety to the woods, did not pursue them, and thus my mother and sisters, along with Mrs. Romeyn and others, escaped. Alas54! that the Tory brutes55 could not also have forborne to slay56 on his own doorstep my godfather, honest old Douw Fonda!
There was still another raid upon the Valley the ensuing year, but it touched us only in that it brought news of the violent death of Walter Butler, slain57 on the bank of the East Canada Creek58 by the Oneida chief Skenandoah. Both Daisy and I had known him from childhood, and had in the old times been fond of him. Yet there had been so much innocent blood upon those delicate hands of his, before they clutched the gravel59 on the lonely forest stream's edge in their death-grasp, that we could scarcely wish him alive again.
Our first boy was born about this time--a dark-skinned, brawny60 man-child whom it seemed the most natural thing in the world to christen Douw. He bears the name still, and on the whole, though he has forgotten all the Dutch I taught him, bears it creditably.
In the mid-autumn of the next year--it was in fact the very day on which the glorious news of Yorktown reached Albany--a second little boy was born. He was a fair-haired, slender creature, differing from the other as sunshine differs from thunder-clouds. He had nothing like the other's breadth of shoulders or strength of lung and limb, and we petted him accordingly, as is the wont61 of parents.
When the question of his name came up, I sat, I remember, by his mother's bedside, holding her hand in mine, and we both looked down upon the tiny, fair babe nestled upon her arm.
"Ought we not to call him for the dear old father--give him the two names, 'Thomas' and 'Stewart'?" I asked.
Daisy stroked the child's hair gently, and looked with tender melancholy into my eyes.
"I have been thinking," she murmured, "thinking often of late--it is all so far behind us now, and time has passed so sweetly and softened62 so much our memories of past trouble and of the--the dead--I nave63 been thinking, dear, that it would be a comfort to have the lad called Philip."
I sat for a long time thus by her side, and we talked more freely than we had ever done before of him who lay buried by the ruined walls of Cairncross. Time had indeed softened much. We spoke64 of him now with gentle sorrow--as of a friend whose life had left somewhat to be desired, yet whose death had given room for naught65 but pity. He had been handsome and fearless and wilful--and unfortunate; our minds were closed against any harsher word. And it came about that when it was time for me to leave the room, and I bent66 over to kiss lightly the sleeping infant, I was glad in my heart that he was to be called Philip. Thus he was called, and though the General was his godfather at the old Dutch church, we did not conceal67 from him that the Philip for whom the name was given was another. It was easily within Schuyler's kindly68 nature to comprehend the feelings which prompted us, and I often fancied he was even the fonder of the child because of the link formed by his name with his parents' time of grief and tragic69 romance.
In truth, we all made much of this light-haired, beautiful, imperious little boy, who from the beginning quite cast into the shade his elder and slower brother, the dusky-skinned and patient Douw. Old Mr. Stewart, in particular, became dotingly attached to the younger lad, and scarce could bear to have him out of sight the whole day long. It was a pretty spectacle indeed--one which makes my old heart yearn70 in memory, even now--to see the simple, soft-mannered, childish patriarch gravely obeying the whims71 and freaks of the boy, and finding the chief delight of his waning72 life in being thus commanded. Sometimes, to be sure, my heart smote73 me with the fear that poor quiet Master Douw felt keenly underneath74 his calm exterior75 this preference, and often, too, I grew nervous lest our fondness was spoiling the younger child. But it was not in us to resist him.
The little Philip died suddenly, in his sixth year, and within the month Mr. Stewart followed him. Great and overpowering as was our grief, it seemed almost perfunctory beside the heart-breaking anguish76 of the old man. He literally77 staggered and died under the blow.
There is no story in the rest of my life. The years have flowed on as peacefully, as free from tempest or excitement, as the sluggish78 waters of a Delft canal. No calamity79 has since come upon us; no great trial or large advancement80 has stirred the current of our pleasant existence. Having always a sufficient hold upon the present, with means to live in comfort, and tastes not leading into venturesome ways for satisfaction, it has come to be to us, in our old age, a deep delight to look backward together. We seem now to have walked from the outset hand in hand. The joys of our childhood and youth spent under one roof--the dear smoky, raftered roof, where hung old Dame Kronk's onions and corn and perfumed herbs--are very near to us. There comes between this scene of sunlight and the not less peaceful radiance of our later life, it is true, the shadow for a time of a dark curtain. Yet, so good and generous a thing is memory, even this interruption appears now to have been but of a momentary81 kind, and has for us no harrowing side. As I wrote out the story, page by page, it seemed to both of us that all these trials, these tears, these bitter feuds82 and fights, must have happened to others, not to us--so swallowed up in happiness are the griefs of those young years, and so free are our hearts from scars.
The End
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1
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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colonized
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| 开拓殖民地，移民于殖民地( colonize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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gulch
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| n.深谷，峡谷 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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amputation
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| n.截肢 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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confiscation
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| n. 没收, 充公, 征收 | |
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travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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56
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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60
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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62
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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76
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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80
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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81
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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82
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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