But these men had never been more than ignorant peasants and dull tillers of the soil for thriftier masters. Yet they were no crueller than others of birth and education. And what was I to think of Walter Butler and other gentlemen of like condition,—officers who had delivered Tom Boyd of Derry to the Senecas,—Colonel Paris to the Mohawks!
The day we heard that Sergeant Newbury and Henry Hare were taken, I thanked God on my knees. And when our General Clinton hung them both for human monsters as well as spies, then I thanked God again.... And wrote tenderly to Claudia, poor misguided girl!—condoling with her—not for her grief and the death of Henry Hare[45]—but that the black disgrace of it should so nearly touch and soil her.
I have received, so far, no letter from Claudia in reply. But Lord Stirling tells me that she reigns a belle in New York; and that she hath wrought havoc among the Queen's Rangers, and particularly in De Lancy's Horse and the gay cavalry of Colonel Tarleton.
I pray her pretty, restless wings may not be singed or broken, or flutter, dying, in the web of Fate.
Nick Stoner's father, Henry, that grim old giant with his two earhoops in his leathery ears, and with all his brawn, and mighty strength, and the lurking scowl deep bitten betwixt his tiger eyes,—old Henry Stoner is dead and scalped.
Nick, who is now fife-major, has writ me this in a letter full of oaths and curses for the Iroquois who have done this shame to him and his.
For every hair on old Henry's mangled head, said he, an Iroquois should spit out his death-yell. He tells me that he means to quit the army and enter the business of tanning Iroquois hides to make boots and moccasins; and says that Tim Murphy has knee moccasins as fine as ever he saw, and made out o' leather skinned off an Indian's legs!
Faugh! Grief and shame have made Nick blood-mad.... Yet, I know not what I should do, or how conduct, if she who is nearest to my heart should ever suffer from an Indian.
This sweet April day, taking the air near Lord Stirling's marquee, I see the first white butterflies a-fluttering like windblown bits o' paper across the new grass.... In the North the woodlands should be soft with snow; and, in warm places, perhaps the butterfly we call the beauty of Camberwell may sit sipping the first drops o' maple sap.... And there should be a scent of pink arbutus in the breeze, if winds be soft.... Lord—Lord—I am become sick for home.... And would see my glebe again in Fonda's Bush; and hear the spring roaring of the Kennyetto between melting banks.... And listen to the fairy thunder of the cock partridge drumming on his log.