"Well, sir," I said, "from all I can gather, Burgoyne is marching
southward through the lakes, and Clinton is gathering an army in New
York to march north and meet Burgoyne, and now comes this Barry St.
Leger on the flank, aiming to join the others at Albany after taking
Stanwix and Johnstown on the march--three spears to pierce a common
centre, three torches to fire three valleys, and you neutral Tryon men
in the centre, calm, undismayed, smoking your pipes and singing songs of
peace and good-will for all on earth."
"And why not, sir!" he snapped.
"Did you ever hear of Juggernaut?"
"I've heard the name--a Frenchman, was he not? I think he burned
Schenectady."
"No, sir; he is a heathen god."
"And what the devil, sir, has Tryon County to do with heathen gods!" he
bawled.
"You shall see--when the wheels pass," I said, gloomily.
He folded his fat hands over his stomach and smoked in obstinate
silence. I, too, was silent; again a faint disgust for this man seized
me. How noble and unselfish now appeared the conduct of those poor
tenants of his who had abandoned their little farms to answer Schuyler's
call!--trudging northward with wives and babes, trusting to God for
bread to fall like manna in this wilderness to save the frail lives of
their loved ones, while they faced the trained troops of Great Britain,
and perhaps the Iroquois.
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