Complete weird tales of.., p.1140
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1140
“If you will surrender I promise to send you to Johnstown and let a court judge you! If you refuse, we shall take you by storm, try you on the spot, and execute sentence upon you in that house! I allow you five minutes!”
At that, two of them fired in the direction from whence came my voice; and I heard their bullets passing, aimed too high.
Then John Howell’s voice bawls out, “I know you, Drogue; and so help me God, I shall cut your throat before this business ends! — you dirty renegade and traitor to your King!”
Such a rage possessed me that I scarce knew what I was about, and I ran across the grass to the bolted door of the house, and fell to slashing at it with my hatchet like a madman.
They were firing now so rapidly that the smoke of their guns made a choking fog about the house; but the log cabin had no overhang, not being built for defense, and so they over-shot me whilst my hatchet battered splinters from the door and shook it almost from its hinges.
Some one was coughing in the thick, rifle-fog near me, and presently I heard Nick swearing and hammering at the door with his gun butt.
The French trappers, not so rash as we, lay close in the darkness, shooting steadily into the shutters at short range.
Shutters and door, though splintering, held; the defenders fired at my men’s rifle-flashes, or strove to shoot at Nick and me, where we crouched low in the sheltered doorway; but they could not sufficiently depress the muzzles of their guns to hit us.
Suddenly, from out of the night, came a fire-arrow, whistling, with dry moss all aflame, and lodged on the roof of Howell’s house.
Quoth Nick: “Your Tree-eater is in action, John. God send that the fire catch!”
From the darkness, Silver called out to me that the marsh-hay had nearly burned out, and what were he and Joe to do? Then came a-whizzing another fire-arrow, and another, but whether the dew was too heavy on the roof or the moss too damp, I do not know; only that when at length the roof caught fire, it was but a tiny blaze and flickered feebly, eating a slow way along the edges of the eaves.
Nick, who had been wrenching at the imbedded door stone, finally freed and lifted it, and hurled it at the bolted shutters. In they crashed. Then the door, too, burst open, and Tom Dawling rushed upon me with his rifle clubbed high above me.
“You damned Whig!” he shouted, “I’ll knock your brains all over the grass!”
My hatchet in a measure fended the blow and eased its murderous force, but I stumbled to my knees under it; and Baltus Weed came to the window and shot me through the body.
At that, Gene Grinnis ran out o’ the house to cut my throat, where like a crippled wild beast I floundered, a-kicking and striving to find my feet; and I saw Nick draw up and shoot Gene through the face, with a load of buck, so that where were his features suddenly became but a vast and raw hole.
Down he sprawled across my hurt legs; down tumbled John Howell, too, and Silver, a-clinging to him tooth and nail, their broad knives flashing and ripping and whipping into flesh.
Striving desperately to free me of Grinnis, and get up, I saw Tom Dawling throw his axe at Godfrey; and saw Luysnes shoot him, then seize him and cut his throat, even as he was falling.
Johnny Silver began bawling lustily for help, with John Howell atop of him, cursing him for a rebel and striving to disembowel him. De Golyer caught Howell by the throat, and Silver scrambled to his feet, his clothing in bloody ribbons. Then Joe’s hatchet flashed level with terrific swiftness, crashing to its mark; and Howell pitched backward with his head clean split from one eye to the other, making of the top of his skull a lid which hung hinged only by the hairy skin.
Luysnes and the Saguenay were now somewhere inside the house a-chasing of Balty Weed; and I could hear Balty screaming, and the thud and clatter of loose logs as they dragged him down from the loft overhead.
Nick came panting to me where I sat on the bloody grass, feeling sick o’ my wound and now vomiting.
“Are you bad?” he asked breathlessly.
“Balty shot me.... I don’t know — —”
Somebody knelt down behind me, and I laid back my head, feeling very sick and faint, but entirely conscious.
The awful screaming in the house had never ceased; Nick sat down on the grass and fumbled at my shirt with trembling fingers.
Presently the screaming ceased. Luysnes came out o’ the house with a lighted lantern, followed by the Saguenay; and in the wavering radiance I saw behind them the feet of a man twitching above the floor.
“We hung the louse to the rafters,” said Luysnes, “and your Indian asks your leave to scalp him as soon as he’s done a-kicking.”
“Let him have the scalp,” said de Golyer, grimly. “He shot John Drogue through the body. Shine your lantern on him, Ben.”
They crowded around me. Nick opened my shirt and drew off my leggins. I saw Johnny Silver, in tatters and all drenched with blood, come into the lantern’s rays.
“Are you bad hurt, John?” I gasped.
“Bah! Non, alors. Onlee has Howell slash my shirt into leetle rags and I am scratch all raw. Zat ees nozzing, mon capitaine — a leetle cut like wiz a Barlow — like zat! Pouf! Bah! I laugh. I make mock!”
“Your ribs are broken, John,” says Nick, still squatting beside me. “I think your bones turned the bullet, and it’s not lodged in your belly at all, but in your right thigh.... Fetch a sop o’ wet moss, Joe!”
De Luysnes also got up and went away to chop some stout alders for a litter. De Golyer was back in a moment, both hands full of dripping sphagnum; and Nick washed away the mess of blood.
After that I was sick at my stomach again; and not clear in my mind what they were about.
I gazed around out of fevered eyes, and saw dead men lying near me. Suddenly the full horror of this civil war seemed to seize my senses; — all the shame of such a conflict, a black disgrace upon us here in County Tryon.
“Nick!” I cried, “in God’s name give those men burial.”
“Let them lie, damn them!” said Godfrey, sullenly.
“But they were our neighbors! I — I can’t endure such a business.... And there are wolves in the tamaracks.”
“Let wolf eat wolf,” muttered Luysnes. But he drew his knife and went into the house. And I heard Balty’s body drop when he cut it down.
Nick came over to me, where I lay on a frame of alders, over which a blanket had been thrown, and he promised that a burial party should come out here as soon as they got me into camp.
So two of my men lifted the litter, and, feeling sick and drowsy, I closed my eyes and felt the slow waves of pain sweep me with every step the litter-bearers took.
* * *
I had been lying in a kind of stupor upon my blanket, aware of dark figures passing to and fro before the lurid radiance of our watch fire, yet not heeding what they said and did, save only when I saw Nick and Luysnes go away carrying two ditch-spades. And was vaguely contented to have the dead put safe from wolves.
Later, when I opened my burning eyes and asked for water, I saw Tahioni in the flushed light of dawn, and knew that my Indians had returned.
Nick filled my pannikin. When I had drunk, I felt very ill and could scarcely find voice to ask him how my Oneidas had made out in the tamaracks.
He admitted that they had not come up with the fugitives; and added that I was badly hurt and should be quiet and trouble my mind about nothing for the present.
One by one my Indians came gravely to gaze upon me, and I tried to smile and to speak to each, but my mind seemed confused, what with the burning of my body and my great weariness.
* * *
When again I unclosed my eyes and asked for water, I was lying under the open-faced shed, and it was brilliant sunshine outside.
Somebody had stripped me and had heated water in the kettle, and was bathing my body.
Then I saw it was the little maid of Askalege.
“Thiohero, — little sister?”
At the sound of my voice, she came and bent over me. La one hand she held a great sponge of steaming sphagnum.
Then came Nick, who leaned closer above me.
“Their young sorceress,” said he, “has washed your body with bitter-bark and sumach, and has cleansed the wounds and stopped them with dry moss and balsam, so that they have ceased bleeding.”
I turned my heavy eyes on the Oneida girl.
“Truly,” said I, “I have come back through the mist, returning in scarlet.... My little sister is very wise.”
She said nothing, but lifted a pannikin of cold water to my lips. It had bitter herbs in it, and, I think, a little gin. I satisfied my thirst.
“Little sister,” I gasped, “is the hole that Balty made in my body so great that my soul shall presently escape?”
She answered calmly: “I have looked through the wound into your body; and I saw your soul there, watching me. Then I conjured your soul, which is very white, to remain within your body. And your soul, seeing that it was not the Eye of Tharon looking in to discover it, went quietly to sleep. And will abide within you.”
She spoke in the Oneida dialect, and Nick listened impatiently, not understanding.
“What does the little Oneida witch say?” he demanded.
Her brother, Tahioni, the Wolf, answered calmly: “The River-reed is a witch and is as wise as the Woman of the Sounding Skies. The River-reed sees events beforehand.”
“She says John Drogue will live?” demanded Nick.
“He shall surely live,” said Thiohero, drawing the blanket over me.
“Well, then,” said Nick, “in God’s name let us get him to the Summer House, where the surgeon of the Continentals can treat him properly, and the ladies there nurse him — —”
That roused me, and I strove to sit up, but could not.
“I shall not go to Summer House!” I cried. “If I am in need of a surgeon, bring him here; but I want no women near me! — I do not desire any woman at Summer House to nurse me or aid or touch me — —”
In my angry excitement at the very remembrance of Lady Johnson and Claudia, and of Penelope, whom I had beheld in Steve Watts’ arms — and of that man himself, who had come spying, — I forced my body upright, furious at the mere thought and swore I had rather die here in camp than be taken thither.
Then, suddenly my elbow crumpled under me, and I fell back in an agony of pain so great that presently the world grew swiftly black and I knew no more.
* * *
CHAPTER XX
IN SHADOW-LAND
WHEN I BECAME conscious, I was lying under blankets upon a trundle-bed, within the four walls of a very small room.
I wore a night-shift which was not mine, being finer and oddly ruffled; and under it my naked body was as stiff as a pike pole, and bound up like a mummy. My right thigh, too, was stiffly swathed and trussed, and I thought I should stifle from the heat of the blankets.
My mind was clear; I was aware of no sharp pain, no fever; but felt very weak, and could have slept again, only that perspiration drenched me and made me restless even as I dozed.
Sometime afterward — the same day, I think — I awoke in some pain, and realized that I was lying on my right side and that the wound in my thigh was being dressed.
The place smelled rank, like a pharmacy, and slightly sickened me.
There were several people in the little room. I saw Nick kneeling beside the bed, holding a pewter basin full of steaming water, and a Continental officer with his wrist-bands tucked up, choosing forceps from a battered leather case.
I could not move my body; my head seemed too heavy to lift; but I was aware of a woman standing close to where my head rested. I could see her two feet in their buckled shoes, and her petticoat of cotton stuff printed in flowers.
When the surgeon had done a-packing my wound with lint, pain had left me weak and indifferent, and I lay heavily, with lids closed.
Also, I had seen and heard enough to satisfy what languid curiosity I might have possessed. For I was in the gun-room at Summer House, whither, it appeared, they had taken me, despite my command to the contrary.
But now I was too weary to resent it; too listless to worry; too incurious to wonder who it might be that was at any pains to care for my broken body at Summer House Point.
Nick came, later, and I opened my eyes, but made no effort to speak. He seemed pleased, however, and gave me a filthy and bitter draught, which I swallowed, but which so madded me that I swore at him.
Whereupon he smiled and wiped my lips and tucked in the accursed blankets that had been stifling me and which now scraped my unshaven chin.
“Damnation!” I whispered, “you smother me, drown me in sweat, and feed me gall and wormwood!”
And I closed my eyes to sleep; but found my mind not so inclined, and lay half dozing, conscious of the sunlight on the floor.
So I was awake when he arrived again with a pot o’ broth.
“Can you not leave me in peace!” said I, so savagely that he laughed outright and bent over, stirring the broth and grinning down at me.
Spoonful by spoonful I swallowed the broth. There was wine in it. This made me drowsy.
To keep account of time, whether it were still this day or the next, or how the hours were passing, had been a matter of indifference to me. Or how the world wagged outside the golden dusk of this small room had interested me not at all.
My Continental surgeon, whom they called Dr. Thatcher, came twice a day and went smartly about his business.
Nick dosed me and fed me. I had asked no questions; but my mind had become sullen and busy; and now I was groping backward and searching memory to find the time and place when I had lost touch with the world and with the business which had brought me into these parts.
All was clearly linked up to the time that Balty shot me. Afterward, only fragments of the chain of events remained in my memory. I heard again the thud of Balty’s body on the puncheon floor, when Luysnes cut him down from the rafters of Howell’s house. I remember that I saw men take ditch-spades to bury the dead. I remember that my body seemed all afire and that I became enraged and forbade them to take me to Summer House.
Further — and of the blank spaces between — I had no recollection save that the whole world seemed burning up in darkness and that my body was being consumed like a fagot in some hellish conflagration, where the flames were black and gave no light.
This day Dr. Thatcher and Nick washed me and closed my wounds.
There had been, it appeared, some drains left in them. The stiff harness on my ribs they left untouched. I breathed, now, without any pain, but itched most damnably.
My closed wounds itched. I desired broth no longer and demanded meat. But got none and swore at Nick.
A barber from the Continental camp arrived to trim me. He took a beard from me that amazed me, and enough hair to awake the envy of a school-girl — for I refused to wear a queue, and bade him trim my pol à la Coureur-du-Bois.
Now this barber, who was a private soldier, seemed willing to gossip; and of him I asked my first questions concerning the outside world and train of events.
But I soon perceived that all he knew was the veriest camp gossip, and that his budget of rumours and reports was of no value whatever. For he said that our armies were everywhere victorious; that the British armies were on the run; and that the war would be over in another month. Everybody, quoth he, would become rich and happy, with General Washington for our King, and every general a duke or marquis, and every soldier a landed proprietor, with nothing to do save sit on his porch, smoke his pipe, and watch his slaves plow his broad acres.
When this sorry ass took his leave, I had long since ceased to listen to him.
I felt very well, except for the accursed itching where my flesh was mending, and rib-bones knitting.
Dr. Thatcher came in. He was booted, spurred, wore pistols and sword, and a military foot-mantle.
When he caught my eyes he smiled slightly and asked me how I did. And I expressed my gratitude as suitably as I knew how, saying that I was well and desired to rise and be about my business.
“In two weeks,” he said, which took me aback.
“Do you know how long you have been here?” he asked, amused.
“Some three or four days, I suppose.
“A month today, Mr. Drogue.”
This stunned me. He seated himself on the camp-stool beside my trundle-bed.
“What preys upon your mind, Mr. Drogue?” he asked pleasantly.
“Sir?”
“I ask you what it is that troubles you.”
I felt a slow heat in my cheeks:
“I have nothing on my mind, sir, save desire to return to duty.”
He said in his kindly way: “You would mend more quickly, sir, if your mind were tranquil.”
I felt my face flush to my hair:
“Why do you suppose that my mind is uneasy, Doctor?”
“You have asked no questions. A sick man, when recovering, asks many. You seem to remain incurious, indifferent. Yet, you are in the house of old friends.”
He looked at me out of his kind, grave eyes: “Also,” he said, “you had many days of fever.”
My face burned: I feared to guess what he meant, but now I must ask.
“Did I babble?”
“A feverish patient often becomes loquacious.”
“Of — of whom did I — rave?” I could scarce force myself to the question. Then, as he also seemed embarrassed, I added: “You need not name her, Doctor. But I beg you to tell me who besides yourself overheard me.”
“Only your soldier, Nicholas Stoner, and a Saguenay Indian, who squats outside your door day and night.”
“Nobody else?”
“I think not.”
“Has Lady Johnson heard me? Or Mistress Swift? Or — Mistress Grant?” I stammered.
“Why, no,” said he. “These ladies were most tender and attentive when your soldiers brought you hither; but two days afterward, while you still lay unconscious, — and your right lung filling solid, — there came a flag from General Schuyler, and an escort of Albany Horse for the ladies. And they departed as prisoners the following morning, with their flag, to be delivered and set at liberty inside the British lines.”
