“And I’ve had all this trouble for nothing, consarn the fellow!”
“Come now, ain’t you a’most ready to go out?” said Aunt Polly, sliding up to the bed, where her nightcap crowned one of the posts. Snatching it off and dexterously concealing it behind her, she muttered to herself: “I wouldn’t ’a’ cared so much if it had only had a ruffled border.” Then she added, rather tartly: “Come, the chicken’ll be stun cold.”
Sim turned and followed her to the kitchen. He was terribly disappointed at the failure of his attempt to regain his prisoner, and sent away the farmers, who had gladly rallied to his aid, with a crestfallen look, which was more than equalled by Aunt Polly’s downcast countenance. She was unusually cross all the evening, poured any quantity of water into the tea-pot, set away the preserves before Sim had tasted them, and altogether acted in a very unaccountable manner indeed.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FIRST SKIRMISH
The vague rumors that had reached the inhabitants of Wyoming, no one could exactly tell how, filling each household with alarm, were not without foundation. A force of eleven hundred strong, under the command of Colonel John Butler, consisting of Tory Rangers, a detachment of Johnson’s Royal Greens, and six hundred savages, picked warriors from the Shawnee and Seneca tribes, had already crossed Genesee county. They had embarked from Tioga Point in canoes, which were abandoned at the mouth of Bowman’s Creek, where the whole body was encamped on the second of July.
Queen Esther, Gi-en-gwa-tah, and two or three Seneca chiefs commanded the savage forces. Catharine Montour was in the army, for she had been warned by one of the Indians who had aided in Walter Butler’s escape from Albany that he had proceeded at once to Wyoming with his wife, and would await the appearance of his father at Wintermoot’s Fort.
The hopes of seeing her child, and a harassing terror lest that angel girl on Monockonok Island might come to harm in the savage warfare impending over the valley, had forced her into scenes from which her very soul revolted, and she opened her eyes with terror as each day carried the fearful war-whoop of her tribe nearer and nearer that peaceful region.
From the encampment at Bowman’s Creek scouts were sent forward, and a small detachment of warriors swept down the river in the night, headed by Queen Esther’s youngest son, a handsome brave, who, eager to earn the first eagle’s plume in the coming fight—having won this privilege from the grim queen and his lofty brother—set forth on his errand of blood.
Like a flock of redbirds on the water, the chief and his warriors floated down the Susquehanna, each with a rifle at his feet, and a tomahawk or a sharp knife glittering in his girdle.
Their persons glowed with war-paint; their sinewy arms bent to the oars. Now and then, as they passed through the sloping mountains, a faint whoop broke on the waters, betraying their impatience for contest.