CHAPTER XVI
THE OLD JOHNSON HOUSE
In the Mohawk Valley, about four miles north of Fonda, stands to this day the first baronial mansion ever erected in the state of New York. Its present proprietor, Mr. Eleazer Wells, has, with unusual good taste, preserved the old mansion with all its historical associations undisturbed, and even in this age of republican palaces, the old Johnson House would be considered a noble mansion. Its broad front, flanked at each end by massive block-houses of stone, perforated near the roof with holes for musketry, has an imposing appearance. The broad entrance hall, with heavy balustrades winding up the stairs, all hacked by savage tomahawks; its high ceilings; its rooms wainscoted with panel work, and ornamented with elaborate carving—all speak of former wealth and power.
In 1775–6 this mansion was occupied by Sir John Johnson, the heir of Sir William, its first proprietor, whose loyalty to the crown, and cruelty to the patriots of the Revolution, are on record forever in the history of the great period of our national struggles. Then the hall was surrounded with forests, deep, broad, and seemingly boundless as the ocean. Sir William had hewed an estate out of this wilderness, which lay upon a gentle slope, like a beautiful glimpse of Arcadia, surrounded and framed in by the woods.
The season had deepened since the Indians were encamped in the Wyoming Valley. The cultivated trees, then in blossom all over the country, had set their fruit; Indian corn was half a foot high; and the wheat fields looked like meadows ready for the scythe. The thickets around Johnson Hall had cast off their flowers, and were now heavy with leaves and swelling nuts. The whole region was beautiful, as if no war existed in the world.
It was just after dusk on one of these late spring days, when a horseman, with two or three Indians in his train, rode up to the front of this mansion, inquired for Sir John Johnson, and dismounted, like a person well acquainted with the premises, and certain of a cordial reception. The Indians followed him to the front portico, and sat down on the steps, waiting in solemn patience for his return.
Walter Butler entered the hall unannounced, and opening a side door, stood some moments on the threshold before its inmates became aware of his presence. It was after dusk; but Sir William Johnson had carried all the aristocratic arrangements of his European life into the wilderness, and those habits were strictly followed up by his son. Thus, late as the hour was, Sir John remained at table with a guest who shared his hospitality, and as the wine passed sluggishly between them, the two men conversed together with more earnestness than is usual at the dinner table.
Butler was well acquainted with Sir John—a handsome youngish-looking man, who sat at the head of the table, a little flushed either with wine or some excitement of suppressed temper, and apparently doing the honors of his own house with unusual constraint. The other person, who sat quietly picking over the nuts on his plate—for the meal was evidently at its conclusion—was a tall man, a little past middle age, and of a calm, lofty presence, difficult to describe, except by its contrast with the restless and somewhat coarse manner of the frontier baronet. The repose of his appearance was perfect; yet there was a faint red on his cheek, and a scarcely perceptible curve of the lip, that betrayed deep though well curbed emotions, which had received some shock.
Butler had never seen this man before, and his presence was by no means agreeable; the interview which he desired with Sir John was of a kind which rendered witnesses unpleasant, and for an instant he paused in the door, hesitating to enter. Sir John supposed it was a servant, and went on with his conversation.
“No,” he said, a little roughly, “you on the other side can hardly be expected to understand the necessity of these measures. It is easy enough making speeches in the House of Lords or Commons—humanity serves well to round off an eloquent period with, I dare say—but we live in the midst of dangers; the war is a real thing to us; we do not study it out on a parchment map, while lolling in a cushioned easy-chair, but tramp after the rebels through swamps and over mountains. If we burn their cabins, they retaliate on our halls—nothing is safe from them. Why, the very plate off which you are dining will be stowed away in the block-house, under a guard of muskets, for safe keeping, the moment it leaves the table.”
“The loss of your plate, Sir John, costly as it is, would be a trifle, compared to one burning cabin, where the bones of women and children are found in the ashes,” said the stranger, casting a careless glance at the gold and silver plate glittering on every part of the board. “I would consent to dine upon a wooden trencher, all the days of my life, if that could save one of these innocent families from destruction. I repeat it, Sir John, the savage warfare commenced in this neighborhood is shocking to humanity. If the rights of our king can only be maintained by hordes of savages, let them go; the loyalty of an enlightened people will never be secured by barbarisms, at which even the better educated savage revolts. This league with the Six Nations is inhuman, nay, a statesman would say, worse—it is bad policy.”