The German Pioneers: A Tale of the Mohawk
by Friedrich Spielhagen · English · Gutenberg #34583 · 346,147 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The German Pioneers: A Tale of the Mohawk
Author: Friedrich Spielhagen
Translator: Levi Sternberg
Release date: December 5, 2010 [eBook #34583]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34583
Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GERMAN PIONEERS: A TALE OF THE MOHAWK ***
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
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[Illustration: "You are not my maid-servant, Catherine,"
he said gently. (P. 57.)]
THE GERMAN PIONEERS
A TALE OF THE MOHAWK
BY
FREDERICK SPIELHAGEN.
_TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY_
The REV. LEVI STERNBERG. D. D.
CHICAGO:
Donohue, Henneberry & Co.
1891.
* * * * *
Copyright, 1891
BY
DONOHUE, HENNEBERRY & CO.
* * * * *
THE GERMAN PIONEERS
CHAPTER I
On a certain forenoon in the month of April, 1758, there was unusual
activity in the harbor of New York. In spite of the disagreeable
weather--which had now already lasted two days, with dense fogs and
drizzling rain, and even then, from low, gray clouds, was drenching the
multitude--there stood upon the quay dense groups of people looking at
a large Dutch three-master, which had already lain a couple of days in
the roadstead, and now was swinging at anchor in the troubled water
nearer shore.
"The gentlemen would have done better to have remained at home," said a
little man, referring to two broad-shouldered farmers, who stood near.
"I will eat my tailor's goose and not be called Samuel Squenz if, out
of the skin-covered skeletons which have thus far passed here on their
way to the state-house to take the oath of allegiance to our king--whom
may God bless--they can select a single ordinary farmhand."
"Have you seen them?" asked another, who had just joined the group.
"Have I seen them!" replied Samuel Squenz. "We have all seen them. I
tell you, neighbor, had they come out of the grave after lying there
four months they could not have more bones and less flesh. Surely four
months in the grave and four months on that Hollander amounts to about
the same thing."
"The poor devils!" said the other.
"Ah, what poor devils?" called out a man, distinguished from those
around him by his larger wig, more careful dress, rotund body, red,
flabby cheeks, and German accent. "Poor devils! What brings them here?
What are we to do with the starved ragamuffins, of whom one half could
not pay full fare? Now according to our wise laws a wage-sale must be
openly made, as was yesterday advertised both in the 'Gazette' and in
the 'Journal.'"
"They bring us nothing into the country except the dirty rags they have
on and ship-fever, from which may God protect us," called out Samuel
Squenz. "I kept nose and mouth shut as the vermin crept past us."
"It is a sin," said neighbor Flint.
"It is a shame," snarled neighbor Bill.
"Therefore I have always said," continued the man, with the red,
hanging cheeks, "that we should do as they do in Philadelphia, where
for the last thirty years they have levied a poll-tax of forty
shillings on every imported Dutchman, just as they do on a nigger. But
here a man may preach and preach, but it is to deaf ears. I will not
stay out in the rain on account of these ragamuffins. Good day,
gentlemen."
The big man touched his three-cornered hat, but, instead of leaving the
place, went with heavy strides to the edge of the quay and looked at
the ship, which had by this time raised its anchor and was being slowly
driven on by the tide.
"It is a sin," said neighbor Flint.
"It is a shame," snarled neighbor Bill.
"That is--for Mr. Pitcher to speak so," cried one who now came up and
had heard the last words of him who was just leaving.
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Brown?" asked Samuel Squenz,
respectfully lifting his cap.
"Isn't it a shame, now," said Mr. Brown, a small, old, lean man, who
spoke with much animation, and while speaking gesticulated violently
with his lean little arms. "Isn't it a shame for one to speak so
contemptuously about his own countrymen? Is not this Mr. Pitcher just
as good, or as bad as the poor devils there on the ship? Did not his
parents, in 1710, while Robert Hunter was governor, come to New York
with the great immigration, from the Palatinate? They were good,
respectable people, whom I knew well, who had a hard time of it, and
who honestly and honorably worked up to their subsequent better
condition. They do not deserve that this, their son, whom I have seen
running about the streets barefoot, should so utterly forget them and
slander their memory as to change his name from the German, Krug, into
the English, Pitcher. Pitcher indeed! The old Krug was, I think, made
out of better clay than this young English Pitcher, who reviles these
immigrants and thereby creeps under the same cover with the Dutch who
sell people for a term of years, and deal in human flesh as you do,
neighbor Flint, with beef, and you, neighbor Bill, with cheese and
butter."
The old man thrust his bamboo cane angrily into the moist ground.
"It is a sin," said neighbor Flint.
"It is a shame," said neighbor Bill.
"With your permission, neighbors," said Samuel Squenz, "I will not
praise Mr. Pitcher, though he gives me work. One must, however, honor
his father, though he was a miserable Dutchman. Nor will I have
anything to do with those who deal in human flesh, or sell people for a
term of years. May the Lord forgive Mr. Pitcher if he meddles with such
a business. But I cannot blame those to whom this immigration is an
open grief, and who declare it to be injurious to the commonwealth.
These vagabonds take the bread from our mouths, and stuff it into their
unwashed mouths, while they are too stupid or too lazy to earn a
shilling."
"Do you see that man near the edge of the quay close to Mr. Pitcher?"
said Mr. Brown.
"The young farmer?"
"The same. How do you like him?"
"He is a noble looking fellow, though I cannot approve of the cut of
his coat."
"Now this young man is also German, called Lambert Sternberg. He lives
on Canada Creek, and I have just, in my office, counted out one hundred
pounds into his hands, and have given him a commission for another
hundred pounds if he delivers to my correspondents in Albany this fall
by October, on my account, the tar and rosin agreed upon."
"Is it possible," said Samuel Squenz. "Yes, yes, there are exceptions."
"Not at all an exception," earnestly replied Mr. Brown. "Lambert
Sternberg's brother is a fur-hunter and has, for six years, been in a
mutually advantageous partnership with my neighbor Squirrel. So
likewise there live on Canada Creek, on the Mohawk, and on the
Schoharie dozens, yes, hundreds of excellent people, who have in their
veins as pure German blood as you and I have English blood. By diligent
labor they have placed themselves in comfortable circumstances; and it
would have gone still better with them had not the Government, instead
of aiding and protecting them, thrown obstacles in their way. This time
the young man was obliged to take his long journey to New York to
maintain his and his neighbors' rights to the pine trees growing on
their own ground--a right as clear as the sun--and yet, God only knows
what the issue would have been, had I not intervened and showed the
Governor that the purchaser of land, first from the Indians, then from
the government, should not be forced to buy it again for the third time
from the first swindler who crowds himself in and manages to get some
show of title."
Mr. Brown spoke with great earnestness. Most of his hearers, whose eyes
wandered back and forth between the speaker and the farmer at the edge
of the quay, seemed to be convinced. However Samuel Squenz would not
keep quiet, but cried out with a grieved voice:
"What do you thus show, Mr. Brown, except that these scamps swallow up
the land to which we, and our children, and our children's children,
are entitled? And one must not speak of injury done to the
commonwealth! I would like to know what else it should be called?"
"A strengthening," cried Mr. Brown; "a strengthening and an
establishing of the commonwealth. That would be the right word. Is it
not a blessing for us all that outside, on the farthest border, these
poor Germans have settled, and, if God permit, will settle still
farther, and, by their position, are in constant conflict with the
French, and whom we have to thank that you, and I, and all of us here
in New York, can peacefully prosecute our business. When last fall
Captain Belletre, with his French and Indians, fell upon the valley of
the Mohawk, who hindered that he did not reach Albany, and God knows
how much further? We did not, for two years ago we allowed Fort Oswego
to be taken; and General Abercrombie, who commands at Albany, had done
nothing to protect the threatened points until October when Belletre
came. I ask again, who hindered? The Germans, who fought as well as
they could under the lead of their watchful captain, Nicolas Herkimer,
though they lost forty killed and one hundred and two prisoners, not to
speak of the $50,000 damage done by the thieving, burning murderers.
That is an injury to the commonwealth, Mr. Squenz, of which you may
take occasion to think, Mr. Squenz, and therewith I commend you to
God."
The choleric old gentleman had spoken in such a passion that, in spite
of the rain, he took off, not only his hat, but also his wig, and was
now wiping his bald head with his handkerchief as he left the group and
shuffled over to the young countryman, who still stood in the same
place on the quay looking at the ship. Now, however, as the old man
patted him on the shoulder, he turned about with the appearance of one
who has just been awakened out of a dream. It could not have been a
pleasant dream. On the fine, dark-complexioned face there was a trace
of deep grief, and the large, blue, kind, German eyes looked very sad.
"Ah, Mr. Brown," said the young man, "I supposed you had long since
gone home."
"While I stood but ten steps behind you and spent my breath in
defending you! But so it is with you Germans. To strike home when it
comes to the worst--that you can do; but to speak for yourselves--to
maintain your rights against the simpletons who look at you over the
shoulder and who shrug the shoulder over you--that you leave for
others."
"What has happened, Mr. Brown?" said the young man.
"What has happened! The old story. I have again rushed into the fire
for you sleepy fellows--I, an old fool. Do you think--but for this
morning I have already vexed myself enough on your account, and I can
surely reckon on having an attack of the colic this evening. And this
weather besides--the devil take the weather, and the Germans too! Come,
Mr. Lambert, come."
The old man moved about uneasily.
"I would like to stay a little longer," said Lambert, hanging back.
"You have no time to lose if you mean to go by the Albany boat. It
leaves at three o'clock, and you also wanted to get your horse shod."
Lambert turned from the ship, which by this time had come quite near,
to his business friend, and from him again to the ship.
"If you will permit me," said Lambert.
"Do as you please," cried the old man. "You may look at your countrymen
and spoil your appetite for dinner. Or you may buy a young blockhead
who will eat the hair off your head, or a handsome maid who would not
behave at home, but is naturally good enough for you--or perhaps rather
two--that your brother Conrad may also be provided for. Do as you
please, but let me go home. We eat at twelve, and Mrs. Brown likes her
guests to be punctual. Good morning."
Mr. Brown held down his hat, which the wind threatened to take off,
with his bamboo cane, and hurried away at the moment when a dull sound
from Broadway indicated that the immigrants were returning.
CHAPTER II
There entered new life into the wet and surly groups on the quay. Men
stood on tiptoe and eagerly looked in the direction of Broadway, where
the wretched crowd now appeared. Others pressed forward to the point
where the ship was to land. It was now so near that they were already
casting over the ropes. Lambert, who still stood on the outer edge, saw
himself surrounded by a dense mass, and thus kept in a place he would
now have gladly surrendered to anyone whose eyes and heart could better
endure the sight of the utmost human wretchedness.
The scene of this misery was the deck of the ship above and below, of
which he now had an unobstructed view. Already, from a distance, had
the confusion caused by the commingled piles of bales, casks, trunks,
and baskets, between which wives and children were wandering about,
filled him with sad reflections. But his heart ceased to beat and his
chest to heave as, clearer and clearer, and now also very near, the
crying and scolding, weeping and lamenting of the unfortunate people
struck upon his ear. As his glance wandered from one pitiable object to
another, he everywhere saw countenances deathly pale and disfigured by
hunger and sickness, out of whose deep, sunken eyes dull despair and
frenzied anxiety fearfully glared. As they thus stood in motionless
groups it seemed as if they had lost all power and inclination to do
anything for themselves. Their heads were stretched forward like timid
sheep which the butcher's dog has driven to the door of the slaughter
house. Thus they hastened and hurried and crowded between the chests
and casks, and greedily gathered up their poor belongings. Elsewhere,
in confused quarreling and strife, they snatched bundles from each
other, and threatened each other with their fists, until the supercargo
intervened and with scolding and pushing and striking, separated them.
Lambert could endure the horrible sight no longer, and pressed back the
crowd which now surrounded him like a wall. As he involuntarily cast a
last glance over the deck it fell upon a form which he had not before
noticed, and at once he stopped as though struck by lightning.
Directly before him there leaned against a great pile of bales a young,
tall, slender maiden. Her right arm was thrust against the bales, the
hand supporting her head. Her other arm hung at her side. Her face, of
which he had only a side view, was so thin and pale that the long, dark
eyelashes were brought out with singular distinctness. The lustrous
black hair was wound around the head in comely braids, and her dress,
though poor and threadbare enough, was more tasty than that of the
other women, to whom she was evidently greatly superior in refinement.
As though a powerful enchantment had seized him, Lambert could not
withdraw his gaze from this face. He had never seen anything so
beautiful. He had not thought that anything so beautiful could be
found. Nearly breathless, without knowing what he was doing--even
forgetting where he was--he looked at the stranger as though she were
an apparition, until, with sad shaking of the head, she let her
supporting arm fall and, passing around the pile of goods against which
she had leaned, she disappeared from his sight.
At this moment, back on the Battery, there sounded a great shouting and
drumming and fifing. The crowd pressed forward, and was again pushed
back. The police who accompanied the immigrants had already had trouble
with the mob all the way through the city, and now, having to pass
through the compact mass on the quay to the gang-plank, were obliged to
use all their authority and to swing their clubs indiscriminately. So
it happened that over the living wall before him Lambert saw now and
then a pale, grief-stricken countenance, as the poor immigrants passed
over the narrow gangway to the deck of the ship. Here those who had
just returned on board immediately began to call for their wives and
children, some of whom, overcome by fatigue, did not move, while others
hastened to their husbands as soon as possible. A dreadful confusion
arose, which was increased by the ship's crew rushing into the crowd
and making room by pushing and striking indiscriminately. It had
reached its highest point when those on the quay, headed by the stout
Mr. Pitcher, in a close mass pushed on from behind and blocked up the
way to every one who, with his bundles and packs, desired to leave the
ship. The men screamed, the women cried, the children whimpered, the
captain and sailors cursed and swore. The police swung their clubs. It
was a dreadful chaos, in which Lambert's anxious glances were ever
peering about for the poor girl who was looking on the tumult which was
roaring around her, so lonely, so forsaken, so still and patient. As he
saw her form again emerge, now on the forward part of the deck, he held
back no longer. Without further thought, with a mighty spring from the
edge of the quay, he swung himself aboard of the ship and hastened to
the point where he had last seen her. He knew not why he did this. He
had no conception of what he should say to the maiden when he should
reach her. It seemed as though he was drawn by unseen hands, which it
was impossible for him to resist, and to whose guidance he willingly
committed himself.
After he had approached her, lost sight of her, feared at last that he
should not again find her, he suddenly came near her. She had kneeled
on the deck before a couple of children--a boy and a girl from six to
eight years old--whose threadbare garments she was fixing, and was
speaking; to a woman who stood near with quite a small child in her
arms, and who was constantly scolding, till the husband came up and
dragged the children away, scolding and cursing. His wife followed him
without a word or look of thanks to her who was left behind. She slowly
arose and looked sadly at those who were leaving. She followed them,
tied a small piece of cloth which she had worn, about the neck of the
smallest child, and then slowly returned to the place where the family
had left her. Her countenance was more sad than before. Tears rolled
over her pale cheeks.
"Can I be of any help to you, madam?" asked Lambert.
The girl raised her dark eyelashes, and looked searchingly with her
large brown eyes at his kind, honorable face.
"Nobody can help me," said she.
"Have you no parents, no relatives, no friends?" asked Lambert.
"I have nobody--nobody," replied the maiden, and turned herself partly
away that she might hide the tears which now burst forth in streams
from her eyes.
Lambert's eyes also became moist. The trouble of the poor girl pressed
heavily on his heart.
"Can you not leave the ship?" he further inquired.
The unhappy one, without answering, only wept the more.
"Do not consider me too pressing, kind maiden, I have seen you standing
so forsaken that my pity has been awakened. And now you yourself say
that you are alone, that you have nobody to help you, and that nobody
can help you. Perhaps I can do so if you will confide in me. I will
surely do all that is in my power."
While the young man thus spoke the girl wept more and more gently. She
now again turned her pale face to him and said:
"I thank you, kind man. I thank you with my whole heart, and may God
bless you for the compassion you have felt for a poor, helpless
creature. But help--that indeed you cannot. Who could help me? By whose
help could I leave this ship?"
Her countenance took on an unusual expression. She looked, with staring
eyes, over the bulwarks into the water which rose and fell at the
ship's bow. "For me there is but one means of escape," she murmured.
At this moment a man, cursing, pressed through the crowd, which made
room for him in all directions. He was an under-sized, broad-shouldered
fellow with a red wig, a brutal countenance and a pair of green eyes
which glittered maliciously.
He put on quite an air, dressed in his ship uniform, and drew after him
a sturdy farmer, who seemed to follow him reluctantly and who looked at
the maiden with dull, staring eyes, while he in the uniform approached,
and with legs spread apart, called out in poor German:
"So, Miss Catherine Weise, I have soon picked up a man. He is the
richest farmer within ten miles, as he says himself, and needs a
capable maid-servant on his farm. He has already bid forty on my bare
recommendation. That indeed is scarcely the half, but perhaps he will
now give the whole amount, after he has himself seen you, and has
convinced himself that I did not lie to him. What do you think, Mr.
Triller? Isn't she a stunner? Are you now willing to fork over, ha?"
He struck the farmer on the shoulder and broke out in uproarious
laughter.
"Let it be forty-five, captain," said the farmer, "and I'll take her as
she stands."
"Not a shilling under ninety," cried the captain, "not a shilling, even
if I should have to keep her myself. No, she would gladly stay with me.
Isn't it true. Miss Catherine? She is a stunner."
"Don't touch her; if you don't want your skull cracked!" cried Lambert.
The captain took a step back and stared at the young farmer, whom he
had not before noticed, and who now stood before him with glowing eyes
and balled fists.
"Oho!" he exclaimed, "who are you? Do you know that I am Captain Van
Broom? Do you know that I shall at once throw you into the water? What
is your name? What do you want?"
He took a step back, having said the last words in a far less confident
tone. He did not think it prudent to have anything further to do with a
man of so resolute an appearance and so evidently superior to himself
in bodily strength.
"My name is Lambert Sternberg, from Canada Creek," said the young man.
"There live in the city of New York respectable citizens who know me
well; and what I want I will soon tell you, if you will kindly step
aside with me for a few moments."
"As you wish; as you wish," snarled the captain.
"In a moment," said Lambert. He approached the maiden, who stood
trembling violently, and said to her in a low tone, "Catherine Weise,
will you accept me as your protector, and permit me to do for you what,
under such circumstances, an honorable man should do for a helpless
maiden?"
A deep blush spread over Catherine's face She fixed her dark eyes upon
her questioner with a peculiar expression that made his inmost heart
flutter. She tried to answer, but there came no sound from her
trembling lips.
"Wait here for me," said the young man.
He turned to the captain and went with him to a retired part of the
deck. The robust farmer had turned aside and felt no further interest
in the deal, after he saw that another purchaser for the merchandise
was found, and which, all things considered, was entirely too dear for
him.
"Now, Mr. Broom," said Lambert, as he overtook him, "I am at your
service."
"I'll be----if I know what you want," said the captain.
"Simply this: To take that girl there, whom you call Catherine Weise,
with me from the ship, and that at once."
"Oho!" said the captain, "you are in a hurry. Has she told you how much
she owes us?"
"No," said Lambert, "but I have already heard the amount from you."
"Ninety pounds! sir, ninety pounds! That isn't a small matter," cried
the captain.
"I suppose you will be able to show that the maiden owes you so much.
You will then find me ready."
The captain cast a grim side-glance at the young man like a hyena
driven from his prey by a leopard. He would have liked to have the
beautiful booty for himself, but was far too shrewd a business man not
to avail himself of such a chance. Besides, the Messrs. Van Sluiten and
Co., in Rotterdam, and Mr. Pitcher, who was probably now in the ship's
office engaged with the book-keeper, had also a word to say. So he
spoke in what was for him an unusually courteous tone, instead of the
coarse one he had just used:
"If I can show it?--yes, sir. For what do you take Captain Van Broom?
With us about everything is booked twice, sir, in farthings and pence.
Are you surprised that the amount is so large? I will make it clear.
The girl is the daughter of the Rev. Mr. Weise, who died eight days
ago, and was buried with all honor at sea. He was a preacher in the
region from which most of my passengers come. On the way, I must say it
of him, he put himself to a good deal of trouble for his filthy people
and did for them more than his strength would bear, while they in
Southampton suffered with hunger and cold; and now on the voyage
provisions with us became somewhat scarce, and the water--well, one has
a heart in his breast, and I yielded to the preacher when he came to
borrow for his people. So it has happened that his account has run up a
little higher than is usual. At the best not much was to be got from
the old man, though there still remained the girl, for whom doubtless a
purchaser could be found. So I have taken the risk, and have by degrees
given them credit for a hundred pounds."
"You before said ninety."
"A hundred pounds, by----!" shrieked the captain.
"Come with me into the office. There I will show you in black and
white. You, there, supercargo, see to it that the thieving vagabonds do
not slip from aboard. And you, Mr. Jones, do not leave the gangplank;
and keep with you Jean and Jacob, and knock any one down who tries to
leave the ship without a pass. Should any one ask for me, he must wait
a moment. I have to speak with this gentleman. Will you follow me, Mr.
Sternberg?"
The captain opened the door of a low and spacious cabin which was built
on the deck. A dark-complexioned man, with immense brass rings in his
ears, sat at a table covered with thick books and papers, diligently
writing. Near him stood Mr. Pitcher, with his red, bloated, flabby
cheeks, and on his wig-covered head his three-cornered hat, looking
over his shoulder.
"Ah!" said the captain, "here you are, too, Mr. Pitcher. That fits
charmingly. Now we can make the matter clear at once. This is Mr.
Charles Pitcher, our general agent for New York. This--"
"I think I already have the honor," said Mr. Pitcher, lifting his hat.
"Are not you Mr. Sternberg from Canada Creek, whom I met two years ago
in Albany? Have you transacted your business with Mr. Brown? I lately
saw you with him on Broadway. Well, other people want to live too.
Excuse me, Mr. Sternberg; excuse me. Take a seat. What brings you to us
at this time, Mr. Sternberg?"
"It is on account of Catherine Weise," said the captain, in whose eyes
the simple countryman, with whom the rich Mr. Pitcher desired to have
dealings, had assumed a quite different appearance. "I told you about
her yesterday, Mr. Pitcher."
Between Mr. Pitcher and the captain there now took place a short but
earnest conversation, of which Lambert understood nothing, as it was
carried on in Dutch. They ought to have let the girl go free, but the
hateful man at the desk opened a large book and said: "Catherine Weise,
folio 470 to 475, beginning September sixth of last year, in Rotterdam,
brought until to day, April fifteenth, 1758, port of New York,
amounting to L89, 10s.--"
"Ninety-nine pounds," corrected Captain Van Broom.
"Ninety-nine pounds," repeated the man with the ear-rings. "The
gentleman will require a conveyance from us to which the proper
signatures are attached. For this we charge one pound. Here is the
form. Please give me the specifications as I write."
The dark-complexioned man took a sheet of parchment and read, in a
leaden, business-like voice:
"_In nomine dei_: Between Lambert Sternberg, of Canada Creek, and
Joanna Catherine Weise, of Zellerfeld, in the electorate of Hanover,
aged twenty years, single, the following service contract--shall we say
six years, Mr. Sternberg." It is the usual period--for six successive
years from this date, under the following conditions mutually agreed
upon:
"_Pro primo_: Joanna Catherine Weise, born, etc.; agrees of her own
free will, and after due consideration, to bind herself to Mr. Lambert
Sternberg to go with him, or under his direction, to West Canada Creek,
in the province of New York, and there, from the day on which she shall
have arrived in the before-named district, for six successive years to
give him true and faithful required maid-service, under no pretense to
relax it, much less, without the consent of Lambert Sternberg, to
forsake his service.
"To this, _pro secundo_, Lambert Sternberg promises--"
"It is enough," said Lambert.
"How?" said he with the ear-rings.
"It is enough," said Lambert. "I wish first to talk over the conditions
with the maiden."
"My dear sir, consider the circumstances," called out Mr. Pitcher, in a
friendly, helpful tone. "When a man pays L99 he can dictate the
conditions."
"That may be," replied Lambert. "However, it is my privilege to deal in
my own way."
"As you wish--altogether as you wish," said Mr. Pitcher. "We force
nobody. You also wish--"
"Simply a receipt in full for Catherine Weise."
"As you please," said Mr. Pitcher.
While he with the ear-rings wrote out the receipt, and Lambert counted
out the money on the table--it was the same that he had received an
hour before from Mr. Brown--Mr. Pitcher and the captain grimaced
sneeringly behind the back of the simpleton who was so easily limed,
and never once looked at the famous account he was satisfying.
"So," said Mr. Pitcher, "this is finished. Now we will--"
"Drink to your happy journey," said the captain, as he reached for a
rum-flask which stood near on the rack.
"And to the _et cetera_, _et cetera_," cried Mr. Pitcher.
"Good morning, Messrs.," said Lambert, gathering up the receipt, the
half-finished contract and Catherine's passage-ticket, and hurrying out
of the cabin as though the deck under him was afire. Brutal laughter
rung behind him. He stood still a moment. His cheeks glowed. His heart
beat furiously against his ribs. Every convulsed fiber of his body
urged him to turn back and take vengeance on the mean scoundrels for
their laughter. But he thought of the poor girl--how much more she had
endured, and that he could do nothing better for her than to release
her from such a hell, as soon as possible.
The deck had now been somewhat cleared. The more fortunate ones, who
needed not to fear the book in the hands of the man with the ear-rings,
had already left the ship. Those who were obliged to stay sat and stood
around in groups. Stupid indifference or uncertainty characterized
their wan appearance. Curious gazers moved about among them, some of
whom had come desirous of making contracts similar to the one which lay
crushed in Lambert's coat-pocket. The heavy farmer, who had before made
a bid on Catherine, was now speaking with another girl, who had adorned
her rags with a couple of red ties, and laughed heartily at the broken
German, and at the jokes of the man. They seemed to be already agreed
on a bargain.
Lambert hastened as fast as he could to the farther part of the deck,
where he had already seen Catherine in the same place where he had left
her. But as he came near her he stopped. It seemed to him that nothing
had yet been accomplished--that all yet remained to be done. She now
turned and saw him. A melancholy smile spread over her countenance.
"Is it not true? Nobody can help me," said she.
"Here is your receipt and your ticket," said Lambert.
His strong, brown hands shook as he gave her the papers, and her thin
white hands trembled as she took them. A burning red spread over her
countenance.
"Have you done this for me?" said she.
Lambert did not reply, and was greatly agitated as she immediately
bowed down, caught his hands and pressed them against her weeping face
and lips.
"Kind maiden--kind maiden! what are you doing?" stammered Lambert.
"Don't weep. I was glad to do it. I am fortunate to have been able to
render you this service. Were it possible I would do the same for all
the other unfortunates here. But now let us away. I have but a few
hours left. I must begin my homeward journey. I would be glad first to
know that you are in safety. Do you know anyone in the city, or in its
vicinity to whom I can take you?"
Catherine shook her head.
"Have you no friends among the immigrants who perhaps expect you to
accompany them on their farther journey?"
"I have nobody--nobody!" said the girl. "You see everyone thinks only
of himself, and alas! everybody has enough of his own to look after."
Lambert stood helpless. He thought for a moment about his old business
friend, Mr. Brown. But, alas! Mrs. Brown was not a kind woman. To her,
her husband's predilection for the Germans seemed very ridiculous. It
did not very well please her to welcome strangers. He knew no other
house in the city, except the inn where he had left his horse, and
which in other respects was not desirable, especially as to the company
which gathered there. He looked at Catherine as though advice must come
from her, but her eyes had an anxious and strained expression.
"Do you mean to give me over to other people?" said she.
"What do you mean?" asked Lambert.
"Kind sir, you have already done so much for me, and are reluctant now
to tell me that you can do no more for me. I will need a long, long
time with my service to pay the heavy debt. I know it well. But I would
cheerfully serve you and your parents as long as I live, and even give
my life for you. Now you wish to take me to others. Speak freely. I
will gladly bind myself for as many years as they desire and make good
your recommendation." She smiled sadly and picked up a small bundle
that lay near her. "I am ready," said she.
"Catherine!" said Lambert.
She looked inquiringly at him.
"Catherine!" said he again. His chest heaved and fell as though he was
summoning up all his strength to speak calmly. "I live far from here,
full twenty days' travel, on the utmost border, the farthest settler,
in an impoverished region, open to the inroad of our enemies, and which
last year suffered from them a dreadful visitation. But if you will go
with me--"
A joyful perplexity showed itself in Catherine's wan face.
"How can you ask?" said she.
"Well may I ask," replied Lambert, "and well must I ask. It remains
with you. Your evidence of indebtedness is in your own hands and I will
never again take it in mine. You are free to come and to go. And so,
Catherine Weise, I ask you once more, will you as a free maiden go with
me to my home, if I promise you on the honor of a man that I will care
for you, help and protect you as a brother should his sister?"
"I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg," said Catherine.
Breathing deeply, she laid her hand in his offered right hand.
Then they hastened over the deck. Catherine nodded tearfully to one and
another. She could not speak. Her heart was too full for speech. No one
returned her silent farewell, except with dumb and hopeless looks which
cut her to the heart. On the long and terrible journey from her home
until now, according to her strength and beyond her strength, she had
tried to mitigate the boundless wretchedness around her. She could do
no more than leave the hapless creatures to their fate. Alas! what a
fate awaited those who were here cast on a strange shore like the
scattered fragments of a wreck that has been the dreadful sport of the
waves. Tears of pity dimmed her eyes. Her senses forsook her. When,
holding her bundle of clothing in her hand, she felt her feet standing
on solid ground, she knew not how she had got off the ship.
Catherine said nothing, but in her inmost heart she cried out again and
again: "God be praised!"
CHAPTER III
The setting sun, which hung over the forest sea of Canada Creek, poured
its purple beams over the travelers. They had just emerged from the
woods through which they had been going the whole day by solitary,
narrow Indian trails. At their feet lay the valley, filled with roseate
evening mist, following the windings of the creek.
Lambert stopped the strong-limbed horse which he was leading by the
bridle as they were ascending the valley, and said to his companion:
"This is Canada Creek, and that is our house."
"Where?" asked Catherine.
Leaning over the saddle and protecting her eyes from the sun with her
hand she eagerly looked in the direction which the young man had
indicated.
"There," said he, "toward the north, where the creek appears. Do you
see it?"
"Now I do," said Catherine.
At this moment the horse, with expanded nostrils, snorted, and suddenly
leapt sideways. The unprepared rider lost her balance and would have
fallen off had not her companion, by a quick spring, caught her in his
arms.
"It is nothing," said he, as she slid down to the ground. "Old Hans
acts as if he had never before seen a snake. Are you not ashamed of
yourself, old fellow? So--keep quiet, so!" He patted the frightened
horse on his short, thick neck, stripped off the bridle and tied him to
a sapling.
"You must have been terribly frightened," said he. His voice and hands
shook while he buckled on the pillion which had become displaced.
"Oh, no," said Catherine.
She had seated herself on the root of a tree, and looked over the
valley where now, over the luxuriant meadow which followed the course
of the stream, a fog began to rise. Yonder the sun was just dipping
into the emerald, forest sea, and the golden flames on the trunks,
boughs and tops of the great trees were gradually fading away.
From above, the cloudless, greenish-blue evening sky looked down, while
a flock of wild swans was flying northward up the valley. From time to
time they uttered their peculiar, melancholy cry, melodiously softened
by the distance. A deep, quiet stillness brooded over the primitive
forest.
The young man stood leaning against the shoulder of the horse. There
rested on his brown face a deep, sad anxiety. Often a shadow of
restlessness and fear passed over it, widely differing from the usual
expression of the smooth, manly features, and obscuring the light that
commonly danced in the large blue eyes. He looked now at the swans,
which shone as silver stars in the distant, rosy horizon--now at the
maiden who sat there, partly turned away from him. At length, drawing a
deep breath a couple of times, he approached her.
"Catherine," said he.
She raised her handsome face. Her large brown eyes were filled with
tears.
"Are you sorry that you have come with me?" said the young man.
Catherine shook her head.
"No," said she; "how unthankful I should then be."
"And yet, you are weeping."
"I am not weeping," said Catherine, as she drew her hands across her
eyes and tried to smile. "I was just thinking how happy my father would
have been, had he, at the end of his wanderings, found this still
place. Ah! just so had he wished and dreamed. Still it could not be so.
How your parents will rejoice to see you again."
She was about to rise. Lambert touched her shoulder.
"Stay yet a moment, Catherine, I have--I must ask you something."
The anxiety that had already before showed itself in his face become
still greater. His brows were contracted. His eyes had a stern, severe
look.
Catherine looked up at him with astonishment.
"Had my parents meanwhile died and you and I, Catherine, must dwell
alone in yonder house--"
"You must not speak so, Lambert Sternberg," said Catherine. "It is our
duty to trust the Lord. They are doubtless alive and well--they and
your brother. Why do we lose time? The evening is passing and I am
fully rested."
Lambert wished to make a reply, but the words refused to pass his lips.
He stared before him as if in uncertainty, and at length turned to the
horse, and with a degree of violence thrust the bit between his teeth.
Then he threw the rifle, which stood leaning against the trunk of a
tree, on his shoulder and, leading his horse by the bridle, began to
descend the rocky declivity. Silently Catherine followed, carefully
looking where she could with confidence set her foot, casting many a
glance at those going before. The path was very steep and the horse
often slid. Lambert needed all his strength and carefulness, and it was
manifest that he did not once look back, nor did he ask Catherine how
she was getting along. Meanwhile Catherine's heart palpitated. It
seemed as though the restlessness, the anxiety about his home that
spoke in Lambert's words and looks, had also seized her. "Were they
indeed dead--were they all dead--and were we two, he and I, to dwell in
yonder house!"
They had reached the valley. Here, along the creek, which flowed in
many windings between the meadow banks, there was an easier though
narrower path. The horse thrust forward his ears, neighed and stepped
along quicker. Lambert had to hold him by the bridle. Catherine walked
a little to one side. It did not tire the slim, vigorous girl to come
along. It was not the exertion that caused her to breathe with
difficulty. The silence which Lambert had not broken for a long time
pressed upon her more and more. She was not accustomed to it. On the
other hand--this she now for the first time thought of--he had toyed
with her during the journey of weeks, he had always talked with her in
a way so kind and good. Now, however, in view of his nearer
responsibilities he had become silent. He did not speak of those
belonging to him. Indeed she would not have known that his parents were
living had he not, when she asked him whether he thought that his
mother would be satisfied with her, replied that she should give
herself no uneasiness on that account. Had he not even now expressed a
fear that he should not find his parents alive?
"The kind man," said she to herself, "did not wish to make the heart of
the poor orphan heavy by telling me about his parents, and now he
cannot wait for the time of meeting them."
"Catherine," said he at that moment.
"Lambert," replied she, coming to his side, glad that he had at last
broken silence. As he said no more to her as she waited, she added,
"You wished to say something?"
"We shall not live there alone," indicating the block-house with his
eyes, standing but a few steps from them.
"No, surely not," she replied.
He gave her an unusual look.
"Do not be so anxious, kind Lambert, we are in God's care."
"No, certainly not," replied he.
He had not observed what she had last said, and only recalled her
former words. But it affected her painfully when, through
misapprehension, she had heard denied that which she believed, with all
her heart, as her old father had believed in all need and trouble. "We
are in God's care!" That was the text of his last sermon which, already
himself dying, he had delivered between decks to his unhappy fellow
sufferers. That was his last word as, a few hours later, he breathed
out, in their arms, his pure spirit. Did not her pious childhood-faith
approve itself to her in a wonderful manner? When all human help seemed
impossible, did not a kind man, God-sent, come, and with a strong hand
lead her out of the labyrinth, and carefully conduct her over hills and
mountains, creeks and rivers, through endless forests and immeasurable
prairies? Never, never, by the side of the good and strong one, had
there come to her a feeling of anxiety or fear. Now, as she was nearing
the end of her pilgrimage, should doubt find sly entrance? "I will
protect and help you as a brother does his sister!" Had he promised too
much? Why did he walk so self-absorbed, so still and dumb at her side,
now that he was so near his own hearth and that of his parents? Did he,
perhaps, fear that he would not be kindly received on account of the
stranger he was bringing home? Why was the house there before them so
still? No barking of dogs. No sign of those who at the next moment
might be expected to rush into the arms of the home-comer. The solitary
house on the little hillock, gently descending from it on all sides,
and standing near the creek which, like a snake through the grass, was
quietly winding among the rushes, was perfectly silent. Silent and
still were the dark woods which here and there overlooked the valley
from the heights along the shore.
As she now reached the house Catherine felt as though her heart would
leap forth as she observed that the lower story, built of immense logs,
had no windows but narrow slits like the portholes in the walls of a
fortress, and that the upper story was surrounded by a low, massive
breastwork, and that the shingle roof was quite high. Lambert tied the
horse to a heavy ring which was near the door, cast searching glances
about the house and surroundings, murmured something that she did not
understand, and finally pushed slowly against the heavy door which
opened inward.
He disappeared in the house, came out after a few moments and said:
"There is nobody here. We are entirely alone. Will you go with me?"
They were the very same words that he had addressed to her on the deck
of the emigrant ship, and she again answered him as then:
"I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg." She grasped the hand which he
had extended to her and followed him into the forsaken house.
CHAPTER IV
While Lambert had been engaged within there came through the door a
bright light, which Catherine now saw was produced by a large pine
fagot burning in a corner of the room near a great stone-hearth. The
room was half kitchen and store-room, and half living-room--such as the
young woman had become acquainted with in many a farm-house where she
had rested during her journey. It was fitted up with various utensils
hanging on the walls and ceiling, standing in corners and lying on the
floor. Near the hearth there were a couple of rough pine chairs, and,
against the wall, a large four-cornered table, serving both for a
dressing-table and for meals. There still stood on it a couple of
earthen dishes on which were the remains of a meal to which a bear's
ham, which had not again been hung upon its hook, contributed the
principal part. The entire arrangement was planned on the basis of the
simplest necessity. There was no trace of an endeavor after grace and
beauty, or the merely agreeable. This observation, that the young
maiden made with her first glance about the room, fell upon her heart
even more heavily than the empty house. The house would fill up when
the absent ones returned, but would she be happy in the company of
those who lived here, who called it their home?
"I must look after my horse," said Lambert, "and after the rest of the
things. You may meanwhile prepare the evening meal--you will probably
find something. We will after that consider your sleeping apartment. It
looks very bad here, but Conrad knows nothing about order. However, you
can have a chamber upstairs. I will sleep below. I shall not go far,
and will soon be back. Do not be afraid."
He said all this forcibly, in snatches, while prying into the corners,
so that she scarcely understood him. Then he quickly left the house,
and she heard him outside untie the horse and go away with it.
"Do not be afraid! Should I be so it would not be strange. How
wonderful it all is! But he has been so heavenly kind to me, a poor
girl; and surely his intentions are as honorable and true as ever.
Where can they be? They must certainly be at some neighbor's." She had
seen at a distance from the creek a couple of roofs. "Does he still
expect them back? Now I will do what becomes a good maid who expects
her master. What shall I begin with? Yes, that is it. So, it will soon
begin to look more cheerful."
She turned to the hearth and in a few minutes had made a bright fire
with the dry, prepared pine wood that lay near. Then she took from the
hook the kettle that hung by a chain against the wall and filled it
half full of water, which she drew from a pump that stood directly
beside the hearth. She sought and soon found whatever else was needed
for the preparation of the evening meal. She was uncertain of the
number for whom she was to provide. She finally concluded that six
would be the correct number: Lambert's parents, his brother Conrad, of
whom he had spoken a couple of times, Lambert himself, and perhaps
there might be another member of the family, or they might bring a
guest with them. When she had finished this work she began to put the
room in order, but only what would come right with but little labor.
"For," said she, "I have no right to do it, and they might be
displeased with me."
She had thus quietly labored for a quarter of an hour, and as there was
for the moment nothing more to do and the water in the kettle was
boiling, she went to the hearth and looked at the flaming fire,
thinking that it must at least be time for Lambert to return. She heard
a noise behind her. She turned half around and was greatly frightened
when she saw, but a few steps from her, instead of Lambert, a stranger
staring at her without moving, with a look of such wonder, as though he
did not believe his own eyes. The light of the pine sticks burning with
a bright flame fell full upon him. It was fortunate for Catherine that,
the same moment, she saw that the giant-like man, clothed in a peculiar
half-farmer, half-Indian garb, was quite young, and that his sunburned
face was handsome, and that his great, wondering eyes had a merry look.
And now the young giant leaned his rifle, which he had allowed to slip
to the floor, against the table, gave his strong hands a ringing slap,
broke out in very loud laughter, threw himself into a chair which
cracked in spite of its strong construction, sprang up again and
approached the maiden, who drew back somewhat, again began to laugh,
though not so loud, then was silent, shook his short, brown locks and
said:
"Lambert has done this well; but where is the other one?"
Catherine did not answer. She did not know what to think of the words
of the young man though they affected her disagreeably, and her heart
began to beat powerfully.
The young giant looked about the room as though searching whether any
one were hidden there. He then again directed his glances toward
Catherine, but with a different expression in the large eyes which now
shone with a deeper light. He said through his white teeth:
"You are handsome, girl. I have never before seen anything so
beautiful. What is your name?"
"Catherine," said the young maiden, who felt that she must say
something. "Catherine Weise. You are Conrad, Lambert's brother. I see
it by the resemblance. Your brother Lambert has been very kind to
me--very kind. We have just arrived. He has gone to put the horse in
the stable. I think he will soon be here. You should have met him. Will
the others also come soon?"
"Who should come?" asked Conrad.
"Your parents," said Catherine. She said it very faintly, fear,
increasing every moment, almost strangling her.
Conrad showed his white teeth. "Our parents!" cried he, "our parents!
They are long since dead. You must be satisfied with us two."
"I will look for Lambert," said Catherine, and tried to pass Conrad to
the door. Conrad stepped in her way.
"So," said he smiling provokingly, "then Lambert has brought you along
for himself, the cunning fellow--and I must look further. Now, as for
myself, I am the younger man and can wait a little; but one kiss,
beautiful sister-in-law, that you must give me--that is the least."
He stretched out his powerful hands and with giant strength insolently
drew the resisting girl to him and kissed her glowing cheeks.
At this moment the water, which for a long time had simmered, noisily,
sissing and whizzing, poured over the edge of the kettle in a large
swell into the fire which it almost extinguished. A thick, gray vapor,
through which the light of the fire looked red, rose and filled the
room. Catherine tore herself loose, or was torn loose, she could not
tell which; but there were now two persons there struggling together,
and the other might well be Lambert. She also thought she had heard
Lambert call her name, and so again, as outside the evening wind fanned
her cheeks glowing with anger and shame.
Within, the vapor had disappeared. Conrad, having disengaged himself
with a powerful effort from his assailant, fell laughing on his neck.
"Lambert, dear, best Lambert!"
"Let me go!" said Lambert, freeing himself from the embrace. "Let me
go. Catherine!"
He looked with wandering, anxious eyes about the poorly lighted room.
"She has gone out," said Conrad. "I will bring her again for you."
"No, no, _I_ will, I must," called Lambert, already at the door. "At
least take me along--I beg you, Conrad, let me. I will afterwards
explain everything to you. Catherine! For the mercy of God! She may
have fallen into the creek!"
"Stupid stuff!" said Conrad, who, less excited than his brother, had
cast his eyes, sharp as those of a falcon, in every direction. "There
she sits, there, do you see?"
"I will go to her alone."
"You may, so far as I am concerned. And Lambert, listen, have you not
also brought me a wife?"
But Lambert was already hastening with beating heart to the place where
he saw Catherine sit, or lie, he could not tell which, on account of
the distance and the evening twilight which now prevailed.
Catherine had run straight forward from the hill on which the house
stood until she saw the creek at her feet. She now ran along its edge,
scarcely knowing what she wished to do, or whither to go, driven by the
painful feeling that the man whom she had trusted as she did her God,
had deceived her. She could not make it clear to herself. Everything
had come so quickly--had passed like a shadow in the smoke and mist
from the fire on the hearth. What she had conceived to be a family,
consisted of two brothers fighting with each other--fighting on her
account. And this was the end of her long pilgrimage, which she had
begun in such a hopeful spirit--with a constantly increasing
confidence--yes, at last with wonderful joyfulness. This the end! "O,
my God, my God!" groaned the young girl, stopping and looking anxiously
into the wilderness which in fearful silence surrounded her, the night
with its gathering darkness settling down upon her. "O, my God, my
God!"
A bridge, consisting of an immense tree trunk, led across the creek at
the place where she now was. She had already set one foot on the
dangerous crossing when it suddenly became dark before her eyes.
Involuntarily she turned and sank back on her knees, laying her head
against the trunk of the tree. Her senses forsook her.
Then, as if from a great distance, she heard her name called,
"Catherine!" Again, but now quite near, "Catherine!" She opened her
eyes. Near her in the grass kneeled Lambert. He had seized her
powerless hands. His long, smooth, brown hair fluttered confusedly in
the evening wind about his pale, anxious face.
"Catherine," he said again, "can you forgive me?" She looked at him.
She wished to say: "Why have you done this to me?" But her heart was
too full. Two large tears rolled down her cheeks. Others followed them
unrestrained. She wished to withdraw her hands from those of Lambert.
He, however, in his desperation, held her fast, and in a despairing
voice, cried: "For God's sake, Catherine, listen to me. I meant it
well. I wanted to tell you a hundred times, but I could not. I thought
you would not so willingly go with me if you knew the actual state of
things. I endured a great fear, as you may have perceived, when we
passed through Albany and Schenectady and the valley of the Mohawk,
where they all know me. I always went first into the houses to beg the
people not to speak to you of my situation. To-day I left the road and
came on through the woods so that nobody here on the creek should meet
me. It was not right; it was very foolish; it was bad in me that I did
not requite your confidence with confidence on my part; but I did not
know how to help myself. For God's sake, forgive me, Catherine."
She had now withdrawn her hands and laid them across her breast.
Lambert had risen. He brushed his hair from his face. With all the
thoughts that crossed his brain, with all the feelings that filled his
breast, he knew not what more he should say--what he had said.
"Catherine, believe me, oh, believe me! I had not thought when I
reached New York that I should not return alone to my home. I will take
you back again--will take you where you will. My uncle Christian Ditmar
and his wife, my aunt, are old and childless and will be glad to have
you; and Conrad and I will again live as we have hitherto. Conrad has
ever been to me a kind and faithful brother, and he now feels very
sorry that he has so offended you. We will both watch over you--watch
over you all--as we always have here where we are the farthest
settlers. However, as you will, Catherine, as you will."
She had now raised herself up, and, as she stood there in the light of
the moon which had for some time risen above the edge of the forest,
Lambert thought that the beloved maiden had never before appeared so
beautiful.
She had folded her hands, and, not looking at Lambert, but upward, she
said softly but firmly: "I will go with you, Lambert Sternberg--come
what will."
They walked back toward the house, side by side, the moon shining in
the deep blue sky with radiant clearness. From time to time Lambert
cast sly glances at the beloved one. He had yet so much to tell her--so
very much--but he would not speak since she herself was silent, and he
knew that she could speak more beautifully than he had ever heard any
one speak before. It was also so well and he was so thankful that at
last the burden was lifted from his soul, and that she had forgiven him
and would entirely forgive him when she learned how much he had
suffered.
This Catherine had already perceived in the painful vehemence of a man
otherwise so quiet and self-contained. She had felt it in the storm
that had swept through her own soul. Now after the turmoil of the
storm she was at peace. What had happened? Was everything that she
silently hoped, lived upon, cherished, forever destroyed? Or, amid
thunder-claps, did a new world bloom far more beautiful than she had
ever dreamed?
Thus, lost in their own peculiar thoughts, they again reached the
house.
"Do you come at last?" said Conrad.
He was standing in the door which he now opened wide for the two. Then
he gave his hand to Catherine and his brother and greeted them for the
first time. "You before took me so by surprise," said he, "that I did
not know where my head stood. In what a confusion everything about here
lay! It had become somewhat disordered during the two months that you,
Lambert, was away. You know I do not well understand housekeeping. I
came home a couple of hours ago, having been upon Black River for eight
days after beaver. However, instead of beaver I found Onondagas, whose
manner was far from friendly--the cursed scoundrels. I went to Uncle
Ditmar's who had, meanwhile, kept our cows. Bless has calved. Ditmar
will keep the calf if you do not wish to raise it. Take seats here. I
have meanwhile rearranged the evening meal as well as I could after my
awkward interference. There is baked ham, your favorite dish, Lambert."
Conrad was unusually busy while he thus spoke. He set the chairs to the
table, pulled them back, that he might wipe them off with his brown
hand, and then set them up again. Again and again he put wood on the
fire, so that the fire crackled and the flame went roaring up the
chimney. For no definite reason, except that it had to be so, he kicked
his wolfhound, Pluto, while she, having just come in, kept blinking at
Catherine with her large yellow eyes. He himself did not look at the
strange girl, and when his glance accidentally passed over her face he
became red and embarrassed, and speedily turned his eyes away again.
In this way he acted during the whole meal. He talked, stood up, sat
down again, tried to put things in order, but brought them into greater
confusion, so that Lambert became red in the face and thanked the Lord
when he saw Catherine smiling in a friendly way. She thought she could
interpret Conrad's conduct in his favor. It was apparent enough that it
had not made an unfavorable impression on the young and beautiful girl.
It cost her no trouble now and again to return a friendly word to his
talk. Lambert was astonished, and it sounded strange to him as she once
laughed in the same cheerful, soft tone in which she spoke. He had not
heard her laugh once during her whole journey.
So he sat there full of thankful joy that everything had turned out so
well after he had been very despondent and was filled with secret
unrest like one who, having with difficulty escaped a great danger,
does not venture to yield to the feeling of security and seems to feel
the ground shaking under his feet.
But as the meal was now drawing to a close another care began to press
upon him with increasing weight. During the journey, in the farm-houses
which they entered, which were often very small, it had happened more
than once that he had passed the night in the same room with the family
and his companion. Two or three nights when they could reach no human
habitation they had taken their rest in the forest, and he had seen
the beloved maiden by the light of the camp-fire sleeping peacefully,
while he looked up through the tops of the trees and thanked God that
he was permitted to watch over her slumber. But this occurred on the
journey--an unusual condition, which could not and should not last.
There was in the upper story a store-room partitioned off, in which one
of the brothers used to sleep, while the other had his simple couch in
a small recess in the lower room. The brothers had hit upon this
arrangement the preceding year, when the inroads of the French
necessitated redoubled watchfulness. Afterwards, though the danger was
over, they had kept up the custom until Lambert's departure. Lambert
had thought of each room for Catherine, but Conrad had mentioned during
the meal that, on his eight-days' excursion, he had learned that the
French were stirring again. Consequently renewed watchfulness was
necessary, and that since Lambert must be very tired from his journey,
he would undertake the watch for that night.
"Then we will in turn both watch above," said Lambert after a pause.
"Catherine will be satisfied for the night here below. To-morrow we
will make a better arrangement for her. Is that satisfactory,
Catherine?"
"Quite so," replied the young woman. "I saw in the recess
sweet-smelling hay, and here is the beautiful white bear-skin; do not
trouble yourselves. I shall get along all right. Good night."
She gave Lambert her hand and then Conrad, who looked on with surprise.
He wondered at his brother, and followed him up the narrow stairway
after they had bolted and barricaded the door.
Catherine watched them as they ascended, drew a deep breath, passed her
hand over her forehead, and began to clear away the supper table, and
to wash up and put away the dishes, that she might with better courage
carry forward the work of reducing things to order which she had before
timidly begun. This took a long time. Often she stood benumbed in the
midst of her work with her hand pressed against her forehead. Her heart
was so full she could have sat down and shed a flood of tears. At the
same time a firm, unchecked serenity filled her soul, such as she had
experienced when quite a young thing playing at forfeits when the band
of children in their colored dresses wildly pursued each other.
Then awakened out of such strange dreams, she again quietly continued
her work, and at last looked about the room with a self-satisfied air,
since it had now assumed quite a different appearance. Having carefully
put out the fire on the hearth, she sought her modest couch that she
had prepared in the recess on the farther side of the large room.
Through the narrow port-holes in the thick plank wall there stole in
streaks of the moon's rays, spreading about her a faint twilight. It
was easy to breathe in the fresh forest exhalation which blew in at the
openings and played about her cheeks. The brook purled uninterruptedly.
From time to time there was a rustle, first gentle, then swelling out,
and then again holding back like the tones of an organ. It was the
solemn music of the primitive forest. She had already noticed this
music on her journey when, sleeping under the trees on gathered moss,
she, with dream-veiled, half-open eyes, saw Lambert sitting at the
camp-fire. She could now also hear his step as he made the round
of the gallery above. Conrad's tread would be heavier. Once he
stopped directly over her head. Was he looking in the distance for the
blood-thirsty enemies? or was he listening to the mocking-bird's
wonderful song which she had for some time noticed coming from the
forest in soft, sobbing tones, as the nightingale had warbled, over in
her German home, in the linden tree at the gable of the parsonage. Then
again it, shrieked like a vexatious parrot, or laughed like a magpie.
This sounded quite ludicrous. Then it was no more the mockingbird's
twofold, demon-like singing, but two human voices, and Lambert spoke in
excited, suffering tones: "Catherine, can you forgive me?" and Conrad
laughed, saying: "Catherine is not at all angry," and she had to smile,
and with a smile on her lips she fell asleep.
Meanwhile, as Catherine had correctly supposed, Lambert, walking slowly
over the floor of the gallery, kept watch, though Conrad, recurring to
what he had reported, assured him that, for the present, the danger of
which he had before spoken did not exist, and that he had only
mentioned it that he might have good grounds for leaving. He then
became very angry as Lambert replied, "I do not know what you mean,"
threw himself on the bed in the watch-chamber and declared that he was
too tired to say another word.
However he did not sleep, for as Lambert, after an hour, softly walked
past the open door of the watch-chamber, he thought he heard his name
spoken. He stopped and looked in.
"Did you call me, Conrad?"
"Yes," replied Conrad, who had raised himself on his elbow, "I wished
to ask you something."
"What?"
"Are you then not married?"
"No; why?"
"Oh! I only asked; so good night."
"Conrad, dear Conrad, I wish with all my heart to tell you everything."
But Conrad had already sunk back on the bear skin and had fallen
asleep, or pretended that he had.
Lambert went sadly out. "To-morrow," said he to himself, "before we see
Catherine, he shall know it, and he will help me, and all will be
well."
CHAPTER V
Lambert, having, in the early morning, lain down by the side of Conrad,
awoke late and found his brother gone. He had left the block-house at
sunrise. Catherine was up and occupied about the hearth when Conrad
lightly descended the stairs. He was in a great hurry, and declined the
morning soup which she offered him. He would certainly be back before
night. Then he took his rifle, hung about him his game bag, and, with
Pluto at his heels, went up the creek with long strides.
"The wild youth," said Lambert.
He was quite displeased with Conrad, but that he had intentionally
avoided him did not enter his mind. Conrad had acted strangely enough
last evening, but then the older brother was accustomed to the
unreliable, crisp and often silly humors of the younger one. "Why
should Conrad give up a hunt to-day which perhaps he had prearranged
with his companions? He will doubtless return by noon with a fat deer
and a woodman's appetite."
So said Lambert while, standing at the hearth, he partook of his
morning meal. However he did not say that, on the whole, he was not so
much put out by his brother's absence--that he reluctantly gave up the
sweet habit of being alone with Catherine that he might talk freely
with her.
But this morning the pleasant conversation was wanting. Catherine was
still and, as Lambert now saw, was pale, and her beaming, brown eyes
were veiled. Now that the end of her journey had been reached she felt
how great the strain had been; but soon, smiling, accommodated herself
to the situation.
"You need not feel concerned," said she. "In a couple of days--perhaps
hours--all will be regained. I will not boast, but I have always been
able to accomplish what others could, and often a little more, and, if
you are not too strict a master, you shall be satisfied with your
maid-servant."
To Lambert it seemed as if the sun had suddenly been overcast. With
trembling hand he put down the cup which he had not yet entirely
emptied.
"You are not my maid-servant, Catherine," he said gently.
"Yes I am, Lambert, yes I am, though you magnanimously tore up the
evidence of my indebtedness," replied the young maiden. "I owe you none
the less on that account. The debt is now doubled. You know it well and
yet it is proper for me to say it. I desired to be to you a good and
faithful maid-servant--to you and yours. I supposed nothing else but
that your parents were still alive, and I heartily rejoiced that I
could serve them. You said nothing about your parents, I think, because
you did not wish to make me feel sad. Now your parents, like mine,
are dead, and you live here alone with your brother, so I am your
maid-servant and your brother's."
Lambert made a motion as though he wished to reply, but his half-raised
arm fell powerless, and his opened lips again closed. He had intended
to say: "I love you, Catherine. Do you not see it?" How could he now
say it?
Catherine continued:
"I beg you, Lambert, with this understanding, to talk with your
brother, if you have not already done so. You are the elder and know me
better. He is young and impetuous, as it seems, and now sees me for the
first time. And now, Lambert, you surely have something better to do
than to stand here and talk with me. I have to clear away a little here
yet, and will follow you should you not go far, if you do not object. I
should like to see all, and know about every part."
She turned to him and gave him her hand. "Does that please you?" she
asked smiling.
"Entirely, entirely," replied Lambert. Tears stood in his eyes, but the
dear girl wanted it so, and that was enough.
"I will first go to the barn-yard," said he, "and then into the forest.
This afternoon I intended to go to Uncle Ditmar's. Perhaps you will
accompany me."
He went out hastily. Catherine looked at him with sad smiles. "You
good, dear, best man," said she, "it is not my fault that I distress
you, but I must think of us all. The madcap will probably now be
satisfied."
Catherine now felt herself somewhat relieved of the weight that had
lain on her heart since the peculiar scene with Conrad in the morning.
Involuntarily she constantly thought about how alarmed Conrad appeared
when, as he came down the narrow, steep stairs, he found her already on
the hearth; how he had then approached her and stared at her with his
large, glistening eyes, and had said: "Are you man and wife, or are you
not? If you are, then it will be best for me to send a bullet through
my head; but, lie not--for God's sake, do not lie, otherwise I will
indeed shoot myself, but first surely both of you."
Then as Catherine drew back from the violence, he began to laugh. "Now,
one does not lightly shoot such a brother dead, who is so good that he
could not be better, and a girl who is so handsome, so wonderfully
beautiful. So far as I am concerned I need feel no anxiety about being
shot dead. This can happen to me any day. Pluto, beast, are you again
staring at her? Wait! I will teach you manners." With this he hastened
away. Outside Pluto howled grievously, as though she would teach
Catherine that her master was not accustomed to indulge in vain
threats.
"Now he will be satisfied," said Catherine, yet a couple of times,
while she cleared away the breakfast and made some preparations for the
simple dinner. To-day she did not, like yesterday, have to gather up
laboriously what she needed; everything was at her hand. Everything
appeared as if familiar to her--as though she had known it from youth
up. She hummed her favorite song, "Were I a wild falcon I would soar
aloft," and then interrupted herself and said: "It has been childish
for me to be so fearful. He loves him; that one sees clearly. He has
called him the best brother, and surely, at the bottom of his heart, he
is kind though his eyes have so wild a look. Before glittering eyes
which are so handsome one needs not be afraid. But Lambert's eyes are
still handsomer."
Catherine stepped to the door. It was a most beautiful spring morning.
Small white clouds passed quietly over the light blue sky. Golden stars
danced in the creek. Dew-drops sparkled in the luxuriant grass of the
meadow--here in emerald green, in blue and purple shades there. The
woods which encircled the hill on which the house stood looked down
quietly. Over a rocky height that projected steep out of the forest
there hovered a great eagle with extended wings sporting in the balmy
air that was breathing through the valley and whose every puff was
charged with balsamic aroma.
Catherine folded her hands and her eyes filled with tears. It seemed to
her as if she were again standing in the small church of her home
village, and that she heard her father's mild voice pronounce the
benediction over the congregation: "The Lord let the light of His
countenance fall upon you and give you peace."
The last remains of unrest had passed away from her and, in her present
mood, she went to seek Lambert, whom she supposed to be at the
buildings which, as she passed around the block-house, she saw standing
at some distance towards the forest.
She found him working at a hedge which inclosed part of a field in
which the lance-shaped, bright leaves of the Indian-corn waved in the
morning wind. Young, red-blossomed apple trees, whose trunks had been
carefully wound with thorns, had been planted around the fields.
"This the deer did last night," said Lambert, as he approached a
damaged place. "Here are the fresh tracks. Conrad knows how to keep
them respectful, but during the eight days that he has been away they
have again become bold."
"I will help you," said Catherine, after she had looked on for a few
minutes.
"This is no labor for you," said Lambert, looking up.
"So, once for all, you must not speak," serenely replied Catherine. "If
you want a princess in your house you must at once send me away again.
I own myself unfit for that."
Lambert smiled with pleasure when he saw how skillfully she took hold
of the matter, and how handy she was. He now noticed for the first time
that the roses had again blossomed on her cheeks; and as she now, in
helping him, bent over and back, the agreeable play of the lines of her
slender, girlish body filled him with trembling delight.
"But you also should not be unemployed," said Catherine.
The young man, blushing deeply, returned to his work with redoubled
zeal, so that it was soon completed.
"What comes next?" asked Catherine.
"I intended to go up into the woods to look after my pine trees. There
will be probably more to do there than here, where my kind uncle has
kept every thing so well in order. But about woodcraft he understands
little or nothing; and Conrad concerns himself only with his hunting.
It was fortunate that I could do the chief labor before I left home in
the spring."
He hung the gun, which leaned against the hedge near him, over his
shoulder and looked at Catherine.
Lingering he said: "Will you go with me? It is not far."
"That is truly fortunate," said Catherine. "You know I am shy of long
roads. Will you not rather saddle Hans?"
She called the horse, grazing in an enclosure near by, in which there
was also a small flock of black-wooled sheep. He pricked up his ears,
came slowly, swinging his tail, and put his head over the bars.
"You good Hans," said Catherine, brushing the thick forelock out of the
eyes of the animal, "I gave you a good deal of trouble on the long
journey."
"The trouble was not so very great. Is it not so, old Hans?" said
Lambert.
Hans seemed to think that to such an idle question no answer was
necessary and went on quietly chewing his last mouthful of grass.
The young people stood and looked on and stroked the head and neck
of the animal, while in the branches of a blossoming apple tree a
robin-redbreast sang. Their hands touched. Lambert's large eyes assumed
a determined expression and then were raised with a cordial look to the
blushing face of the maiden.
"Now you must also show me the barn-yard," said Catherine.
"Cheerfully," said Lambert.
They entered the barn-yard which like the house was inclosed with a
stone-wall of the height of a man, and contained several low buildings
formed of logs. First the stable in which, in the winter and in bad
weather, Hans, the cows and the sheep stayed quietly together. This was
now empty with the exception of a couple of half-grown pigs grunting
within a partition, and a large flock of hens and turkeys which had
been contentedly scratching in the straw, but now, frightened at the
unwelcome intrusion, cackling and flying apart rushed out of the open
door. Then they entered the work-shop, in which Lambert worked during
the winter, and where, besides excellent timber and all kinds of tools,
there were standing, begun and finished, tubs which would have done
credit to a cooper.
"In the fall these are all filled with tar and rosin," said Lambert,
"and sent to Albany. It won't be long before I must stick to this, and
my Uncle Ditmar, of whom I learned coopering, will help me, I suppose,
and also Conrad, though he does not like mechanical labor. Still he can
do anything he pleases, and does it better than one who devotes his
life to it."
Catherine was pleased to hear that Lambert was so proud of his younger
brother, but did not speak of it. It seemed to her as if a dark shadow
had passed over her heart, which had but now been as sunny as the
surrounding golden, spring landscape.
They left the barn-yard and, ascending by degrees, soon reached the
edge of the woods, which here extended back farther from the level
ground, so that, as they turned about, the valley lay like a great
meadow in the woods, in the midst of which was the blockhouse on the
hill. The creek was concealed by the reeds which fringed its shore.
Deep peace rested in happy quietude on the earth in its morning
freshness. But up in the air there appeared an unusual spectacle. The
eagle which Catherine had before observed had been joined by another.
They sailed directly over the house and wound their circles together
swifter and ever swifter until, with loud outcries, they rushed against
each other, striking with their mighty wings, whirling round each
other, clasping each other, and falling like a stone. Then again they
separated, sailed aloft, again rushed together, until at length one
flew toward the woods followed by the other.
"A hateful sight," said Catherine. "The angry beasts!"
"We are accustomed to that," said Lambert.
Catherine was greatly disturbed by this battle scene. Involuntarily she
had again to think of Conrad.
As they now turned into the woods she asked:
"Do you truly love your brother?"
"And he me," said Lambert.
"He is yet so young," Catherine began again.
"Ten years younger than I. I am thirty-two. Our mother died when he was
born. Good Aunt Ditmar, our sainted mother's sister, took him home
since my father and I, poor youngster, naturally did not know how to
help ourselves. When he was a couple of years old he came again to us,
though his aunt would gladly have kept him. But father did not stand
any too well with uncle, and was jealous, fearing that his child would
become entirely estranged from him. So I waited on and brought up the
little orphaned rogue as best I could, and, since he grew so, I thought
that any mother would be proud of the boy. Then, when I could no longer
carry him, I played with him, and taught him the little I had learned,
and so we have been together day and night, and an angry word has never
passed between us, though he was as wild and intractable as a young
bear. Father's position in respect to him was very difficult, being
himself a determined man and quite passionate. Once, being at variance,
father raised his hand against the eleven-year-old boy, who was as
brave and proud as a man. He ran away into the woods and did not
return, so that we thought that he had either committed suicide, or had
been torn in pieces by the bears. Meanwhile my young gentleman stuck
among the Indians at Oneida Lake and did not let anything be seen or
heard of him for three years, until, a few days after father's death,
he suddenly entered the block-house where I sat alone and sad. At first
I did not know him, for he had grown a couple of heads taller and was
dressed in Indian style. But he fell upon my neck and wept bitterly,
and said:
"'I heard by chance that our father was lying on his death-bed. I have
been walking three days and three nights to see him again.' In the
midst of his weeping he threw back his head and, with sparkling eyes,
exclaimed: 'But do not think that I have forgiven him for striking me;
but I am sorry that I ran away.' So he came again as he had gone, wild
and proud, and at the next moment soft and kind."
Lambert was silent. After a short pause he said: "I wish I had told you
all this before; you would then not have been so frightened last
evening."
"And this morning," said Catherine to herself.
Lambert continued: "They here call him the Indian, and the name fits
him in more than one respect. At least no Indian would undertake to
compete with him in those things in which they chiefly excel. In all
their arts Conrad beats them; and then he loves the hunt, the forest
and rambling ways just as the red-skins do. But his heart is true as
pure gold, and in that he is not a red-skin, who are all as false as a
jack-o'-lantern in the swamp. For this reason we all here on the Mohawk
and on the Schoharie, old and young, love him. Wherever there are
German settlers there he comes on his hunting expeditions, and is
everywhere welcome. The people sleep without fear when he is there, for
they know they are guarded by the best rifle in the colony."
Lambert's eyes brightened as he spoke about his brother. Suddenly his
face became beclouded.
"Who knows," continued he, "how different it might have been last year
had he been here with us? But when Belletre broke loose with his
devilish Indians and his French, who are much worse devils, we were
entirely unprepared. We would not believe the Indian who brought us the
news. Conrad would have known what there was of it, and would soon have
brought it out. But he remained above between the lakes on a hunt; so
we missed his arm and rifle. Then took place the remarkable
circumstance that they did not come here to Canada Creek, and that our
houses escaped their ravages. This afterward caused bad blood, and one
could hear whisperings about treachery, though, at the first alarm, we
all hurried forward and did our share. Conrad helped us fight in his
own way. He says nothing about it, but I think that many an Indian, who
in the morning went hunting, was vainly waited for at his camp-fire in
the evening, and has not to this day returned to his wigwam."
A shudder passed over Catherine. What had the wild man said this
morning? "As far as it concerns me I need not trouble myself about
being shot to death." Dreadful! Had she not seen as she came up the
Mohawk valley where many houses had been burned which had not been
rebuilt, the entire families having been killed by the merciless
enemies? And how many plain wooden crosses in green fields, along the
road, in the edge of the woods, where a peaceful farmer, a helpless
wife, a playful child, had been pitilessly killed. No, no! It was an
honorable conflict for house and home, for body and life--the same
conflict through which her good father with his whole congregation had
been driven out of Germany. They knew not how to resist their shameless
and disorderly oppressors except by flight over the sea into this
wilderness at the furthest west. Whither shall they yet fly, since the
same enemy even here begrudges them life and freedom? Here one cannot
say: "Let us forsake our houses and shake the dust from our feet." Here
the word is wait, fight, conquer, or die. Not in empty threatening did
the farmer as he went to his peaceful labor carry his gun on his
shoulder.
"I wish I too knew how to handle the rifle," said Catherine.
"Like my Aunt Ursul," said Lambert laughing. "She shoots as well as any
one of us, Conrad naturally being excepted. Nor does she leave her
rifle at home. Here we are, at the pinery."
They had reached a tall forest, such as Catherine on her journey, had
not hitherto seen. The powerful trunks shot up like the pillars of a
dome and intertwined their mighty tops in an arch through whose dark
vaults here and there red sun-rays flashed. The morning wind soughed
through the wide halls, having now become stronger, and ascending,
gently died at the top like the murmur of the sea.
"This seems to have stood so since the first day of creation," said
Catherine.
"And yet its days are numbered," said Lambert. "In a couple of years
there will be little more to be seen of it. I am sorry for the
beautiful trees, and now, since you so admire them, I am doubly sorry.
But there is no longer any remedy. See, here my labor begins."
A slight depression, through which a brooklet purled on its way to the
creek, separated this piece of woods from another which had already
been prepared the second year for the manufacture of tar. Lambert
explained to his companion that each of the large trees was divided
into four quarters. "In the spring, as soon as the sap begins to rise,
the north quarter, where the sun has the least power, is peeled off for
two feet in order to draw off the turpentine. In the fall, before the
sap begins to slacken, the southern quarter is treated in the same way.
The following spring the eastern side, and in the fall the western
side, is in like manner peeled. Then the upper part of the tree, filled
with turpentine, is cut down and split up and roasted in an oven so
prepared as to secure the tar. This I will show you later. This indeed
is not a pleasing sight," said Lambert, "nor will I take you farther,
where the poor naked stumps stand and decay. It cannot well be
otherwise. One must live, and we here on Canada Creek have nothing
else, or scarcely anything else, since our small cultivated acreage
must be devoted to our most urgent necessities. So must also our live
stock, though we have plenty of fertile plow-land and rich meadow-land.
But what can one do when he is every instant in danger, and his crops
are destroyed, and his herds are driven off? They must leave us our
pine trees, and our ovens can soon be rebuilt. To replace the burnt
casks and utensils we make new ones. Hence it was for us a question of
life or death when, last winter, Mr. Albert Livingston wished to
confine us to the valley, and claimed the woods on the hills for
himself, notwithstanding that we had first bought both valley and
forest from the Indians, and again after that from the Government. But
all this I told you often enough on the journey, and you have listened
patiently, and rejoice that the business has been arranged in our
favor. God be praised--"
"And your faithful care," said Catherine. "You had it hard enough on
the long, tiresome journey, from which you did not return unencumbered.
After you had been relieved of the old care you were laden with a new
one in me, a poor, helpless girl."
"Shall I deny it?" replied Lambert. "Yes, Catherine, with you there
came a new care to me. You know what I mean. I feared I had done wrong
to bring you here, where everybody's life is in daily, yes, hourly
danger. This indeed I did not conceal from you, though I felt that you
would not on this account be frightened back. But--"
"Then don't distress yourself further about it," said Catherine. "Or do
you think you have been deceived in me?"
"No," answered Lambert. "But since we are here, it has appeared to me
as though I should have set the matter forth more pressingly. So I also
blame myself that I let Conrad go away this morning without first more
fully ascertaining what he knows about the enemy. He is too careless to
take to heart anything of that kind, I should use better judgment."
"Better judgment, but not less courage," said Catherine. "If I must
believe that my coming has robbed you of your cool courage, how could I
forgive myself for having come here with you? No, Lambert, you must not
so wrong me. I will also learn to use the rifle like Ursul. Why do you
laugh?"
"I cannot think of you and the good old lady together without
laughing," said Lambert.
"Perhaps I shall also live to be old, and, it is to be hoped, good. I
shall then take it amiss if mischievous young people laugh at me."
"You old!" said Lambert, shaking his head. "You old! This I can
conceive as little as how this rivulet must begin if it would flow up
these rocks!"
They now went on between the tree-trunks down to the creek, and were
walking along the edge where, in the mud of the shore, bison and deer
had impressed their deep trails. The stream did not run as smoothly
here as on the level ground. Its course was obstructed, now by rocks
covered with moss a hundred years old, now by an immense tree-trunk
which had fallen diagonally across, and whose withered branches
stretched down into the brown water. A little further up it had to make
its way over rocks, over which it leapt in indescribable, foam-covered
cascades. From where they both stood one could see a part of the fall,
like the fluttering ends of a white garment. The roar was softened by
the distance and accorded remarkably well with the sound of the morning
wind in the majestic tree-tops. With this exception there was an
oppressive stillness in the primitive forest, which the occasional
flight of a flock of pigeons overhead, the hammering of the woodpecker,
the cawing of crows, the chirping of a little bird high above in the
branches, and the piping of a little squirrel, seemed to make only the
stiller. Soft vaporous shadows filled the woods. But in the clear space
above the creek there was spread a golden twilight bewitchingly woven
out of light and shadow. In this enchanting light how bright the
beloved one appeared to her lover. He could not turn his eyes from
her as he now sat near her feet in the moss. Her rich, dark hair
which encircled her well-formed head like a crown; the beautiful,
slanting brows, the long, silky eyelashes; the sweet face; the heavenly
form--ah! all this, on the long journey, had made a deep impression;
but now it seemed as if he had not known it before--as though he now
saw for the first time that she was so beautiful, so wonderfully
beautiful. Also her dark eyelashes were raised, and her glance wandered
over the blue eyes which had never before seemed so deep and bright,
turned back timidly, then looked again more keenly, and could no longer
withdraw themselves; then out of their blue depths there came such
wonderful flashes that her heart stood still, and suddenly again she
felt it bounding and beating against the heart of the beloved man who
held her infolded in his arms. Then they released each other. Each
caught the other's hand. They sank again into each other's arms,
exchanged warm kisses and promises, and laughed, and cried, and said
they had loved each other from the moment in which they first saw each
other, and would do so to the last.
Suddenly Catherine shrunk back. "Conrad!" she cried. "O, my God!
Lambert, what are we beginning?"
"What has happened, my darling?" asked Lambert, while he sought again
to draw the beloved one to him.
"No, no," said Catherine, "this must first be arranged. O, why did I
not tell you? But how could I speak of it before? Now indeed I must
speak, even though it be too late."
Without hesitating and in a becoming manner she told Lambert what
Conrad had said in the morning, and how strange his conduct, and how
threatening his appearance had been. "I seem constantly to hear his
laugh," said she at last. "Great God, there he is!"
She pointed with her trembling hand up the creek to the place where,
between the dark underwood, the foam-streaks of the waterfall
fluttered.
"Where?" asked Lambert.
"Conrad! I thought I saw him slipping away between the trunks of the
trees."
Lambert shook his head.
"Then he would be there yet," said he. "It must have been a deer that
wanted to go to the spring. Surely you are causelessly frightened. I
can well believe that the youth finds my beautiful girl handsome, but
love as I do, that he cannot. Hereafter he will be happy in seeing me
happy."
"But now I surely have heard a human voice," cried Catherine.
"I, too, this time," said Lambert, "but it came from up the creek.
Hark!"
"He, holla, holla, he, ho!" it now sounded.
"That is Aunt Ursul," said Lambert. "How does she come now to be here?"
A dark shadow passed over his face, which however at once disappeared
as Catherine impressed a hearty kiss on his lips, and said: "Quick,
Lambert; let us now go to meet your aunt. See that she observes
nothing. Do you hear?"
"There she is already," said Lambert, half vexed, half laughing, as now
a large person, whose clothes were an unusual mixture of women's and
men's clothing, and who, carrying a rifle on her shoulder, pressing
through the bushes, soon reached the pair.
CHAPTER VI
"So!" said Aunt Ursul. "There yon are, sir!"
She remained standing, took her rifle from her shoulder and looked with
large, round eyes on those who were approaching, like a beast of prey
on a coming victim.
"God bless you, aunt," said Lambert, extending his hand to his old
friend in salutation. "It is long since we have seen each other."
"And it might have been longer had it depended on you, sir," replied
Aunt Ursul. "But one must first visit his pinery. Relatives and friends
come later. It is fortunate that Aunt Ursul knows her people, or she
might have had to look long for you, sir."
She threw her gun with a powerful swing on her shoulder, turned short
on the heel of her man's boots, and began to stride back over the road
along the creek by which she had come. She had returned Lambert's
salutation but slightly, and had not noticed Catherine at all.
"How did you learn that I am back?" asked Lambert.
"Not from you, sir," replied Aunt Ursul.
"How is uncle?"
"As usual."
"You have taken such good care of my things--"
"One must, when the men are wandering about the country."
"You well know, aunt, that I did not remain so long away for release
from labor, nor entirely on my own account. Nor was my journey useless.
The business that took me to New York is so arranged that you and
others will be satisfied."
"So!" said Ursul.
"And I have likewise brought with me for you a young female friend,
whom you will love as she deserves, and whom you will receive kindly as
you do all who need your help."
"So!" said Aunt Ursul.
The path was so narrow that two could not walk abreast. Ursul did not
turn about, but Lambert now did so and observed that Catherine was
quite pale, and that tears stood in her eyes. The sight cut him to the
heart, as he had but a little before seen the beautiful face radiant
with happiness. "Have good courage, my girl," said he softly. "She does
not mean unkindly."
Catherine tried to smile through her tears, and bowed as if she would
say: "Let it pass. Since you love me I can bear anything."
"Lambert!" called Ursul, who was vigorously walking on, "come here!"
"Only go," stammered Catherine; "but, for God's sake, tell her nothing.
I could not endure it."
The young man tore himself away with a powerful effort and followed
Ursul Ditmar, whom he soon overtook.
"Come to my side," said Aunt Ursul; "the path is wide enough so you
need no longer trot behind me."
Lambert did as his aunt desired. Aunt Ursul could not bear opposition,
and Lambert had from his youth honored her as a second mother. However
he could not refrain from saying with mild reproach, "You are very
rough with the poor girl, aunt."
"So!" said the dame. "Do you think so? It is naturally very important
for an old person like me to know what such a look into the world
means. No, I may as well tell you what I think. You have done a foolish
thing, sir, do you hear--a besotted, foolish thing in that at such a
time you have burdened yourself with a woman. If, instead, you had
brought half a dozen men, these we could indeed have used to better
advantage."
"But, Aunt Ursul, first hear me--"
"I will not listen! I know the whole story as though I had been present
from the beginning. Poor famished creatures, who all looked as though
they had already for four weeks played the ghost. Surely! It is a sin
and shame, and may the evil one pay back the greedy sharpers and
Hollanders, and pour melted gold down their hungry throats! But when a
gun is fired off it is well not to be in front of it. Why did you stand
near and gaze when you knew that you had such a butter-heart in your
breast? Now you have the burden. What will be the result? You will
naturally marry the girl. And then? Then there comes every year a
crying brat until there are four or five. At the fifth the poor
creature dies and Aunt Ursul can then take the young brood and raise
them. But I tell you, that won't do, by any means! I would not
undertake it should you offer me a ton of gold for each child."
Aunt Ursul had spoken so excitedly and in so loud a voice that Lambert
was glad when, turning, he saw Catherine following slowly at a great
distance, her head bowed down and she often plucking a wood-flower.
"How can you talk in that way, aunt?" said Lambert.
"To you it would indeed be pleasanter should I utter what first comes
into the mouth, and say yea, and amen, to what you dumbheads have
hatched out. Furthermore, I have no sympathy for you, sir. You have
prepared your own soup. You must eat it yourself. Poor girl! Thrust out
into the world naked and bare, so to speak, and with such eyes--just
like your sainted mother's--by which all men were captivated. This is
itself already a heaven-appearing misfortune. I can sing a song about
it. Why do you laugh, you green woodpecker? Do you think, since now, in
my fifty-seventh year, I am not as slim as an osier-switch and as
smooth as an eel, I could not turn the heads of the men at seventeen?
You are getting on beautifully. I tell you how foolish they were,
though it isn't worth while to say it, for they are all so. But I had
half a dozen on every finger, and your girl has as yet but two."
"Surely I do not understand you, aunt," said Lambert, whose anxiety
kept increasing as long as she kept talking in her peculiar way.
"Well, then, I will speak plainly," said Ursul, after she had cast a
rapid glance toward Catherine. "This morning--I was just raking up my
hay--your brother came with such a leap over the gate that my first
impulse was to give him one over the head, and, distracted and wild, to
my horror, began to speak so incoherently, that no one besides me, who
know him from childhood, could have gathered his meaning; saying that
he must shoot himself dead since you could not both marry her, and
other foolish talk, all showing that he is madly and blindly in love
with the girl."
Lambert was frightened, as he now heard from the mouth of Aunt Ursul
what Catherine herself had told him a few minutes before. So the bad
temper had not been blown away by the first morning wind that fanned
the cheeks of the hunter, as he had hoped it would be. He had carried
it at least as far as Aunt Ursul's.
"Surely you have set his head right, aunt?" said Lambert.
"First set right the head of that pine," said Aunt Ursul, pointing to
an immense tree which had been shattered by lightning so that its top
now held by the bark, hung to the trunk. "And then, sir, you did not do
right in not keeping your promise to bring the young man a wife as you
have done for yourself."
"I promised nothing of the kind," replied Lambert earnestly. "It was
impossible for me to believe that Conrad was serious when he called
after me, as I was already trotting off down the valley: 'Bring
back with you a wife for each of us!' I never thought of it
again--especially not when heaven threw in my way a poor orphan, and I
offered her, forsaken by the whole world, a refuge with me. You see,
aunt, that I am indeed blameless."
"Then give him the girl," said Ursul.
"Sooner my life," earnestly replied Lambert.
"I would like to know," said Ursul, "whether I cannot justly say that
beauty is a woman's misfortune, and I suppose you will admit it. Nor is
it less so for the men who are bewitched by it. What do the poor
creatures gain by it? Nothing more than the turtledoves which I found
covered with blood near your house. What do you gain by it? Just as
much as the two eagles who, on account of those doves, tore the flesh
from each other's bodies. Alas, poor women! unhappy women!"
"Conrad will listen to reason," said Lambert, with trembling lips.
"I do not know," replied Ursul, shaking her large head. "It often
happens that men-folks become reasonable, but they usually wait until
it is too late. So I fear it will also be this time. Now he has gone
into the woods, and heaven knows how long he will wander about there,
and that at a time when we cannot spare a single man--and him least of
all."
"He won't fail us when we need him," said Lambert.
"He failed us last year, and did we not need him then? But so men are,
and especially you young men. You make a hunting match, or get up a
race, or, at a wedding, dance the soles off your feet, and do
everything as it pleases you, and the rest you let go as it pleases
God. We saw it last year. How I talked, and preached, urging you to
watchfulness, after I saw that General Abercrombie in Albany did not
bestir himself, and naturally your hands were lying in your laps. I
preached to deaf ears. Afterward when the abominable French broke
in and sunk, and burned, and murdered after their wicked heart's
desire--yes, now every one protected his own head as best he could. But
how many houses might still stand, how many wives and children could
to-day yet look at the lovely sun and praise their heavenly Father, if
you from the first had stood together as it became intelligent men? And
now, Lambert, there stands my horse and I do not know what more to say
to you; so help yourself out of the mire and me on my horse; and, as to
what concerns the lady, I will come again to-morrow, or you can bring
her to me. I will not bite her. Have no care. Today I won't stay
longer. God protect you, Lambert. Give my compliments to the lady. What
is her name?"
"Catherine Weise," said Lambert. "She is an orphan. Her father, who was
a preacher, and, out of love for his people, emigrated with them, she
lost eight days before the ship reached New York."
"Catherine," said Ursul. "Our dear Father in heaven! So I always wanted
to call my daughter, should I have one. Both my sainted grandmothers
had that name. Nay, things happen alike. Compliments to the girl, who
seems to be a well-behaved person, and God protect you, Lambert."
The Amazon arranged her clothes, which was somewhat difficult, as she
sat like a man in the saddle, chirruped to her horse, gave him a hard
cut over the neck, and trotted briskly away from the edge of the woods
where they had stood, down the hill, over the meadow, until she reached
the road which led from the creek to the other farm-houses.
The young man looked at the retreating figure with sad glances and a
deep sigh. He heard behind him a light step. He turned eagerly and
opened his arms to the beloved one. But Catherine shook her handsome
head. Her large, inquiring dark eyes, in which there were still some
traces of tears, rested on his face.
"For God's sake!" exclaimed Lambert, "why do you look in such a strange
way, Catherine? What have we to do with others? I love you."
"And I you," said Catherine, "but it must happen."
"What must happen? Catherine, dear Catherine," cried Lambert.
"Come," said the maiden, "let us sit down here and talk with each other
quietly, very quietly."
She sat down on the trunk of a half-buried pine and looked thoughtfully
before her.
Lambert seated himself at her side. He wished to speak, but before he
could find the right word, Catherine raised her eyes and said:
"See, Lambert, how much you have kindly done for me, a poor girl, and I
could not do otherwise than give you back the only thing I have--my
all--and love you with all the strength of my soul, with every drop of
blood in my heart. I could not do otherwise, and it will be so as long
as I live, and after this life throughout eternity. But, Lambert, it
was not right for me that, in addition to the much and the beautiful
that you have given me, I should also take your love. I felt this from
the first day on, and I tried to prevent your seeing my love, though I
confess it was a hard task."
Catherine's voice trembled, but she held back the tears that were ready
to break from her eyes, and continued:
"I felt from the beginning--and I have said to myself, and promised
thousands of times--that I would be a maid-servant to you and your
parents and relatives, and, should you bring home a wife, I would also
serve her and her children, and so help, as much as I could, to promote
your happiness and that of all related to you. When I yesterday learned
that you no longer have parents I fled. I wished to flee, while a
voice, which I only now rightly understand, said that it would come
about as it now has come, and as it should not have come. I have not
listened to the voice of my conscience, and the punishment follows at
its heels. Your brother is angry at you on my account. Your aunt has
left you in anger on my account. What a bad girl I must be, could I
calmly look on and see how unhappy I am making him for whom I would
give my blood, drop by drop. For this reason it must take place. You
have given me permission to go where I will--and God will guide my
steps."
Having uttered these words she arose, pale, having her hands folded
under her bosom, and her tearless eyes having a far-off look.
Immediately Lambert stood up before her, and her eyes met his, which
shone with a wonderfully clear and steady light. "Catherine!"
More he did not say. But it was the right word and the right tone--a
cordial tone full of tender suggestion, and yet so firm, so true, that
it resounded again in the heart of the maiden: "Catherine!" and filled
her soul with sweet pleasure. What she had just said, in the bitter
feeling of her injured pride, and in her painful conviction that she
must subordinate her own happiness and the happiness of him she
loved--it now seemed to her but idle breath, like the wind sweeping
above through the rustling tops of the pines and below over the bending
grass of the meadow. The pines stood firm, the grass rose again, and
everything remained as it was before--yes, more beautiful and
delightful than before. What was now her pride except a small
additional offering that she brought to her beloved who would not be
happy without her--who without her could not be happy? This Lambert
said to her again and again; and she said to him that separation from
her beloved and death would be the same for her, and that she would
never again think of it, but that she could live for him and be happy
with him.
So they sat a long time at the edge of the primitive forest in the
shadow of the venerable trees--before them the sunlit prairie with its
bending flowers and grass, alone--speaking in whispers, as though the
mottled butterflies which were moving about the flowers must not hear.
And if a bird happened to fly past uttering his warning cry,
frightened, they crowded close to each other and then laughed, happy
that they were alone and might sink into each other's arms and say what
they had already said a hundred times, and yet did not get tired of
saying and hearing it.
Then they formed plans for the future--far-reaching plans--that during
the fall they would clear at least yet five acres, and that they would
in any case keep the calf of which Aunt Ursul had the care, and whether
it would not be best to partition off a chamber in the upper story of
the house, leaving sufficient space for the store-room; and, as the
stairway was very narrow and steep, they would make a new one. They
must also not fail to have a suitable garden in which to raise greens
and gooseberries and currants; and a honeysuckle-arbor, such as
Catherine had in her father's garden, there surely must be, though
Lambert was not sure that he quite understood what Catherine meant by a
honeysuckle-arbor.
The ascending sun suggested their return home. Lambert was disinclined
to leave the woods in whose shade the complete fullness of his
happiness had been revealed. But Catherine said: "No, you must not on
my account neglect a single duty that rests on you. Otherwise your
friends, who consider it a misfortune that you have taken up a poor
girl like me, will be right. So you must yet to-day ride to your
neighbors with your compliments. They would take it amiss should you
not do it, and they would be right. It is your duty to inform them
about your journey, which you undertook for their best interest as well
as your own. They will be pleased to see you again, and that everything
has turned out so well."
"And where shall I leave you, in the meantime?" asked Lambert, as they
now walked slowly along the creek toward the house.
"Where a woman should be--at home," said Catherine.
"I unwillingly leave you there," said Lambert. "I do not believe I
could return before evening, however I might hasten. It is six miles to
Adam Bellinger's, who lives near the mouth of the creek and who is the
last of us six who prepared the petition to the governor. On the way I
must stop three times, or rather four times, for I must not ride past
my old Uncle Ditmar. It is impossible for me to leave you so long
alone, since the French are stirring again, and I do not know how far
they have come already."
"Here good advice is dear," said Catherine laughing mischievously. "You
can't take me along to-day, after you yesterday went far out of your
way so that your neighbors should not see what a wonderful rarity you
had brought with you on your return from your journey."
"Nor shall it be different," said Lambert, but little pained by the
gentle raillery, accompanied as it was with a kiss. "Though you do not
go the whole distance, you can at least go as far as Ditmar's."
Catherine arched her eyebrows: "Are you quite sure that I should be
kindly received there?" she asked gently.
"Quite sure," said Lambert, earnestly, "the more so as my aunt was
unfriendly to you before. As far as I know her she has no stronger wish
than to repair the mischief. Believe me, Catherine, a better heart than
Aunt Ursul's cannot be found, though the severe fate that has befallen
her has made her peculiar and unmannerly."
"Tell me about it," said Catherine.
"It is a dreadful history," said Lambert, "and I would rather not
rehearse it; but you will think otherwise of my aunt when you meet her,
and so let it be.
"It is now thirteen years--it was in 'forty-four and I was
nineteen--when war broke out between the English and the French, which
they call King George's war. Neither the English nor the French could
raise many men, so they had to rely on the Indians, each party trying
by every means to win them to itself and set them against the opposite
party. Now, the English had a treaty of a long standing with the Six
Nations; but at this time they also began to waver and to unite with
the French, who knew better how to flatter them. So many fell away, and
entered into secret or open partnership with our foes. The uncertainty
daily increased. Nobody had any assurance of his life. The Germans
here on the Mohawk, and especially on the creek, had hitherto escaped;
but the danger came nearer and nearer to us, and then it was that
we went to our work with a rifle on the shoulder, and when father,
with the help of a couple of blacks from Virginia--secured for the
occasion--strengthened the block-house as it is now. Before, it was
more open.
"Nicolas Herkimer settled on the Mohawk, and several others followed
his example. Most of them, however, took the matter more lightly, and
said the French or Indians should only come on; they would soon show
them the road, and send them home with bloody heads. About this they
debated with Uncle Ditmar, and became angry at him since he was always
full of courage and of bitter hatred of the French whom he had already
learned to know on the other side, where they had burned his parents'
house and driven them from their home. He thought that should we wait
until the French came to us it would be altogether too late. It was a
shame that now everybody should think only of himself. All should
assemble here, and on the Mohawk, and on the Schoharie; that no one
should stay at home who could fire off a rifle, and that some should go
to meet the French, and pay them back, in their own territory, what
before and since they have done to us. Perhaps the old man was right,
but nobody listened to him. Then came the year 'forty-six, when the
French with their Indians swept through the valley of the Mohawk as far
as Schenectady and Albany, and destroyed and robbed what they found,
and killed and scalped what came in their way, and committed every
conceivable horror. My uncle could stand it no longer. He went out with
his four sons--my cousins--of whom the eldest was twenty-six and the
youngest nineteen. Aunt Ursul would not stay at home, but went along,
with her rifle on her shoulder, just as you saw her awhile ago, and
they carried on war by themselves and killed many French and Indians,
until they were resting on a certain day among a small clump of trees
on the open prairie and, not noticing, were overrun from all sides.
There my aunt saw her sons fall, one after the other, while she was
loading the guns. At last old Ditmar was struck by a stray bullet and
sank at her feet apparently dead. Aunt Ursul fired off the gun she had
loaded once more and laid a Frenchman low, seized it by the muzzle, and
swinging the butt on high she rushed out and struck about her so, that
the Indians themselves, at sight of such bravery, did not kill her, but
overpowered her, and tied her, and took her along as prisoner. They
likewise took uncle, who gave signs of life, when an Indian had already
torn his scalp half off. Perhaps they intended to spare them for a
later, more painful death. But it did not go as far as that, thank God!
for the troop which was taking them along was attacked by another
tribe, which held with the English, and they were killed to the last
man. So my aunt, after a couple of months, came again, robbed of her
stalwart sons, with her husband, whose mind has never since been quite
right, and who has lived on for months and years without uttering a
word, though attending to his work like anyone else."
Lambert ceased speaking. Catherine took his hand and, with gentle
pressure, held it.
So they went, hand in hand, along the creek. Here and there a pair of
summer-ducks came out of the reeds and flew, swift as an arrow, toward
the woods. Fish sprang up in the crystal-clear water. The rushes waved.
The flowers and grass on the prairie swayed in the tepid wind. The sun
poured down its golden rays. But it seemed to both as if there had
fallen a veil over the clear, spring morning.
"I wish I had not told you this--at least not today," said Lambert.
"And I thank you that you did so," said Catherine. "The happiness would
be too great were our good fortune without a shadow. Did you not find
me helpless, forsaken, poor as a beggar, pressed to the ground by care
and grief, and did you not, without a moment's hesitation, stretch out
your hand to pick me out of the dust? So I will hold it fast--your dear
hand--and help you carry the cares and burdens of life, and with you go
into the battle, if it must be, as good Aunt Ditmar did, whom may God
bless for her bravery, and whose pardon I heartily beg for the injury I
did her in my feelings. Now I can see why she who has suffered so
dreadfully cannot, like other good people, heartily rejoice over the
good fortune which comes to them before her eyes. Poor soul! She no
longer believes in good fortune."
"Perhaps it is also something else," said Lambert thoughtfully, and
after a short pause proceeded: "See, Catherine, I love you so dearly,
and have kept still so long, that I would like to tell you about
everything that passes through my mind. So I will also tell you this: I
do not know, but I believe that my aunt would be better pleased were
Conrad in my place. She has not forgotten that she carried the
youngster, when a small and helpless creature, in her arms, and has
always loved him as though she were his own mother. So Conrad has also
hung to her; and, on account of the Ditmars, the difficulty arose
between him and our father. Conrad wanted to go and live at Ditmar's,
and father forbid it to the eleven-year-old youngster. The very Indian
tribe to which Conrad fled had rescued the Ditmars. I believe he was
himself present, though I do not know, since he has never said a word
about it; nor has aunt, to whom he may have forbidden it. All this aunt
has never forgotten."
"And shall not forget it," observed Catherine with animation. "See,
Lambert, now that we have honorably acknowledged that we love one
another, I am no longer so timid. We must now be equally honest toward
the others. Your aunt knows it, you say, and she will adapt herself to
the actual state of affairs. Conrad must also know it, and then he
won't be angry at you any longer. It perhaps sounds a little bold, but
if I am indeed pleasing to him, let me manage it, Lambert. I will tame
the young bear for you."
Lambert shook his head, and had again to laugh as he now looked into
the face of the beloved one, which beamed with happiness as before.
"Yes, yes, who could withstand you? Who would not willingly do what you
wish?"
They had reached the block-house, and entered the open door. Lambert
looked about the room with as much wonder as though he now saw it for
the first time. About the hearth, on the shelves, there hung and stood
kettles, pitchers and pots clean and burnished. They had heretofore
always been in confusion. On the hearth itself the live coals glimmered
under the ashes, and only needed to be uncovered and fanned again to
start the fire. Near by lay the fire-wood carefully piled up. The table
was brightly scoured. The chairs were set in order. The floor was
sprinkled with white sand. The hunting and fishing apparatus neatly
hung against the wall. The small mirror which, dusty and dull, had
hitherto leaned in a dark corner, had found a suitable place between
the silhouettes of his parents, while they were encircled with simple
garlands.
"You best one!" said Lambert, as with deep emotion he locked the
beloved one in his arms. "You will prove the good angel of us all."
"To that may God help me!" ejaculated Catherine. "And now, Lambert, we
must think about the obligations resting on us. While you go and feed
Hans, I will prepare our noonday meal. After dinner we will start, for
I suppose you mean to take me along. Now, no more talking; we have
already trifled away too much time."
She drove out the beloved one with kisses and scolding, and then turned
to her work, which she pushed forward in a lively manner, though she
often pressed her hand on her heart, which it seemed would burst with
sheer happiness. Wherever she looked, she, in imagination, saw the form
of her beloved--the true, good, thoughtful eyes; the face embrowned by
exposure, with its handsome, clear expression; the powerful frame,
which moved with such calm assurance. In the crackling of the fire; in
the measured tick-tack of the old Swartzwald clock, she seemed ever to
hear his deep, friendly voice; and she mentally recalled the words he
had said to her, and trembled with pleasure as she thought how her name
rang out from his lips: "Catherine!" So she had always been called. Her
father, friends, neighbors, all the world had called her Catherine, and
yet it seemed as though to-day she had heard it for the first time.
Oh! everything had turned out so different and so much better than she
had dared to hope. How doubtingly she had looked toward the land with
fixed eyes, which had already learned to weep on the torture-ship. What
more could it bring her besides terrible, inconceivable misery? How
unhappy she had yesterday felt on her arrival, and again this morning.
Could she then now be in reality happy, so very happy that her dear,
dead father, were he still living, could wish for her nothing
better--nothing more desirable?
Catherine bowed her head and folded her hands in prayer, and then
looked up with brightened glances.
"Yes," said she softly, "he would have blessed our engagement with his
fatherly, priestly blessing. I can call myself his before men, as I am
before God and in my own heart. And though I have no friend, male or
female, to rejoice with us and to wish us joy, I am on that account
none the less his and he mine. But I will make friends of the whole
world--the strange old aunt and the wild Conrad. I am no longer afraid
of anybody--of anything."
So spoke Catherine to herself as she was setting the table, and yet she
was badly scared as, at that moment, she heard the stamping of a horse
before the house, and a loud human voice calling:
"He, holla! Lambert Sternberg!"
Trembling, she laid down the plates and stepped to the door to see the
caller, who again and again screamed: "Lambert Sternberg! He, holla,
Lambert Sternberg!"
CHAPTER VII
Before the house, on a long-limbed, lean horse, whose panting flanks
and hanging head showed that he had just completed a long and rapid
trip, a young man had stopped. On Catherine's appearance he forgot to
shut the large mouth which he had opened in calling. His long, flaxen
hair hung down in strands from under his large, three-cornered hat upon
his narrow shoulders. The sweat poured from his freckled, saturated,
long face, and his dull, water-blue eyes had a frightened look as
Catherine, aghast, called out:
"For God's sake, what has happened?"
"Where is he?" stammered he on the horse, and turned his eyes in every
direction.
"You are looking for Lambert Sternberg?" asked Catherine.
The rider bowed.
"I will call him. Dismount and rest yourself a moment. I will soon be
back," said Catherine.
The rider did as the young girl had told him, climbed in a tired way
out of the high saddle, and tied his horse to the iron ring. As
Catherine turned to go, Lambert came around the house. He was leading
Hans by the halter, and called out:
"God bless you, Adam Bellinger! What brings you here?"
"The French are here!" replied Adam.
Lambert started, and looked quickly toward Catherine, who on her part
kept her large, questioning eyes fixed on him.
"What does that mean?" asked Lambert. "Where are they? What do you
know, Adam? By the thousand, man, speak!"
"I know nothing," said Adam. "My father sent me."
"What for? What is to be done?"
"I was in the field." said Adam, "when my father came running up,
saying that I must unharness and saddle the mare; that Herkimer had
been there; that the French were on the march; and that I should
report it everywhere, and that this afternoon all should come to his
house to consult as to what was to be done."
"Then it cannot be so very bad," said Lambert, breathing more freely.
"Herkimer is a man of sense, and would not ask us to come to his house
if there was very pressing danger to our own homes. But how did you
learn that I had returned?"
"I was at Aunt Ursul's, who sent me here to tell you that she was going
to the meeting, and that if you should not wish to leave the young
lady, who may indeed be your bride, alone, you should take her along
and leave her at Eisenlord's on the way, or at Voltz', where the women
intend to remain at home, or at our house."
"It is well," said Lambert, as he took the hand of Catherine, standing
by him still and pale. "Now come in, Adam Bellinger, and take a bite
and a drink. You appear to need it, and the poor beast too. We will be
ready in ten minutes."
Lambert shoved up the movable crib, while Catherine went into the house
and brought out a loaf of bread which Adam cut in pieces for his horse.
Then they all went in and sat down to the hastily prepared meal, to
which Adam addressed himself so earnestly that he had little time to
answer Lambert's many questions.
Catherine learned enough, as she silently listened, to form a
conception of the real situation. She had often heard Lambert speak of
Nicolas Herkimer, one of the richest and noblest German settlers, who
owned a large farm and a castle-like house on the Mohawk, at the mouth
of Canada Creek. The year before, during Belletre's raid, he had been
of great service to the settlements. The governor had given him a
captain's commission, and had intrusted him, for the future, with the
defense of the neighboring German districts.
"He will already have formed his plans," said Lambert. "We on the creek
will doubtless have to look out for ourselves, we are pushed ahead so
far. There shall be nothing lacking with us, though I did not expect to
have the murdering incendiaries here so soon again."
Out of Lambert's entire being spoke the settled courage of a man who
well knew the threatened danger, but was resolved to defy it, come what
would. His eyes sought Catherine's, who went quietly back and forth
serving the men, and whose large, glistening eyes said: "You see,
beloved, I am, like you, quiet and self-contained."
Adam seemed to have forgotten all his fear, while engaged in eating and
drinking. He looked up at Catherine, when she filled his plate for the
second time, bowing with a friendly grin. At last he slowly laid down
his knife and fork and looked about him contentedly, as though he would
say: "One sits here a good deal more comfortably than in the cursed
high saddle of the mare, who threw me at every step from one side to
the other."
"Are you ready, Adam?" asked Lambert, who had risen and had hung about
him his rifle.
"Indeed," replied Adam, "but hardly the mare. The poor beast is not
accustomed to anything like this."
"I will water her, and saddle Hans," said Lambert.
Catherine followed him to the door. Lambert caught her hand and said:
"Catherine, I thank you, I thank you with my whole heart. I now know
that I need cast no more reproaches on myself."
"You should not have cast any," said Catherine. "Your affairs are mine
Your fate is mine. I live and die with you."
"And so will I give every drop of my blood for you," said Lambert, "but
I hope to God that there are yet many good days appointed us. It cannot
for the present have much significance. Conrad, who was up there for a
week, and in the region from which they must come, surely knows more
about our enemies than anyone else; and he told me that there is at
least no immediate danger."
"So I think, too," said Catherine, "and for that reason I will ask a
favor of you, Lambert. You have on my account slightly neglected your
duty. Had you returned alone you would yesterday already have seen and
spoken with your friends, for you would have taken the road through the
valley instead of through the woods. To-day it is fortunate that your
friend Adam has found us, for you might easily have failed to be where
you belong. This is not right, and lies heavy on my mind. Now you have
a long ride. I know well that Hans can carry us both, but he will go
better if you alone ride him. And then what would be the result should
everyone, on such an occasion, drag his wife with him? The others also
stay at home. You will leave me here, Lambert. Is it not so?"
"Now it is getting to be time," said Adam Bellinger, coming out of the
door.
Lambert stood irresolute. He saw no danger in leaving Catherine alone,
but it was very trying for him to separate himself from her just at
this time.
"Conrad may come back to his dinner and find the house deserted. Surely
it is better, Lambert, that I stay here."
"Well, as you will," said Lambert.
He again unbuckled the pillion that he had put upon Hans.
"Does not the maiden go along?" asked Adam, who was already mounted.
Lambert did not answer.
"Well then, good-bye, young lady; and best thanks. Hot! Mare!"
He turned his horse, which left the crib unwillingly.
Catherine flew into Lambert's arms.
"May you live happy, beloved. I hope you are not displeased with me?"
"With you?"
His lips trembled. Silently he pressed Catherine to his breast; then
with a mighty effort he tore himself away, swung himself upon Hans,
galloped after his companion, who was trotting ahead on his long-limbed
horse, and at every step of the animal flew up in the air, while his
sharp elbows moved up and down like wings.
CHAPTER VIII
Lambert soon overtook the awkward rider. The two young men trotted on
for a time side by side without speaking, until suddenly the mare,
panting, stood still. Adam, having thus been thrown upon the neck of
the beast, remarked that the mare was a very intelligent creature, and
well knew that it was impossible for her to keep going at such a gait;
that in such a case she always stopped to give the rider time for
reflection; and that he had always found that one also finally reaches
his destination by going on a walk, and that far easier.
"But also so much later," said Lambert, impatiently. "If you are
absolutely unable to keep up with me I must leave you and ride on
ahead."
"For God's sake!" cried Adam, and thrust his heels so forcibly into the
sides of the mare that she sprang forward, and again fell into a trot.
"For God's sake! that will soon fail."
"You are a coward," said Lambert, "in that you are put to the blush by
a girl."
He turned back in the saddle toward the blockhouse before it should
disappear from his sight behind the forest-encompassed, rocky hill
around which they were winding. Catherine had not left her place in
front of the door. Though uncertain whether she could see the
salutation he waved his hand to her, and then the rocks hid her from
his sight.
An indescribable sadness fell upon Lambert and it did not lack much but
he would have turned Hans about and gone back at full speed. But with a
strong determination he overcame his painful emotion. "I am just as
great a coward," said he to himself, "and even a greater one, for I
know better about what is going on, and nothing that I do for her
should be burdensome to me."
"You may well talk," Adam broke in upon Lambert's self-communings.
"Why?" asked Lambert.
"Should they pull the scalp from over your ears no rooster would crow
after that; but my mother would weep her eyes out."
"Perhaps there may be somebody who would rather see my scalp on my head
than on an Indian's girdle."
"Do you mean the young lady?" asked Adam, opening his mouth from ear to
ear, and for a moment letting go of the horn of the saddle, and
pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb.
"Perhaps," said Lambert.
"Don't trouble yourself about that," said Adam, in a comforting tone.
"Then I will marry her. It is already a long time since mother wanted
me to marry. But you know I would not take just anybody. The girl
pleases me."
"So!" said Lambert.
"Yes," said Adam. "Barbara and Gussie and Annie would doubtless at
first cry a little, but that would come right in time. I believe that
Fritz and August Volz are already engaged to Barbara and Gussie, and we
have always thought that you would marry Annie."
"With or without a scalp?" asked Lambert.
Adam thought this such a capital joke that he stopped the mare to
press his fists into his sides and break out in ringing laughter. A
fish-hawk, which had plunged into the creek among the reeds, flew away
frightened, while his warning voice rang out.
"My God!" said Adam, "I really thought it was already one of the mean
French, or red-skins."
"Have you during this time of terror heard of them?" asked Lambert as
they were riding along.
"Once," said Adam, "about a month ago. Father went to Schenectady with
the wheat, and I was alone in the field, when little Anton came running
and cried out: 'The Indians have swum across the creek and are at our
house.' Fear so flew into my legs that I did not know where my head
stood, and I wanted to go right home to help the women. But when I
again got my breath I was standing before Eisenlord's door. The old man
was at home, and at once sent his youngest son to Peter Volz', whence
soon there came the old man himself and Fritz and August. Then we went
courageously forward, though the crying women did not want us to go. On
the way Christian Eisenlord and young Peter Volz joined us, so that we
were six or seven, although apparently there could not much reliance be
placed on me, since I almost cried my eyes out from pity and heartache
that I should now find our house burned down, and my beautiful Bless
and the four English hogs, that I had just that morning bought of John
Martens, driven away, and mother and Barbara and Gussie and Annie
scalped. But as we came out of the woods, through which we had
carefully skulked, there stood our house undisturbed; and the women
were standing before the door scolding little Anton, who was crying
bitterly."
"How about the Indians?" asked Lambert.
"You must not interrupt me, if I am to tell my story in an orderly
way," said Adam. "Where was I?"
"At Anton, who was crying bitterly."
"The poor boy!" said Adam. "I could not blame him. He should have gone
in and covered the Indian--who was about naked, so that the women were
ashamed."
"Then there really was one there?"
"Yes, indeed; and he had swum through the creek, and lay on the hearth
as drunk as a red-skin can be, and snored so that we could hear him
outdoors. Then the others had a good laugh at my expense, and, since,
they have constantly jeered me about the drunken fellow, though one
should not paint the devil on the wall. I indeed could do nothing about
it. But little Anton should have been wiser. On account of what took
place then, they would not believe my message to-day; and had I not
said and sworn that Herkimer himself had told my father, they would
have remained at home, except Aunt Ursul, who immediately saddled both
her horses."
"So! Has uncle also gone along?" asked Lambert.
"We shall soon know," said Adam. "I will call." They stopped before the
Ditmar house. Adam rose in his stirrups, put both hands to his mouth
and screamed so loud that the doves on the roof were frightened, and
Melac, the watch-dog, in the yard, began to bark and howl fearfully.
"He, holla! Christian Ditmar! holla, he!" However the long figure of
old Ditmar did not appear at the upper-half of the door, through which
one could see the interior.
Lambert thought best to go right on and not call at William Teichert's.
His farm lay somewhat to one side, at the edge of the woods which here
bore back from the creek in a great bend and came back to it again near
Peter Volz' yard. Here indeed they had to stop, for mother Volz had
seen the riders from a distance, and stood before the door with a
pitcher of home-brewed beer in each hand, which Peter, her youngest
son, had just drawn fresh from the barrel. Mother Volz was much
excited, and great tears rolled over her big cheeks as she handed the
pitchers to the riders, at the same time scolding the French and her
Peter, who would go to the meeting and leave her--an old, helpless
woman--alone, the good-for-nothing!
"If I am good for nothing," said Peter, "I cannot help you, mother. But
I must always stay at home and play the baby; that is just as it is."
"Yes, that is the case," said Adam, smacking his lips forcibly over his
beer, "and the rest of us must have a hard time of it."
"Then give me the mare and you stay here," said the courageous Peter.
Adam was not disinclined to accept so agreeable an offer, and began to
climb out of the saddle when the mare, perhaps misunderstanding the
motion of the rider, or because she perceived that she was near her own
stable, suddenly started on a trot, to Adam's disappointment and
Lambert's satisfaction, whose impatience at the unnecessary loitering
had become very great.
Now, however, thanks to the mare's fixed purpose to end her unusual
labor for the day, without stopping, she went on faster and faster--so
that Adam held convulsively to the horn of the saddle, while his long,
yellow hair flew about his ears--on along the creek, past John
Eisenlord's house, where the women hastened to the door, and called,
and wondering looked after those who were rushing past. Thus they went
faster and faster until the mare stopped in Bellinger's yard with a
jerk and threw her rider over her head in the sand at the feet of his
mother and three sisters and younger brother. His mother called out:
"Run, little Anton! and open the stable for the mare, so that she does
not crush her skull against the door--the poor beast!"
No one felt concerned for Adam. In fact, this was the usual way in
which the mare, after such a trip, returned her rider. He soon got up
and rubbed his long legs groaning, while the women surrounded Lambert
and inquired about his journey; when he got back; and why in the
world he yesterday took the rough road through the woods? how his
maid-servant behaved? and why he had brought one from a distance of
fifty miles, when he could easily have found one--and perhaps a better
one--near by?
Lambert briefly thanked them for their kind inquiries, ascertained how
long since the men had gone, spurred his horse and, with a brief
salutation, trotted away, thus filling the beautiful blonde Annie with
not a little anxiety, and compelling her to listen to the remarks of
her sisters, Barbara and Gussie:
"Now one can clearly see, what we always thought, that Lambert
Sternberg did not take that long journey to New York on account of the
pines."
Annie replied that she cared nothing for Lambert, and that Fritz and
August Volz had also not yet declared themselves. The mother took
Annie's part, and the dispute threatened to become serious, when it
happily occurred to them that they had not once asked Adam what sort of
a person the new girl was.
They now learned from the keen rider, who had gone into the house and
was rubbing his shins with brandy, that, in no case was Lambert to have
her, but that he himself was to marry the girl as soon as the Indians
had taken Lambert's scalp, and that he and Lambert had come to a
complete agreement on that matter.
While Catherine's fate was thus discussed in the Bellinger family,
Lambert pushed along on a fast trot to regain lost time. He had
gathered from the questions of the women, and still more from the tone
in which they were put, that the way in which he had dealt was not
thought favorably of. He was yesterday persuaded of this, and to escape
this neighborhood interference he had taken the road through the woods.
He felt grieved and angry at his aunt, who alone could have spread
abroad the knowledge of his return and his relation to Catherine. Still
he said to himself that, since all must shortly know it, it was best
they should know it as soon as possible. He saw how difficult his
position in the community would be--as indeed it should be--so long as
Catherine was not his wife; possibly even after that; that, at all
events, it was his duty to make his relation to Catherine clear to all
eyes. He determined yet to-day, should opportunity offer, to speak to
the minister and to seek the advice and help of that excellent man.
He had now come out of what was properly the valley of the creek, near
its mouth. Toward the right of him lay the broad German Flats, in the
fork between the creek and the Mohawk. The land, long rescued from the
primitive forest, was rich, and there were unbroken lines of successive
settlements, with a small church and a parsonage in the midst on a
hill. Before him, on the other side of the Mohawk, whose clear waters
glanced between its bushy shores, there stood out also on a hill, what
looked like a small fortification. This, the purposed end of his
journey, was Nicolas Herkimer's stately house.
He now discovered that, as he had feared, he would not be the last one
to arrive. In the even reaches between corn-fields and bushes those
coming on foot or on horseback singly, or by twos, or threes, from
different directions, could be seen, all moving toward one point. There
was a house conveniently situated on this side of the river, diagonally
across from Herkimer's farm, where Hans Haberkorn, the ferryman, lived.
Here, a few minutes afterward, Lambert met the men whom he had from a
distance seen coming. By them he was greeted very cordially, as though
all had heard of his journey to New York, but not of his return. They
wanted to know how the matters had resulted and especially what he had
heard in the city about the war in Europe; whether the French had
really, the year before at Roszbach, been so helplessly slaughtered,
and whether the king of Prussia was this year going to take the field
against his countless enemies.
Lambert told them what he knew, and on his part sought information
about things at home. Of the five or six men who thus happened to meet,
each gave his impressions as best he could, from which it appeared that
there were nearly as many different opinions as there were men, in the
small gathering. Yes, while they were eagerly attacking Hans
Haberkorn's rum, they became so warm that they seemed to have forgotten
why they were there, until Lambert's urgency induced them to go on.
Hans Haberkorn thought there was no hurry and that they could just as
well consult here as at Herkimer's. The rest, however, would not stay
behind. They tied their horses in a row, under an open shed, to the
manger, and went upon the river; and on the short passage across
renewed their debate with increased earnestness, so that it did not
lack much of going from words to blows on the small scow.
On this account it was fortunate that, as they landed on the other
side, others joined them, of whom some had crossed before, while
others, coming from the other side, awaited the landing of the
ferry-boat so that they could go on together. Over the greeting they
for the moment forgot their contention, but they had proceeded but a
few steps before the war of words began again as before, while those
who came up afterward mingled in the crowd and took part on one or the
other side. So, scolding and quarreling, they reached the front yard of
Herkimer's house.
CHAPTER IX
There might have been a hundred who were here assembled, all German
settlers from the Mohawk, from the creek, and some even from Schoharie,
for that far had the circumspect Herkimer sent his message. In the
tall, often giant-like men, who sat in long rows on the benches under
the projecting roof of the house, in the shade, or moved about on the
open, sunny lawn, nobody would have recognized the descendants of the
pale and emaciated immigrants who, in their time, landed in the harbor
of New York and of Philadelphia from pest-ships, in an inhospitable
country. So thought Lambert, as he cast his eye over the assembly and
looked at those nearer, whom he knew and soon singled out. There was
first the distinguished form of Nicolas Herkimer himself, with broad
shoulders, on which the long, grayish hair fell, and the clear, blue
eyes, which to-day appeared brighter and more thoughtful than usual as
he spoke with one and another, and then again looked at the position of
the sun to see whether the hour appointed for the meeting had come.
There was the minister Rosenkrantz, with his kind, friendly face as
storm-tried and weather-browned as that of any of his people, from whom
he was distinguished only by his black clothes and his large snuff-box,
which he was constantly turning about in his fingers. There were his
neighbors, the Volzes, and the Eisenlords, father and sons, and William
Teichert, and old Adam Bellinger; and at last he also discovered, at
the farthest corner, his uncle, Christian Ditmar, still as ever and
brooding with his fur cap drawn far down over his face. Lambert was
trying to press through to the old man, as Richard, Herkimer's youngest
son, of the same age as Conrad, and a dear friend of both brothers,
touched his shoulder.
"God bless you, Lambert! You have come back at the right time, I should
say. Where is your brother?"
Lambert informed him that this morning Conrad went hunting, and had not
yet returned when he himself left home.
"This will be very unpleasant news for father," said Richard. "He has
already asked a couple of times for both of you. There he comes
himself. I will afterward talk with you, Lambert."
It was painful enough for Lambert that he was obliged to give the same
information to the honored man who so heartily welcomed him. "I knew it
already from your aunt," said Herkimer, "but I hoped that he had
meanwhile come. It is very unpleasant that he fails us. I hear that he
has been for eight days at the lake, and surely knows more about the
movements of our enemies than any one of us. To be sure I have on the
whole been well informed, but it would be desirable to have some one on
whom I could call. What did he tell you?"
"Only this," replied Lambert, and then told Herkimer the little he had
learned from Conrad; that the Onondaga Indians were assembled in large
number, and that it was Conrad's impression that it was not for a good
purpose.
"That agrees altogether with my other reports," said Nicolas Herkimer.
"These rascals have already for a long time played false, and we shall
doubtless soon have them on our necks. Listen, Lambert; I have thought
of placing you in an important position, and before we enter upon our
consultation I wish to come to an understanding with you. Mr.
Rosenkrantz, a moment."
The preacher drew near and heartily greeted Lambert, and began at once
to ask about his journey, but Herkimer quickly interrupted the
talkative minister.
"That will do as well later, dominie," said he, "we have now something
more important to think of. I wish to explain our plan to Lambert, on
whom we can rely in any event. This, Lambert, is our plan: After our
losses of last year we are, in any case, too weak for open warfare
against an enemy far exceeding us in number and able to choose his own
time and place for attack. The only thing left for us to do is, by
constant and regular scouting, as well as possible to learn his
movements, so that, before an actual attack follows, we can retire to
our fortified points. One of these naturally is the fort, which is in a
good, defensible condition. The second is my house. For this I stand,
and this they did not even venture to attack last year. About the third
I will soon speak with you. In addition to this, so that all may be
informed as soon as possible, we will establish signals up the river
and away from it. For this purpose we must form small squads of
troopers which can be rapidly concentrated at threatened points and
occupy the enemy until wives and children have accomplished their
flight. Cattle, and what else can be concealed, we must secure
beforehand. Now, as to what concerns you: It is most likely that this
time they will select the creek for attack. They passed by you last
year, hence they will hope to find the more with you. And then they
know--or believe--that here on the Mohawk we are better prepared and
more fully informed than you. The last is probably the case. You live
so far off that you could not, upon being pursued, have much prospect
of reaching either here or the fort; and for the same reason, we could
as little help you. Your father, who was an intelligent man, understood
this well, and so strengthened your house that it could for a short
time be held by a few well-protected men, furnished with ample
provisions and ammunition, against a large troop. On this I have built
my plan. You are a good rifleman, and your brother Conrad is the best
in the colony. You are both courageous, resolute men, and you have got
to carry your own hide to market, which speaks for itself in such
circumstances. I will give you two or three men, whom you may yourself
select, and it will then be your business to protect yourselves and
your neighbors--such as the Ditmars, Teicherts and perhaps also
Volzes--who can reach you--Eisenlords and Bellingers are nearer
here--until we are in a condition to bring help. I need not tell you,
Lambert, upon how responsible and dangerous a post I place you. On your
watchfulness hangs not only the life of your neighbors, but perhaps
also the fate of all of us about here. On the other hand it may happen
that we, with the help of soldiers from Albany, cannot ourselves resist
the enemy, and so can either not help you at all, or not at the right
time. Will you, Lambert Sternberg, undertake the charge?"
"I will," said Lambert.
Nicolas Herkimer shook hands with him heartily, and turned to other
groups. The minister, who had listened, eagerly twisting his small
clothes, and often bowing his head, now reached out his hand to Lambert
and said:
"You have not undertaken a small matter, dear young man. May God help
you!"
"Amen! honored sir," replied Lambert. "I need your help perhaps more
than you are aware of. I came here to make to you a communication, if
opportunity offered, highly important to myself, and to ask your
advice. Will you listen to me a few minutes? I will try to be brief."
"Speak," said the minister, "though I think I already know what you
wish to say."
Lambert looked inquiringly at the minister.
"My dear friend, your Aunt Ditmar has already told me something which I
have interpreted according to the disposition of young people. But say
on."
Lambert now told the worthy man the history of his love for Catherine
from the first moment when he saw her on the deck of the ship to that
hour, and at last made known his earnest wish that he might, before all
the world, call her his wife.
"I understand, I understand," said the minister, who had been all ears;
"yes, yes; for this you may well wish, both on the girl's account and
your own; yes, also on account of Conrad, who otherwise might deal some
silly blows."
"And so," said Lambert, "as the danger is threatening, I wish as soon
as possible to be united to Catherine forever."
"Forever!" said the minister earnestly. "This I also fully understand.
Also short and well, dear young friend, I will gladly serve you, as it
is my office and my heartfelt wish. We cannot here always observe the
forms prescribed by the church, but God sees the heart. So I think
to-morrow, satisfied with a single proclamation of the bans, we will
attend to the marriage immediately after public worship. Are you
satisfied with that? Good; and then I must ask you yet one thing, viz.:
That you this evening take the lady to whom you are engaged to your
Aunt Ditmar's and leave her there until to-morrow, and from there bring
her to the wedding. I repeat, God looks at the heart, but appearances
sway our judgment, and so for the people's sake I wish you would follow
my advice."
"I will gladly do it, worthy sir," said Lambert. "I will at once speak
to my aunt about it."
"There she comes now," said the minister.
Aunt Ursul had been actively helping Herkimer's women in the house,
which the labor of entertaining so many guests at once made necessary.
She now declared that, with her consent, not another pitcher of beer or
glass of rum should be furnished. "I know my people, and if anything is
to come out of the consultation, you must begin now, for an hour hence
you might as well preach reason to horses. Say this to Herkimer,
dominie. I will look after my old man. You are welcome to go with me,
Lambert. He has already asked about you--something that he doesn't do
every day. But the French you know bring him into harness. He is to-day
quite changed."
Lambert went to his uncle with his aunt, but could not discover any
change in him. The old man kept sitting in the same corner on the
bench, the fur cap drawn far down on his forehead. His sunken head was
scarcely raised in returning Lambert's salutation with a silent nod.
However, the otherwise half-closed eyes looked for a moment from under
the heavy eyebrows in a peculiar glance, but his thoughts must have
wandered far away. He appeared not to hear what Lambert said to him.
"Only let him be," said Aunt Ursul; "he now has other things in his
head, and for us it is high time that we at last come to the business.
It will likely go like a mixture of cabbage and turnips."
Aunt Ursul appeared to be right. The noise kept increasing. They went
around with pitchers and flasks in their hands, and drank to one
another, and talked and screamed at each other, till suddenly first one
then another shouted: "Still!" "Quiet!" Now the well-known form of the
minister appeared, as they crowded through one another. He had climbed
on a table and stood there. He had quit turning his snuff-box about in
his fingers and waited until they should be ready to listen to him.
"Still!" "Quiet!" sounded forth more authoritatively than before. But
quiet was not forthcoming. In certain distant groups the loud talking
continued, and a coarse voice cried: "What does the dominie want?"
"What I want," called the minister, "I will soon tell you. I beg you,
back there, that you will at length keep your mouths shut and bring
your wisdom, if you have any, to market at the right time and to the
right place."
The rough word awakened laughter everywhere, but after the laughter it
became still.
The minister slipped the snuff-box into his pocket, took off his large
three-cornered hat, shoved back the much-used, short wig and thus
proceeded:
"I wish with you all to call upon the Lord, and beseech Him that this
time the cup, which we emptied last year to the last bitter dregs, the
taste of which still lies on our tongues, may graciously pass from us;
and if in His incomprehensible wisdom he has decreed that it shall not
be so, and that He will again try our hearts and reins, that then, in
His grace, He will give us strength to endure the severe trial like
brave men who know that the good God, in spite of all and everything,
does not forsake him who does not forsake himself, and helps him who
helps himself. This, dear friends and countrymen, is a word which has
been profitable in many ways and at many times, but never and for no
one more than for us at this time. Who will deliver us out of our
distress and danger here, on the utmost border of the earth, occupied
by people of our race, where surrounding enemies lurk and go about to
destroy us, but God and ourselves? And with God's help we will save
ourselves--of this I am fully convinced--if we keep His commandment
which reads: 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' Since if we, as
it becomes neighbors, stand beside each other, shoulder to shoulder,
with one mind and one heart, and full of the same courage in danger,
distress and death, then and only then, dear friends, shall we overcome
the danger and deliver ourselves from the distress, and die, should
death meet us, as brave men, discharging our highest duty as men and
Christians. And now, dear friends, after having said what I, as a
servant of the Word of God and a man of peace, wished to say, from a
full and loving heart, I thank you that you have listened to me
attentively. Will you not with equal attention listen to the man whom
we all know and honor, an honest farmer like yourselves, and in
addition a brave soldier. May the Lord bless him so that he may give
you good advice; and may the Lord bless you so that you may take
advice; and may He protect us all and let the light of His countenance
fall upon us and give us peace. Amen."
The earnest words of the minister, who spoke--especially toward the
last--with a deeply moved voice, did not entirely fail of their effect.
An approving murmur ran here and there through the assembly. But the
voice of the speaker had scarcely ceased and his form disappeared from
the table when again, though not as loud as before, some voices were
raised asking what was the object of the talk? whether they had come
here to hear a sermon?
"Talking costs no money and the minister can talk well. He was last
year one of the first to run for the fort, and left the rest to their
fate, but truly it is well not to be before a gun when it is fired
off."
So here and there spake those who were dissatisfied. Others said they
should be ashamed to say such things about so excellent a man. Others
called: "Quiet! don't you see that Herkimer wants to speak?"
So at last Nicolas Herkimer, who had already stood on the table a few
minutes and let his keen, earnest eyes pass over the assembly, raised
his voice. He spoke long and impressively. He unfolded in every
particular the plan which he had, in its chief parts, before told
Lambert. In it he had thought of everything, remembered everything, and
reduced to its smallest compass the threatened danger that could be
avoided.
"That is what I have to say," he concluded. "Now it is for you to test
my proposals. We are free men, and each one can in the end do what he
pleases, and carry his hide to market this way or that. But that we are
free does not forbid us to be united. On the other hand, only by being
united shall we preserve and protect our freedom. United we cannot be
and become, if you talk and cry out among each other as just now you
did, again. Whoever knows anything better than I, let him come here and
speak. Let him who does not, keep still and listen. And let us not
forget--what we tell our children--that he who will not hear must feel.
Who wishes to speak after me?"
"I!" "I!" called out a couple of dozen voices.
"You cannot all speak at once," said Herkimer with some bitterness; "so
you come here, Hans Haberkorn. You screamed the loudest."
Hans Haberkorn, the ferryman, appeared beside Herkimer on the table.
The small, undersized, barefoot fellow who had, behind the bar
connected with his ferry, so often spoken large words and scolded his
rich neighbor on the other side of the river, could not let the
opportunity pass to tell the last speaker the truth--as he expressed
it--before all the world. He wanted to know whether it was honest and
neighborly in Nicolas Herkimer that he wanted three ferries at the same
time over the river within half a mile of each other, after it had been
promised him, Hans Haberkorn, that he should be the only ferryman on
this ground? That he on that account had settled on a piece of land
which consisted of moor and sand, and on which he would long since have
starved if he had not also a beer saloon. Now the two ferries should be
used only in urgent cases, and then again discontinued, or--what would
follow--let the wolf eat. It was absolutely certain that one ferry
without a beer saloon could not support itself. Both the other ferries
would want to set up beer saloons, and then it would be to him,
personally, the same whether the French came to-day or to-morrow and
killed him with his wife and children. For his part he would rather be
put to death at once than starve to death by degrees.
"Hans Haberkorn is right!" called out half a dozen voices.
"Shame on the good-for-nothing fellow who thinks only about himself!"
cried others, and pressed toward the table from which Hans Haberkorn
quickly jumped. The place he vacated was again occupied by big John
Mertens, who had a large farm on the moor between the Mohawk and the
creek, near the church, and by some was considered to be better off
than Herkimer himself. In any case one could always be sure that John
Mertens would oppose anything that Herkimer and the minister wanted, of
whom he observed that they always stuck under the same cover. With
this--his favorite expression--he began his discourse, saying: That one
might well know what to think of a plan that had been formed without
consulting him, John Mertens, who also had a word to say, having ten
head of cattle in the pasture more than people whom he would not name;
nor would he speak of the sheep and the English hogs which he had first
introduced; that every child knew that one could not bring sheep out of
a stable when the roof over their heads was afire; nor could one drive
fifty hogs away so fast that a lame Indian could not overtake them, not
to speak of a dozen who could run. They might think of John Mertens so
or so, but he is an honest fellow who does not hide his meaning behind
a bush. This was what he wanted to say--The discourse of the big farmer
was very confused, and was partly lost in the fat of his double chin;
but his adherents, of whom the number was not small, showed their
approbation with screams and yells. The opposite party did not fail to
pay back such an answer as was due. A dreadful tumult arose, which
Nicolas Herkimer's powerful voice could not overcome. It seemed as if
the consultation on whose issue the weal or woe of hundreds hung,
through the folly and conceit of a couple of dozen would end in empty
confusion and disorder.
Suddenly there stood beside Nicolas Herkimer a person, the mere sight
of whom, as with a blow, brought the boisterous assembly to order, as
though a dead man had become alive and wished to address them. The
giant-long, skeleton-lean form of Christian Ditmar, whose bony hands
were stretched apart as if in conjuration, while, from under the thick
fur cap the gray hair in disordered strands was whipped by the wind
about his ghost-like face, was awe-inspiring. Then he raised his voice,
which now shrieked frantically, and then again rung out like thunder,
and thus spoke:
"So is being fulfilled the Word of God: 'The sins of the fathers shall
be visited upon the children to the third and fourth generation.' Yes,
the sins of the fathers. You have quarreled with each other and raised
your arms against each other while French wolves are howling around the
German flock, and have worried and killed as their wicked hearts
desired. They murdered my parents and brothers and sisters. I saw it
with my own eyes. I saw too my parents' house go up in flames, and
our neighbors' houses burning, and the city became a ruin and an
ash-heap--the beautiful proud city on the Neckar. Among the ruins
wandered weeping wives looking among the ashes for the bones of
husbands and brothers, and cried: 'Woe!' 'Woe!' 'A deadly curse on you
hangmen and murdering incendiaries!'
"I, a weak boy, cried along with them: 'Woe! Woe! A curse upon you, you
hangmen, and murdering incendiaries!' After many years I came here, and
again found them, the mean French wolves, howling around the German
flock; and I disputed with the rest and separated from the others, and
went out with my wife and my sons to take vengeance on those who had
killed my parents and all my kindred. How did the vengeance look when
my four brave boys lay dead at their father's feet, each with a bullet
through his breast?"
Christian Ditmar was silent a few moments. He must suppress the sadness
that rose in his heart at these recollections. He then proceeded with
increasing emotion:
"And so you have suffered and bled, earlier and later, under the greedy
teeth. However I, who have suffered more than you all, I tell you that
I deserved it since I blindly followed the voice of my heart crying for
vengeance and did not hearken to the advice of more prudent men; and so
you have deservedly suffered, and will suffer, since you also will not
listen, you fools and madmen, and propose to separate as you came, the
one this way, the other that, by which the wolves will again have an
easy play. But then your own and your children's blood will rest on you
as my children's blood has come upon me. Here--!"
Christian Ditmar tore his fur cap from his head. A broad, fearful scar
ran like a stream of blood over the high forehead from one temple to
the other.
"Here!" he repeated, while with his forefinger he pointed to the track
of blood; "here! here!" He raised both hands to his head, and with a
dull cry that rang dreadfully through the silent assembly, he fell
helpless. Nicolas Herkimer caught him in his arms; but soon the old man
gathered himself up and, with Lambert's help, who quickly sprang to his
aid, descended from the table and walked slowly to the entrance into
the door-yard, supported by the strong arm of his wife and attended by
Lambert.
"Have you now heard?" said Aunt Ursul to the rest who crowded around,
helpful and eager. "Have you now heard, you straw-heads? Why do you
stand about here and gape? I can take care of my old man alone. Better
go and do what he has told you. You also stay here, Lambert, and when
you pass our house stop a moment. I wish to speak with you."
Lambert brought out the horses of his relatives from the long row of
those which were swinging their tails under the shed, and bridled them.
He now helped into the saddle his uncle, who had fallen back into his
former stupidity, and after his great excitement seemed to take no
farther part in the matter. Meanwhile Aunt Ursul had resolutely brought
a stool and from it mounted her horse. Lambert looked at the retreating
figures until they reached the ferry, where Hans Haberkorn's oldest
boy, in the absence of his father, attended to the service, and then
returned to the meeting, in which there now prevailed a very different
mood.
The appearance and words of Christian Ditmar had produced a powerful
effect. Everybody knew the witless Christian and his history, and that
he had been dumb since he had lost his sons, and his oldest friends
could no longer remember the sound of his voice. And now the dumb had
opened his mouth and had spoken fearful words, which cut to the heart
those who listened in dumb wonderment. Yes, yes; it was, if not a
miracle, at least a sign--a gray sign--well enough understood by the
superstitious. When men are silent stones will speak. They had not been
silent before--far otherwise--but they had not listened; they would now
listen; they wanted to hear Herkimer explain his views once more.
Nicolas Herkimer did so, and with a result far different from the
first. They now found that it must be altogether so, and not
otherwise--that better advice could not be given. Should the French
this time select Canada Creek as the first point of attack, as to all
appearance they would, it would be very bad for Lambert Sternberg and
the Ditmars and the Eisenlords and the rest. But it could not be
helped. When now Lambert appeared on the table and in a few plain words
said that he was proud to assume the existing responsibility, and that
he would hold out on his post to his last breath, and that he now
desired the young men who had a heart and a good rifle for the
undertaking, at once to go with him to-day; then August and Fritz Volz
and Christian Eisenlord, and half a dozen others, cried out: "I!" "I!"
with one voice, and pressing up joined the fighting band.
The leaders of the three cavalry squads were now selected. These were
to help those on and away from the Mohawk, and on the creek, as they
were fleeing to the forts. So also right men were quickly appointed for
the old ferry, and for the added new ones, and for the other important
posts which were yet to be provided for.
The excellent spirit which had seized the assembly made them unwilling
to hear any more quarreling and strife; and those who grumbled
secretly, such as Hans Haberkorn, John Mertens and others, thought it
better policy to lay aside their opposition for a more convenient time.
It was late in the afternoon when Nicolas Herkimer declared the
business finished, and asked the minister to close the meeting. The
minister put up his snuff-box, stepped on the table and spoke with a
loud voice which clearly indicated deep feeling, as follows:
"Dear neighbors and friends: I will not speak long, for you are in a
hurry to get home to your wives and children. I will only ask you with
me briefly to thank God that He has opened our hearts to the spirit of
brotherliness and love, and to beseech Him that He will keep awake in
us this spirit for the miserable days with which we are now threatened.
Then this open heart and this wakeful spirit will make our hands
strong, and we shall live in a strong tower, which is our God. And the
prince of this world, however terrible he may be, will accomplish
nothing against the eternal God in heaven, who will not leave His brave
Germans. And now, dear neighbors and friends, go home, and keep your
eyes stiff and your powder dry. To-morrow, as may happen, if you have
more to do and cannot come to church, no damage will be done. God give
us all a happy reunion. Amen."
"Amen!" "Amen!" sounded forth everywhere in the circle of men, among
whom there were none who had not found for the moment a deep and holy
earnestness. They had assembled in disputation and quarreling. They
separated in peace and harmony. Most of them at their departure went to
shake hands with Nicolas Herkimer, and specially assured him that he
could in any case rely on them. The honor of a pinch of snuff from the
minister was sought by so many that the noble man could at last,
laughing, only present the empty box. The young people who desired to
be placed on the most dangerous post, had gathered about Lambert, and
it required Herkimer's authority to settle the choice. Lambert had
declared that he could not accept more than four, since he himself and
Conrad must also be added, making six good rifles for the protection of
the house. A larger number would unnecessarily consume food and
ammunition in case they had to stand a siege. So then, to grieve no
one, the lot should determine, and it fell on Fritz Volz, from the
creek; Jacob Ehrlich and Anthony Bierman, from the Mohawk; and on
Richard Herkimer. Lambert was satisfied with the issue. They were, on
the whole, wide-awake young men--at least Fritz Volz and Richard
Herkimer, his special friends. They agreed that the last two, who lived
near enough, should occupy the post yet this evening, and that the two
others should come early in the morning.
Now at last, after about all who had been assembled had gone, could
Lambert leave Nicolas Herkimer, who said: "I will keep you no longer
now. I will ride over to-morrow, as there are yet many things about
which I want to talk to you." Lambert had not improperly pressed to go.
As he reached the other side he found the Eisenlords, the Teicherts and
a dozen others who all, with a glass of Hans Haberkorn's genuine, were
discussing what they had heard and decided upon. He shook hands with
them and hastened on, Fritz Volz calling after him that he would see
him in the evening. As now he gave loose rein to his horse he cast an
anxious, inquiring glance at the sky, in which the sun had nearly run
its course. It was perhaps yet half an hour to its setting. On his left
the level fields and marshes shimmered and glimmered in red, blended
lights, so that he could hardly distinguish the shingled roofs of the
houses; and the forms of riders and footmen appeared now and then as
dark points in the sea of fire. To the right, where the farther he went
the nearer did the hills and rocks press toward him, the mighty trunks
of the giant pines glowed in dark purple, and their branching tops
blazed in green-golden flames to the cloudless sky. With every
hoof-beat of the horse the sun sunk deeper, and Lambert had just left
Bellinger's farm behind when the sea of fire to the left was
extinguished by a blue fog; and toward evening only the highest tops of
the tallest trees reflected the departing light of day. Night soon came
on. As his noble beast rapidly struck the grassy soil with strong hoofs
he saw that he could not reach home in less than an hour.
A nameless discontent seized him. The longing for the beloved one,
which he had so nobly fought all these hours, now asserted its rights,
and so filled his breast that he could hardly breathe. Minutes seemed
like hours. There was also another distressing feeling--a feeling of
fear for something he could not conceive of, for which he had no name,
and which may on that account have been more terrible. In all his life
he had never before had such an experience. Nearest to it were the
frightful dreams that had terrified him when a boy, from which he in
vain sought to wake. Lambert groaned aloud, and Hans groaned under the
pressure of the rider's legs.
So he rushed forward faster and faster, without looking to the right or
left, without stopping at Eisenlord's or at Volz', though everywhere
from the doors the women called to him: "Holla, Lambert, whither in
such haste?" until at last Hans, angry at the conduct of his otherwise
reasonable master, ran at full speed.
Aunt Ursul had requested him to stop on his return, and he himself
wished to speak with her about what the minister had said. So he
stopped his foaming horse unwillingly when he came to the Ditmar house.
"Is he near comfort.'" said Aunt Ursul who had heard him coming and now
stepped to the door. "The poor beast is like a cat which has been lying
eight days in the water. How you look yourself: Like the rider in the
book of Revelation."
"I feel as though some misfortune had happened there," stammered
Lambert, pointing homeward.
"Papperlapap!" said Aunt Ursul. "What can have happened? Conrad--yes,
Lambert; I already see that now I can't get a rational word out of you,
so in God's name, drive on. I have just put my old man to bed and given
him a cup of tea, so I am entirely free and will come over in about an
hour."
She gave Hans, who was already restlessly champing his bit, a blow on
his wet neck. He sprang away with his rider. "Those whom we love are
always but half near comfort," said Aunt Ursul, looking after him and
shaking her head; "nevertheless--nevertheless--Conrad is a madcap, and
acted this morning as though he had lost his reason. I must see that
all things go right."
Aunt Ursul turned back into the house, took her gun from the rack and,
with long strides, followed Lambert, who was already immersed in the
evening fog which rose from the creek in thick streaks.
CHAPTER X
When at noon to-day Lambert tore himself away from Catherine, she stood
still as though stunned. The conviction that she ought to remain behind
had come to her on the instant; the determination to do so had been
uttered so soon; the carrying out of the resolution too had followed so
closely at its heels, that now, as the forms of the riders disappeared
behind a turn of the road and she found herself really alone, it
appeared to her as though she were having a disagreeable, fearful dream
out of which she must momentarily awake. She struck herself over her
forehead and eyes, but all was real. There stood the empty crib. There
lay the pail which the mare had pushed over. There was the pillion
which at the last moment Lambert had unbuckled from the saddle. There
were the short, trampled grass and the tracks of the hoofs of the
horses. There was the open door in which she had just now seen Lambert.
Catherine took a few steps, as though she would follow the beloved one,
and then stood still, pressing her hand on her loud-beating heart. Deep
sadness overwhelmed her, but she vigorously fought down the feeling.
"He has so often called you a brave girl," said she to herself, "and
will you weep and complain like a child which the mother has left alone
for a few moments? He will soon come back; surely he will soon come
back."
She entered the house to see what time it was. The hand of the
Swartzwald clock pointed to twelve. The distance to Nicolas Herkimer's
house was six miles. If she counted going and returning it was twelve,
and on the calculation of the men themselves would take them two hours,
so that Lambert could be back by six o'clock, or by seven at the
latest. That was indeed a long time, but there was yet much to do, and
perhaps also to-day Conrad would return earlier from hunting.
"On Conrad's account I should remain here," said Catherine to herself
as she cleared away the dinner-dishes. "He must learn to see in me his
sister, and he will, when we show our confidence in him and have no
secrets before him. Ah, could I only yesterday have greeted him as a
brother! However, that will follow. It must follow yet to-day, when he
returns. Then we will live together in peace, and the wild man will
find that it is not a bad thing to have a female friend who takes care
of him until he himself loves a girl, and establishes a home and builds
a house for himself here near us, or at the edge of the woods he so
much loves. That will be a joyful, happy life. We will be good
neighbors. I shall love his wife and she me."
Catherine had sat down on the hearth and, with her head supported by
her hand, looked before her with half-closed eyes, thinking. The fire
on the hearth gently crackled; the wall-clock said "tick-tack." In the
meadow outside the birds sang. Through the open door the sun shone
clear into the cool, shaded room; and in the bright sunbeams, which
reached as far as her knees, dust atoms danced, lighted up, and
twinkling like golden stars seemed to be waving and playing and
catching one another. Then they were no longer golden stars, but
children's laughing faces, which emerged out of the partial darkness of
the background, came up to her knees, and again disappeared in the dark
corners, and from them looked out with bright, blue, happy eyes. Then
the vision vanished. The sun still shone into the silent room. The fire
crackled. The wall-clock said "tick-tack," and out in the meadows sang
the birds.
The young maiden arose and commenced her labor anew, but there was a
different expression in her mild, innocent countenance; and other
thoughts, which came to her like a revelation, filled her soul. The
bridal feeling which now happified her, had acquired another phase, for
which she knew not how to account. It was a deeper, more earnest
feeling--distinguished from the former like the light of noon now lying
on field and forest, from that of the morning. Those were the same
bending grass-stems and the same swaying tree-tops. It was the same
clear creek and they were the same waving rushes, and yet all was
changed as by a gentle, mighty, magic hand, and spoke another
speech--moving and dissolving in mystery. Now she understood why the
beloved man, who was truth and openness itself, so anxiously concealed
from her for weeks that she must live alone with him in his house.
"Alone! Would it not have been the same had he told the truth? told me
that he loved me? that he did not want me as a maid-servant? Would it
not have come out just the same? Did I not also love him from the first
moment on? and have I not followed him through peopled cities, through
the pathless wilderness, on a journey of weeks, through rain and
sunshine, day and night, in unknown regions? What is so different now?
Did I not devote myself to him as we left the ship hand in hand? 'You
shall be my lord!' And is it not said in the church when the minister
lays the hands of lovers together: 'He shall be thy lord.' Yes, he
shall be my lord, now and always. He shall be my lord."
So spoke Catherine to herself to banish the occasional shudders that
passed through her heart and often took away her breath, while she
completed the arrangements in her room which had been temporarily made
last evening, and put away her few belongings in a closet that had been
contrived in the thick wall. Then, as there was nothing more to do
here, she for the first time ascended the stairs to the upper story,
and walked around the gallery which encircled the house and projected
beyond the lower story, and was surrounded by well-joined planks and
provided with port-holes. With the exception of a place poorly enough
partitioned off in which the brothers had slept the previous night, the
room, used in winter as a store-room, was empty, or served for the
storage of that for which there was no room below. Catherine acquired a
clearer notion of the plan, which she and Lambert had formed in the
morning, to prepare a small, pleasant room for them both here where
everything was more airy and free. However, without Lambert she did not
succeed very well in planning.
So she again went downstairs, and to her surprise saw by the clock that
since Lambert had left but one hour had elapsed. She took some work and
seated herself with it on a bench before the door in the shade of the
gallery.
It was in the stillness of the day. There was so little wind that the
grass-stems in the meadow, and the rushes at the edge of the creek,
scarcely bent. The butterflies passed from flower to flower on languid
wing. The hum of the bees and the chirping of the crickets had a sleepy
sound. All around, everything was still. However, out of the forest
there frequently came the hoarse cry of the tree-falcon, or the call of
a bird which Catherine did not recognize. In the blue sky there hung
single white clouds whose shadows moved, slowly--very slowly--over the
sunny prairie.
At first Catherine was pleased with this quietude, which seemed an
image of sabbath stillness, filling her soul. But she had scarcely thus
sat an hour before the monotony of the scene about her filled her heart
with a strange fear. How entirely different it was this morning. Then
heaven and earth and tree and bush and every flower and every
grass-stem smiled and bowed their welcome to her. Everything had spoken
to her in persuasive language. Now that the beloved one was at a
distance everything was dumb, except that heaven and earth and tree and
bush and every flower and every grass-stem breathed out one word with
ever-increasing sadness: Alone! alone!
Catherine let her work sink into her lap. An image, that had been for
many years as if blotted from her memory, suddenly came before her in
pale colors, but very distinct--the image of her dead mother, who,
adorned with flowers, lay in her coffin--and she a little girl, ten
years old, stood beside it; and her father had come up and taken her
hand and said: "We two are now alone."
"Alone!"
Her heart was filled with increasing fear. Again taking up her work she
tried to sing a song that always occurred to her when everything was so
quiet: "Were I a wild Falcon I would soar aloft." But she commenced so
gently that she did not complete the first measure. Her voice sounded
strange. She was frightened at her own voice.
Perhaps, she thought, it would be better if she went to the barn-yard
where in the morning she had passed such happy moments with Lambert.
She arose and hastily walked down the path, at last running, and now
with beating heart leaned against the bars of the inclosure. The sheep
which stood near ran away frightened, and looked at her from a distance
with dull eyes. In the yard all was still. The hens and turkeys had
gone out into the fields. As she again turned, from among the fruit
trees, in whose blossom-covered branches this morning a robin sang so
sweetly, there broke out a brown bird of prey and with broad, flapping
wings hastened toward the forest. On the ground among the grass there
lay several colored feathers.
More sad than when she went Catherine returned to the house, and again
sat down before the door, with the full purpose now to wait quietly,
and to fight down her depression of spirits.
So she sat patiently long, endless hours. The light in the green tops
of the trees in yonder woods became more golden. The shadows that lay
along the edge became deeper and broader--one after another came out of
the wilderness until at last they branched out in troops. From time to
time flocks of pigeons flew like lightning over the prairie from one
side of the forest to the other. High above them, in the bright sky,
sailed more slowly chains of wild geese, filling the air with their
monotone cry. Then again everything was still, and Catherine could hear
the rushing of the blood in her temples.
She could endure it no longer. It occurred to her that she had seen a
couple of books in the house on a shelf too high for her to reach. She
went in, pushed up the table, set a stool on it and got the books.
There were two of them, bound in hog's leather, very dusty and
worm-eaten--a Bible and a history, as it appeared. The writing on the
fly-leaf was at first in Latin, which the minister's daughter
understood well enough to decipher with a little pains. It stated
that this book belonged to Conrad Emanuel Sternberg, formerly a
student of theology at Heidelberg, who, in the year 1709, after his
parents--well-to-do vintners in the Palatinate--had lost everything in
the dreadful winter, when the wine in the casks and the birds in the
air froze, in company with the young cooper, Christian Ditmar, from
Heidelberg, had determined upon the great undertaking of emigrating to
America, which he reached June 13th, 1710, more dead than alive,
after a long and tedious voyage from the Rhine through Holland and
by way of England. He settled on the Hudson with his friends and
fellow-sufferers, where he hoped to end his life in quietness and
peace.
This pious wish was not fulfilled. Further notices followed this
connected narrative, but written in the German language, as though the
writer had meanwhile forgotten his Latin, saying that he had moved with
his faithful companion, Christian Ditmar, from the Hudson to the
Mohawk, thence to Schoharie and finally to Canada Creek. Then there was
the date of his marriage with Elisabeth Christiane Frank, of Schoharie,
the younger sister of Ursula, his old friend's and now brother-in-law's
wife, the birthdays of his sons, Lambert and Conrad, and the death of
Christiane. With this sad event the record of the life of the old
Heidelberg student was closed. He had not written a line more.
Catherine looked thoughtfully at the faded writing, gently closed the
lid and opened the second, smaller book. It was entitled: "Description
of the destruction of the city of Heidelberg on the 22nd and 23rd of
May, 1689."
She began to read mechanically until by degrees she became conscious of
what she was reading and sprang up with a dull outcry: "Great God! what
have I read? Is it possible that human beings can so rage against one
another--that there are tyrants to whom neither the silvered hair of
the aged, nor the modesty of the maiden, nor the innocent laughter of
children--to whom nothing is sacred?
"Why not? Did not the bands under Soubise ravage through the cities and
towns of Hanover? And did not their ruthless cruelty and base
shamelessness drive her old father and all her neighbors and friends
from their beloved homes across the sea? Were they not the sons and
grandsons of those robbers who, under Melac and Borges, burnt the
Palatinate and reduced Heidelberg to a dust heap?
"And again, did they not, the year before, ravage here just so, in
connection with the Indians, their like-minded confederates? Here,
among these hills and in these valleys and woods, the same French were
threatening again and their approach was already proclaimed. Dreadful!
dreadful!"
The poor girl, though so sore and sad at heart, had up to this moment
found no definite cause of fear. Now fear overwhelmed her with sudden
power. She looked with fixed eyes toward the edge of the forest as
though at every moment the French and Indians were about to break forth
from its silent recesses. She listened intently, until the blood seemed
to boil in her temples, and as though it would burst the veins.
Merciful God! What would become of her? How could Lambert leave her in
such a howling wilderness?--he who had so long been her guardian and
defense--he who had cherished her as the apple of his eye. If only
Conrad would come. It was about the same time yesterday when he
came--no, it was later; the sun had already set, and now it was still
over the woods. But why should he to-day stay out so long? And who,
besides Lambert, could better protect her than Lambert's brother, the
strong, alert man who only needed to set his foot across the door-step
to make those dwelling in the house feel secure? So Lambert said only
this morning. Why did he now stay away when his presence was so much
desired?
Catherine pressed her hands against her beating temples. What should
she do? What could she do but wait and try to hush a fear that surely
was childish. There near her lay the Bible. She had so often, in sad
hours, drawn from it rest and comfort. She took it up and read where
her eyes happened to fall:
"And the Lord had respect unto Abel and to his offering. But unto Cain
and his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth and his
countenance fell. And the Lord said unto Cain: Why art thou wroth? and
why is thy countenance fallen? * * * And Cain talked with his brother
Abel, and it came to pass when they were in the field, Cain rose up
against Abel his brother and slew him."
The printed page glimmered before her eyes. With a dull cry the
affrighted girl sprang up. "Cain killed Abel! Cain killed Abel!" And
she had wished that he--the terrible one--were here--he who this
morning had uttered such dreadful threatenings. No, no! he must not
come back; he must not find her alone. He must not see her again. She
must away to meet Lambert. She must warn him--must tell him that his
brother would kill him on her account; that he must give her up, or
with her go out into the wide world. They must flee from the brother.
He must save her and himself from that dreaded brother.
As though the block-house was on fire Catherine hastened from the door,
down the hill, to the creek, along the creek, without looking around,
without observing that she had started in the opposite direction so
that at every step she was farther away from Lambert. When she reached
the bridge where Lambert had yesterday overtaken her she became aware
of her mistake. But she was like a wrecked vessel driven shoreward by
the waves and then again carried out to sea. Destruction by him from
whom she would escape seemed unavoidable. No more capable of forming a
further purpose, deprived of all strength, she sunk together; and as
though she must here await the expected death-blow, she bowed her head
and covered her face with her hands.
"Catherine!"
Slowly she withdrew her hands from her deadly pale face, and saw Conrad
standing before her with his rifle on his shoulder and his dog at his
heels, looking at her with vacant eyes, and appearing to have just come
out of the sedge along the shore. She had anticipated his coming--knew
that he would come. She no longer felt that nameless dread. On the
other hand there instantly came over her a peculiar restfulness, and in
a quiet tone she said: "You come late. I have been waiting for you."
"Indeed?" said Conrad.
He was also very pale, and the expression of his face was strangely
changed.
Catherine observed it, but it could not change her purpose to proceed,
even should it cost her life. She arose from her reclining position,
though not without an effort--her limbs seemed as if dead--and, as she
began mechanically to return to the house, she said:
"I have been waiting for you, since I wish to say something to you
before I leave your house."
Conrad started. Catherine felt it, though she kept her eyes directed to
the ground. However, involuntarily walking faster, she proceeded:
"What I could not tell you this morning, for it has taken place since,
I will say now. I have become engaged to your brother."
She expected that now an outbreak would follow, but Conrad walked on
silently at her side.
"I engaged myself to him," said Catherine--and her voice became firmer
while she spoke--"this morning after you were gone, and I hardly know
how it came about. I only know that Lambert has done for me more than
any other man, excepting my good old father who is dead; that to him I
owe my life, which therefore belongs to him; that at any time he might
ask for it he might have it of me. He did not ask it of me this
morning, but I gave it to him freely--my life and my love--for that is
the same. And now--"
"And now?" asked Conrad.
"Now I must away, if you are not the kind brother whom Lambert loves so
much--if you are resolved to turn the angry words you spoke this
morning into fierce deeds. How could I remain here and see how I have
sown strife between brother and brother, especially at this time, when
you should stand shoulder to shoulder against the treacherous enemy?
Where I shall go I do not know, I only know that I cannot stay, so long
as you are angry at your brother on my account. But, Conrad, while I
thus speak, it seems to me entirely impossible that you can place
yourself between me and your brother."
"Why impossible?" asked Conrad.
"Because you love your brother," replied Catherine, gathering courage
as she spoke. "You have every reason to love him, though you do not
love me as Lambert loves me. Why should you? You do not know me. You
saw me yesterday for the first time, and a few minutes this morning.
Though I may indeed have pleased you, yet, as you now hear that my
heart is already given to your brother, what else, as an honorable man,
can you do than to rejoice at our happiness as we would rejoice in
yours should heaven provide you a similar happiness, which I hope may
soon happen?"
They had reached the house. The dog, which with long leaps had gone
ahead, met them wagging her tail and springing against her master
Conrad pushed the animal away, but not with his usual rough force. His
manner was more sad than angry and his motions were like those of one
who is very tired. He sank down on the bench on which Catherine's work
and the books still lay, supported his elbow on his knee and rested his
head on his hand.
"You are hungry and thirsty from your long hunt," said Catherine;
"shall I prepare your evening meal?"
Conrad shook his head. All fear had vanished from Catherine's soul. As
she saw the wild, intractable man sitting there so still--so sunk
within himself--there stirred in her heart stronger and stronger
another feeling.
"Conrad," said she softly. "Conrad," she repeated, laying her hand on
his shoulder, "I will indeed also hold you very dear."
A dull cry, like that of an animal that has been mortally wounded,
broke from Conrad's broad chest. He put both hands to his face and wept
aloud like a child, and the body of the giant-like man shook from the
pain stirring within him as might the small frame of a child.
Catherine for a moment stood helpless and speechless. Then there
also came from her eyes warm tears, and with the tears she found
words--mild, kind words--of sympathy and comfort. She told him again
and again that she would love him as a sister should love a brother;
that his young, sorrowful heart would find peace; that he should see in
her his sister; and that he would find pure happiness in this feeling
until there blossomed out another happiness in the love of a virtuous
girl, in which no one would more deeply share than she and Lambert.
"Do not speak his name," said Conrad.
He had jumped up, all his limbs shaking with anger and his eyes
flashing. He convulsively grasped his gun, which stood near, by the
barrel.
"You think you are going to play me off with words. For me smooth
words; for him kisses! I saw to-day in the woods how handsomely you can
kiss."
He broke out in loud laughter. Catherine, frightened, drew back.
"So!" said Conrad, "that is your true face. Do you still love me as a
sister her brother?"
"If you are so unbrotherly, no!" said Catherine. "But you do not know
what you are saying."
"Truly not," growled Conrad.
"And not what you are doing," said Catherine. "You would otherwise be
ashamed to torment a poor, helpless girl."
She leaned against the door-post, pale and trembling, her hands folded
over her breast, her large eyes fixed on the angry man, who tried in
vain to meet her gaze, and raved before her like a wild animal.
Then the dog dashed forward, and at the same moment the dull hoof-beats
of a horse in full run became perceptible. Fear seized Catherine as to
what the issue would be should Lambert now return--and it could be no
other.
"Conrad!" she called; "Conrad, it is your brother."
Impelled by an overwhelming feeling she threw herself before him and
wound her arms about his knees.
"Let me be!" cried Conrad.
"Not till you have sworn that you will not injure him."
"Let me be!" cried Conrad again, and he violently tore her loose.
Catherine tottered forward, stumbled and fell. Her head struck hard
against the door-sill.
She came near fainting, but with a great effort picked herself up
again, as angry voices struck her ear, and threw herself between the
brothers.
"Lambert! Conrad! For God's sake, rather kill me! Conrad, it is your
brother. Lambert, he does not know what he is doing!"
The brothers released each other, and panting, looked at one another
with flashing eyes. By the sound Lambert's rifle had fallen to the
ground. Conrad held his half-raised in his strong hands.
"Now," said Lambert; "why do you not shoot?"
"I do not want to kill you," said Conrad. "If I wanted your life I
could have taken it this morning."
"What then do you want?"
"Nothing from you. Why did you come just now? You shall not see me
again. Since we have happened again to meet, let me tell you that it
must be the last time. Go your own way and let me go mine."
With a powerful swing he threw his rifle on his shoulder and turned
away.
Lambert intercepted him. "You must not go. I will forget that you
raised your hand against me. Do you also forget that I raised mine
against you. By the memory of our father; by the memory of our mother,
I conjure you, do not leave your parents' house."
"It is too small for us all," said Conrad, with bitter scorn.
"Then _we_ will leave it. I will gladly do it if you will but stay."
"I need no house," said Conrad.
"The house, however, needs you, as you can help defend it against our
bitter enemies. Do you wish to see it go up in flames? You know that
the French are coming--perhaps you know more about it than I--than all
of us; and we to-day greatly missed you. Will you become a traitor to
our common interests--to your brother, your friends, to wives and
children? Conrad, you must not go away!"
"If the enemy comes you will again c
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