I had clothing, a clock, some books, bedding of my own, and sufficient pewter.
I had my own rifle, a fowling piece, two pistols, and sufficient ammunition.
And with these, and, as I say, well horsed, I rode out of Johnstown on a June morning, all alone, my heart still heavy with grief for Sir William, and deeply troubled for my country.
For the provinces, now, were slowly kindling, warmed with those pure flames that purge the human soul; and already the fire had caught and was burning fiercely in Massachusetts Bay, where John Hancock fed the flames, daintily, cleverly, with all the circumstance, impudence, and grace of your veritable macaroni who will not let an inferior outdo him in a bow, but who is sometimes insolent to kings.
Well, I was for the forest, now, to wrest from a sunless land a mouthful o' corn to stop the stomach's mutiny.
And if the Northland caught fire some day—well, I was as inflammable as the next man, who will not suffer violation of house or land or honour.
As Brent-Meester to Sir William, my duties took me everywhere. I knew old man Stoner, and Nick had become already my warm friend, though I was now a grown man of more than twenty and he still of boy's age. Yet, in many ways, he seemed more mature than I.
I think Nick Stoner was the most mischievous lad I ever knew—and admired. He sometimes said the same of me, though I was not, I think, by nature, designed for a scapegrace. However, two years in the wilderness will undermine the grace of saint or sinner in some degree. And if, when during those two hard years I went to Johnstown for a breath of civilization—or to Schenectady, or, rarely, to Albany—I frequented a few good taverns, there was little harm done, and nothing malicious.
True, disputes with Tories sometimes led to blows, and mayhap some Albany watchman's Dutch noddle needed vinegar to soothe the flamms drummed upon it by a stout stick or ramrod resembling mine.