Complete weird tales of.., p.1151
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1151
“If that is all you require for happiness, John Drogue,” said she in her low, still voice, “then you may take your pleasure of it. I tell you I know! And we have but few hours left together, you and I.”
Spite of common sense and disbelief in superstitions I could not remain entirely unconcerned before such perfect sincerity, though that she believed in her own strange gift could scarcely convince me.
“Come,” said I smilingly, “it may be so. At all events, you cheer me, Penelope, and your kindness heartens me.... Forgive my sullen temper; — it is hard for a man to think himself ignored and perhaps despised. And my ears ache with listening for that same gentle tapping upon my door.”
“I hear it now,” she said under her breath.
“I hear nothing.”
“Alas, no! Yet, that soft-footed maid is knocking on your door.... If only you had heart to hear.”
“One does not hear with one’s heart,” said I, smiling, and stirred to plague her for her mixed metaphor.
“I do,” said she, faintly.
After a little silence she turned to go; and I followed, scarce knowing why; and took her hand in the doorway.
“Little prophetess,” said I, “who promises me what my heart desires, will you touch your lips to mine as a pledge that your prophecy shall come true?”
She looked back over her shoulder, and remained so, her cheek on her right shoulder.
“Your heart desires a battle, John Drogue; your idle vanity my lips.... But you may possess them if you will.”
“I do love you dearly, Penelope Grant.”
She said with a breathless little smile:
“Would you love me better if my prophecy came true this very night?”
But I was troubled at that, and had no mind to sound those unventured deeps which, at such moments, I could feel vaguely astir within me. Nor yet did I seriously consider what I truly desired of this slender maid within the circle of my arms, nor what was to come of such sudden encounters with their swift smile and oddly halting breath and the heart, surprised, rhyming rapidly and unevenly in a reckless measure which pleasured less than it embarrassed.
She loosed her hands and drew away from me, and leaned against the wall, not looking toward me.
“I think,” she said in a stifled voice, “you are to have your wish this night.... Do you hear anything?”
In the intense stillness, straining my ears, I fancied presently that I heard a distant sound in the night. But if it had been so it died out, and the beat of my heart was louder. Then, of a sudden, I seemed to hear it again, and thought it was my pulses startled by sudden hope.
“What is that sound?” I whispered. “Do you hear it?”
“Aye.”
“I hear it also.... Is it imagination? Is there a horse on the highway? Why, I tell you there is!... There is! Do you think he rides express?”
“Out o’ the North, my lord,” she whispered. And suddenly she turned, gave me a blind look, stretched out one hand.
“Why do you think that horseman comes for me!” I said. My imagination caught fire, flamed, and I stood shivering and crushing her fingers in my grasp. “Why — why — do you think so?” I stammered. “He’s turned into William Street! He gallops this way! Damnation! He heads toward the Hall! — No! No! By God, he is in our street, galloping — galloping — —”
Like a pistol shot came a far cry in the darkness: “Express-ho! I pass! I pass!” The racket of iron-shod hoofs echoed in the street; doors and windows flew open; a confusion of voices filled my ears; the rattling roar of the hoofs came to a clashing halt.
“Jimmy Burke’s Tavern!” shouted a hoarse voice.
“Ye’re there, me gay galloper!” came Burke’s bantering voice. “An’ phwat’s afther ye that ye ride the night like a banshee? Is it Sir John that’s chasin’ ye crazy, Jock Gallopaway?”
“Ah-h,” retorted the express, “fetch a drink for me and tell me is there a Mr. Drogue lodging here? Hey? Upstairs? Well, wait a minute — —”
I still had Penelope’s hand in mine as in the grip of a vise, so excited was I, when the express came stamping up the stairs in his jack-boots and pistols — a light-horseman of the Albany troop, who seemed smart enough in his mud-splashed helmet and uniform.
“You are Mr. Drogue, sir?”
“I am.”
He promptly saluted, fished out a letter from his sack and offered it.
In my joy I gave him five shillings in hard money, and then, dragging Penelope by the hand, hastened to break the numerous and heavy seals and open my letter and read it by the candle’s yellow flare.
“Headquarters Northern Dist:
Dept: of Tryon County.
Albany, N. Y.
August 1st, 1777.
Confidential
“To John Drogue, Esqr,
Lieut: Rangers.
Sir,
“An Oneida runner arrived today, who gives an account that Genl St. Leger, with the corps of Sir John Johnson and Colonel John Butler, including a thousand savages under Joseph Brant, has been detached from the army of Genl Burgoyne, and is marching on Fort Schuyler.
“You are directed to take the field instantly with a scout of Oneida Indians, who await you at a rendezvous marked upon the secret map which I enclose herewith.
“You will cross the Buck Island trail somewhere between Rocky River and the Mohawk, and observe St. Leger’s line of communications, cutting off such small posts as prove not too strong, taking prisoners if possible, and ascertaining St. Leger’s ultimate objective, which may be Johnstown or even Schenectady.
“Having satisfied yourself concerning these matters, you will send your despatch by a runner to Albany, and instantly move your detachment toward Saratoga, where you should come into touch with our Northern forces under General Gates, and there render a verbal report to General Gates in person.
“You are strictly cautioned to destroy this letter after reading, and to maintain absolute secrecy concerning its contents. The map you may retain, but if you are taken you should endeavour to destroy it.
“Sir, I have the honour to be, etc., etc.,
“Ph. Schuyler,
“Maj: Gen’l.”
Twice I read the letter before I twisted it to a torch and burned it in the candle flame.
Then I called out to the express: “Say to the personage who sent you hither that his letter is destroyed, and his orders shall be instantly obeyed. Burke has fresh horses for those who ride express.”
Off downstairs he went in his jack-boots, equipments jingling and clanking, and I unfolded my map but scarce could hold it steady in my excitement.
Immediately I perceived that I did not need the map to find the rendezvous, for, as Brent-Meester, I had known that wilderness as perfectly as I knew the streets in Johnstown.
So I made another torch of the map, laughing under my breath to think that Sir William’s late forest warden should require such an article.
All this time, too, I had forgotten Penelope; and turned, now, and saw her watching me, slim and motionless and white as snow.
When her eyes met mine she strove to smile, asking me whether indeed she had not proven a true prophetess.
As she spoke, suddenly a great fear possessed me concerning her; and I stood staring at her in a terrible perplexity.
For now there seemed to be nothing for it but to leave her here, the Schenectady road already being unsafe, or so considered by Schuyler until more certain information could be obtained.
“Do you leave tonight?” she asked calmly.
“Yes, immediately.”
She cast a glance at my rifle standing in the corner, and at my pack, which I had always ready in the event of such sudden summons.
Now I went over to the corner where my baggage lay, lifted the pack and strapped it; put on powder horn, bullet pouch, and sack, slung my knife and my light war-hatchet, and took my cap and rifle.
The moment of parting was here. It scared and confused me, so swiftly had it come upon us.
As I went toward her she turned and walked to the door, and leaned against the frame awaiting me.
“If trouble comes,” I muttered, “the fort is strong.... But I wish to God you were in Albany.”
“I shall do well enough here.... Will you come again to Johnstown?”
“Yes. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, John Drogue.”
“Will you care for Kaya?”
“Yes.”
“And if I do not return you are to have all with which I die possessed. I have written it.”
“In that event I keep only my memory of you. The rest I offer to the needy — in your name.”
Her voice was steady, and her hand, too, where it lay passive in mine. But it crisped and caught my fingers convulsively when I kissed her; and crept up along my fringed sleeve to my shoulder-cape, and grasped the green thrums.
And now her arm lay tightly around my neck, and I looked down into the whitest face I ever had gazed upon.
“I love you dearly,” I said, “and am deep in love.... I want you, Penelope Grant.”
“I want you,” she said.
My heart was suffocating me:
“Shall we exchange vows?” I managed to say.
“What vows, sir?”
“Such as engage our honour. I want you to wife, Penelope Grant.”
“Dear lad! What are you saying? You should travel widely and at leisure before you commit your honour to an unconsidered vow. I desire that you first see great cities, other countries, other women — of your own caste.... And then ... if you return ... and are still of the same mind ... concerning me....”
“But you? There are other men in the world. And I must have your vows before I go!”
“Oh, if it be only mine you desire, then I promise you, John Drogue, to look at no man with kindness in your absence, think of no man excepting you, pray for none save only His Excellency and General Schuyler, dream of none, God willing, but you. And to remain in deed and thought and word and conduct constant and faithful to you alone.”
“Then,” said I, trembling, “I also promise — —”
“No!”
“But I — —”
“Wait! For God’s sake mind what you say; for I will not have it that your honour should ever summon you hither and not your heart! No! Let be as it is.”
Her sudden warmth and the quick flush of determination on her face checked and silenced me.
She said very coolly: “Any person of sense must know that a marriage is unsuitable between a servant to Douw Fonda and John Murray Drogue Forbes, Laird of Northesk, and a Stormont to boot!”
“Where got you that Forbes?” I demanded, astonished and angry.
She laughed. “Because I know the clan, my lord!”
“How do you know?” I repeated, astounded.
“Because it is my own clan and name. Drogue-Forbes, Grant-Forbes! — a claymore or a pair of scissors can snip the link when some Glencoe or Culloden of adversity scatters families to the four winds and seven seas.... Well, sir, as the saying is in Northesk, ‘a Drogue stops at nothing but a Forbes. And a Grant is as stubborn.’ Did you ever hear that?”
“Yes.... And you are a Forbes of Northesk?”
“Like yourself, sir, we stop before a liaison.”
Her rapier wit confused and amazed me; her sudden revelation of our kinship confounded me.
“Good God,” said I, “why have you never told me this, Penelope?”
She shook her yellow head defiantly: “A would na,” quoth she, her chin hanging down, but the brown eyes of her watching me. “And it was a servant-maid you asked to wife you, and none other either.... D’ye ken that, you Stormont lad? It was me — me! — who may wear the Beadlaidh, too! — me who can cry ‘Lonach! Lonach! Creag Ealachaidh!’ with as stout a heart and clean a pride as you, Ian Drogue, Laird o’ Northesk! — laird o’ my soul and heart — my lord — my dear, dear lord — —”
She flung her arms across her face and burst into a fit of weeping; and as I caught her in my arms she leaned so on my breast, sobbing out her happiness and fears and pride and love, and her gratitude to God that I should have loved her for herself in the body of a maid-servant, and that I had bespoken her fairly where in all the land no man had offered more than that which she might take from him out of his left hand.
So, for a long while, we stood there together, clasped breast to breast, dumb with tenderness and mazed in the spell of first young love.
I stammered my vows, and she now opposed me nothing, only clinging to me the closer, confident, submissive, acquiescent in all I wished and asked and said.
There were ink, paper, a quill, and sand in her chamber. We went thither, and I wrote out drafts upon Schenectady, and composed letters of assurance and recognition, which would be useful to her in case of necessity.
I got Jimmy Burke out o’ bed and shewed him all I had writ, and made him witness our signatures and engaged him to appear if necessary.
These papers and money drafts, together with Penelope’s papers and letters she had of Douw Fonda and of the Patroon, were sufficient to establish her with the new will I made and had witnessed at the fort a week before.
And so, at midnight, in her little chamber at Burke’s Inn, I parted from Penelope Grant, — dropped to my knee and kissed her feet, who had been servant to the county gentry and courted by the county quality, but had been mistress of none in all the world excepting only of herself.
* * *
When I was ready she handed me my rifle, buckled up my shoulder sack, smoothed my fringed cape with steady hands, walked with me to her chamber door.
Her face rested an instant against mine, but there were no tears, no trembling, only the swift passion of her lips; and then— “God be with you, John Drogue!” And so, with gay courage, closed her chamber door.
I turned and stumbled out along the corridor, carrying my rifle and feeling my way to the hand-rail, down the creaking stairway, and out into the starry night.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVII
FIRE-FLIES
THAT NIGHT I lay on my blanket in the forest, but slept only three hours, and was awake in the gates of morning before the sun rose, ready to move on to the Wood of Brakabeen, our rendezvous in Schoharie.
Never shall I forget that August day so crowded with events.
And first in the yellow flare of sun-up, on the edge of a pasture where acres of dew sparkled, I saw a young girl milking; and went to her to beg a cup of new milk.
But she was very offish until she learned to what party I belonged, and then gave me a dipper full of sweet milk.
When I had satisfied my thirst, she took me by the hand and drew me into a grove of pines where none could observe us. And here she told me her name, which was Angelica Vrooman, and warned me not to travel through Schoharie by any highway.
For, said she, the district was all smouldering with disloyalty, and the Tories growing more defiant day by day with news of Sir John’s advance and McDonald also on the way from the southward to burn the place and murder all.
“My God, sir,” says she, in a very passion of horror and resentment, “I know not how we, in Schoharie, shall contrive, for Herkimer has called out our regiment and they march this morning to their rendezvous with the Palatine Regiment.
“What are we to do, sir? The Middle Fort alone is defensible; the Upper and Lower Forts are still a-building, and sodders still at labour, and neither ditch nor palisade begun.”
“You have your exempts,” said I, troubled, “and your rangers.”
“Our exempts work on the forts; our rangers are few and scattered, and Colonel Harper knows not where to turn for a runner or a rifleman!
“General Schuyler has writ to my father and says how he desires General Ten Broeck to order out the whole of the militia, only that he fears that they will behave like the Schenectady and Schoharie militia have done and that very few will march unless provision is made for their families’ security.
“A man rides express today to the garrison in the Highlands to pray for two hundred Continentals. Which is only just, as we are exposed to McDonald and Sir John, and have already sent most of our men to the Continental Line, and have left only our regiment, which marches today, and the remainder all disaffected and plotting treason.”
“Plotting treason? What do you mean, child?” I demanded anxiously.
“Why, sir, Captain Mann and his company refuse to march. He declares himself a friend to King George, has barricaded Brick House, is collecting Indians and Tories, and swears he will join McDonald’s outlaws and destroy us unless we lay down our arms and accept royal protection.”
“Why — why the filthy dog!” I stammered, “I have never heard the like of such treason!”
“Can you help us, sir?” she asked earnestly.
“I shall endeavour to do so,” said I, red with wrath.
“Our people have planned to seize and barricade Stone House,” said she. “My father rides express to Albany. Why, sir, so put to it are we that Henry Hager, an aged exempt of over seventy years, is scouting for our party. Is our situation not pitiful?”
“Have all the young men gone? Have you no brothers to defend this house?”
“No, sir.... I have a lover.... He is Lieutenant Wirt, of the Albany Light Horse. But he has writ to my father that he can not leave his cavalry to help us.”
It was sad enough; and I promised the girl I would do what I could; and so left her, continuing on along the fences in the shadow of the woods.
It was not long afterward when I heard military music in the distance. And now, from a hill, I saw long files of muskets shining in the early sun.
It was the Canajoharie Regiment marching with fife, drum, and bugle-horn to join Herkimer; and so near they passed at the foot of the low hill where I stood that I could see and recognize their mounted officers; and saw, riding with them, Spencer, the Oneida interpreter, splendidly horsed; and Colonel Cox, old George Klock’s smart son-in-law, who, when Brant asked him if he were not related to that thieving villain of the Moonlight Survey, replied: “Yes, I am, but what is that to you, you s — of an Indian!”
Spite of common sense and disbelief in superstitions I could not remain entirely unconcerned before such perfect sincerity, though that she believed in her own strange gift could scarcely convince me.
“Come,” said I smilingly, “it may be so. At all events, you cheer me, Penelope, and your kindness heartens me.... Forgive my sullen temper; — it is hard for a man to think himself ignored and perhaps despised. And my ears ache with listening for that same gentle tapping upon my door.”
“I hear it now,” she said under her breath.
“I hear nothing.”
“Alas, no! Yet, that soft-footed maid is knocking on your door.... If only you had heart to hear.”
“One does not hear with one’s heart,” said I, smiling, and stirred to plague her for her mixed metaphor.
“I do,” said she, faintly.
After a little silence she turned to go; and I followed, scarce knowing why; and took her hand in the doorway.
“Little prophetess,” said I, “who promises me what my heart desires, will you touch your lips to mine as a pledge that your prophecy shall come true?”
She looked back over her shoulder, and remained so, her cheek on her right shoulder.
“Your heart desires a battle, John Drogue; your idle vanity my lips.... But you may possess them if you will.”
“I do love you dearly, Penelope Grant.”
She said with a breathless little smile:
“Would you love me better if my prophecy came true this very night?”
But I was troubled at that, and had no mind to sound those unventured deeps which, at such moments, I could feel vaguely astir within me. Nor yet did I seriously consider what I truly desired of this slender maid within the circle of my arms, nor what was to come of such sudden encounters with their swift smile and oddly halting breath and the heart, surprised, rhyming rapidly and unevenly in a reckless measure which pleasured less than it embarrassed.
She loosed her hands and drew away from me, and leaned against the wall, not looking toward me.
“I think,” she said in a stifled voice, “you are to have your wish this night.... Do you hear anything?”
In the intense stillness, straining my ears, I fancied presently that I heard a distant sound in the night. But if it had been so it died out, and the beat of my heart was louder. Then, of a sudden, I seemed to hear it again, and thought it was my pulses startled by sudden hope.
“What is that sound?” I whispered. “Do you hear it?”
“Aye.”
“I hear it also.... Is it imagination? Is there a horse on the highway? Why, I tell you there is!... There is! Do you think he rides express?”
“Out o’ the North, my lord,” she whispered. And suddenly she turned, gave me a blind look, stretched out one hand.
“Why do you think that horseman comes for me!” I said. My imagination caught fire, flamed, and I stood shivering and crushing her fingers in my grasp. “Why — why — do you think so?” I stammered. “He’s turned into William Street! He gallops this way! Damnation! He heads toward the Hall! — No! No! By God, he is in our street, galloping — galloping — —”
Like a pistol shot came a far cry in the darkness: “Express-ho! I pass! I pass!” The racket of iron-shod hoofs echoed in the street; doors and windows flew open; a confusion of voices filled my ears; the rattling roar of the hoofs came to a clashing halt.
“Jimmy Burke’s Tavern!” shouted a hoarse voice.
“Ye’re there, me gay galloper!” came Burke’s bantering voice. “An’ phwat’s afther ye that ye ride the night like a banshee? Is it Sir John that’s chasin’ ye crazy, Jock Gallopaway?”
“Ah-h,” retorted the express, “fetch a drink for me and tell me is there a Mr. Drogue lodging here? Hey? Upstairs? Well, wait a minute — —”
I still had Penelope’s hand in mine as in the grip of a vise, so excited was I, when the express came stamping up the stairs in his jack-boots and pistols — a light-horseman of the Albany troop, who seemed smart enough in his mud-splashed helmet and uniform.
“You are Mr. Drogue, sir?”
“I am.”
He promptly saluted, fished out a letter from his sack and offered it.
In my joy I gave him five shillings in hard money, and then, dragging Penelope by the hand, hastened to break the numerous and heavy seals and open my letter and read it by the candle’s yellow flare.
“Headquarters Northern Dist:
Dept: of Tryon County.
Albany, N. Y.
August 1st, 1777.
Confidential
“To John Drogue, Esqr,
Lieut: Rangers.
Sir,
“An Oneida runner arrived today, who gives an account that Genl St. Leger, with the corps of Sir John Johnson and Colonel John Butler, including a thousand savages under Joseph Brant, has been detached from the army of Genl Burgoyne, and is marching on Fort Schuyler.
“You are directed to take the field instantly with a scout of Oneida Indians, who await you at a rendezvous marked upon the secret map which I enclose herewith.
“You will cross the Buck Island trail somewhere between Rocky River and the Mohawk, and observe St. Leger’s line of communications, cutting off such small posts as prove not too strong, taking prisoners if possible, and ascertaining St. Leger’s ultimate objective, which may be Johnstown or even Schenectady.
“Having satisfied yourself concerning these matters, you will send your despatch by a runner to Albany, and instantly move your detachment toward Saratoga, where you should come into touch with our Northern forces under General Gates, and there render a verbal report to General Gates in person.
“You are strictly cautioned to destroy this letter after reading, and to maintain absolute secrecy concerning its contents. The map you may retain, but if you are taken you should endeavour to destroy it.
“Sir, I have the honour to be, etc., etc.,
“Ph. Schuyler,
“Maj: Gen’l.”
Twice I read the letter before I twisted it to a torch and burned it in the candle flame.
Then I called out to the express: “Say to the personage who sent you hither that his letter is destroyed, and his orders shall be instantly obeyed. Burke has fresh horses for those who ride express.”
Off downstairs he went in his jack-boots, equipments jingling and clanking, and I unfolded my map but scarce could hold it steady in my excitement.
Immediately I perceived that I did not need the map to find the rendezvous, for, as Brent-Meester, I had known that wilderness as perfectly as I knew the streets in Johnstown.
So I made another torch of the map, laughing under my breath to think that Sir William’s late forest warden should require such an article.
All this time, too, I had forgotten Penelope; and turned, now, and saw her watching me, slim and motionless and white as snow.
When her eyes met mine she strove to smile, asking me whether indeed she had not proven a true prophetess.
As she spoke, suddenly a great fear possessed me concerning her; and I stood staring at her in a terrible perplexity.
For now there seemed to be nothing for it but to leave her here, the Schenectady road already being unsafe, or so considered by Schuyler until more certain information could be obtained.
“Do you leave tonight?” she asked calmly.
“Yes, immediately.”
She cast a glance at my rifle standing in the corner, and at my pack, which I had always ready in the event of such sudden summons.
Now I went over to the corner where my baggage lay, lifted the pack and strapped it; put on powder horn, bullet pouch, and sack, slung my knife and my light war-hatchet, and took my cap and rifle.
The moment of parting was here. It scared and confused me, so swiftly had it come upon us.
As I went toward her she turned and walked to the door, and leaned against the frame awaiting me.
“If trouble comes,” I muttered, “the fort is strong.... But I wish to God you were in Albany.”
“I shall do well enough here.... Will you come again to Johnstown?”
“Yes. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, John Drogue.”
“Will you care for Kaya?”
“Yes.”
“And if I do not return you are to have all with which I die possessed. I have written it.”
“In that event I keep only my memory of you. The rest I offer to the needy — in your name.”
Her voice was steady, and her hand, too, where it lay passive in mine. But it crisped and caught my fingers convulsively when I kissed her; and crept up along my fringed sleeve to my shoulder-cape, and grasped the green thrums.
And now her arm lay tightly around my neck, and I looked down into the whitest face I ever had gazed upon.
“I love you dearly,” I said, “and am deep in love.... I want you, Penelope Grant.”
“I want you,” she said.
My heart was suffocating me:
“Shall we exchange vows?” I managed to say.
“What vows, sir?”
“Such as engage our honour. I want you to wife, Penelope Grant.”
“Dear lad! What are you saying? You should travel widely and at leisure before you commit your honour to an unconsidered vow. I desire that you first see great cities, other countries, other women — of your own caste.... And then ... if you return ... and are still of the same mind ... concerning me....”
“But you? There are other men in the world. And I must have your vows before I go!”
“Oh, if it be only mine you desire, then I promise you, John Drogue, to look at no man with kindness in your absence, think of no man excepting you, pray for none save only His Excellency and General Schuyler, dream of none, God willing, but you. And to remain in deed and thought and word and conduct constant and faithful to you alone.”
“Then,” said I, trembling, “I also promise — —”
“No!”
“But I — —”
“Wait! For God’s sake mind what you say; for I will not have it that your honour should ever summon you hither and not your heart! No! Let be as it is.”
Her sudden warmth and the quick flush of determination on her face checked and silenced me.
She said very coolly: “Any person of sense must know that a marriage is unsuitable between a servant to Douw Fonda and John Murray Drogue Forbes, Laird of Northesk, and a Stormont to boot!”
“Where got you that Forbes?” I demanded, astonished and angry.
She laughed. “Because I know the clan, my lord!”
“How do you know?” I repeated, astounded.
“Because it is my own clan and name. Drogue-Forbes, Grant-Forbes! — a claymore or a pair of scissors can snip the link when some Glencoe or Culloden of adversity scatters families to the four winds and seven seas.... Well, sir, as the saying is in Northesk, ‘a Drogue stops at nothing but a Forbes. And a Grant is as stubborn.’ Did you ever hear that?”
“Yes.... And you are a Forbes of Northesk?”
“Like yourself, sir, we stop before a liaison.”
Her rapier wit confused and amazed me; her sudden revelation of our kinship confounded me.
“Good God,” said I, “why have you never told me this, Penelope?”
She shook her yellow head defiantly: “A would na,” quoth she, her chin hanging down, but the brown eyes of her watching me. “And it was a servant-maid you asked to wife you, and none other either.... D’ye ken that, you Stormont lad? It was me — me! — who may wear the Beadlaidh, too! — me who can cry ‘Lonach! Lonach! Creag Ealachaidh!’ with as stout a heart and clean a pride as you, Ian Drogue, Laird o’ Northesk! — laird o’ my soul and heart — my lord — my dear, dear lord — —”
She flung her arms across her face and burst into a fit of weeping; and as I caught her in my arms she leaned so on my breast, sobbing out her happiness and fears and pride and love, and her gratitude to God that I should have loved her for herself in the body of a maid-servant, and that I had bespoken her fairly where in all the land no man had offered more than that which she might take from him out of his left hand.
So, for a long while, we stood there together, clasped breast to breast, dumb with tenderness and mazed in the spell of first young love.
I stammered my vows, and she now opposed me nothing, only clinging to me the closer, confident, submissive, acquiescent in all I wished and asked and said.
There were ink, paper, a quill, and sand in her chamber. We went thither, and I wrote out drafts upon Schenectady, and composed letters of assurance and recognition, which would be useful to her in case of necessity.
I got Jimmy Burke out o’ bed and shewed him all I had writ, and made him witness our signatures and engaged him to appear if necessary.
These papers and money drafts, together with Penelope’s papers and letters she had of Douw Fonda and of the Patroon, were sufficient to establish her with the new will I made and had witnessed at the fort a week before.
And so, at midnight, in her little chamber at Burke’s Inn, I parted from Penelope Grant, — dropped to my knee and kissed her feet, who had been servant to the county gentry and courted by the county quality, but had been mistress of none in all the world excepting only of herself.
* * *
When I was ready she handed me my rifle, buckled up my shoulder sack, smoothed my fringed cape with steady hands, walked with me to her chamber door.
Her face rested an instant against mine, but there were no tears, no trembling, only the swift passion of her lips; and then— “God be with you, John Drogue!” And so, with gay courage, closed her chamber door.
I turned and stumbled out along the corridor, carrying my rifle and feeling my way to the hand-rail, down the creaking stairway, and out into the starry night.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVII
FIRE-FLIES
THAT NIGHT I lay on my blanket in the forest, but slept only three hours, and was awake in the gates of morning before the sun rose, ready to move on to the Wood of Brakabeen, our rendezvous in Schoharie.
Never shall I forget that August day so crowded with events.
And first in the yellow flare of sun-up, on the edge of a pasture where acres of dew sparkled, I saw a young girl milking; and went to her to beg a cup of new milk.
But she was very offish until she learned to what party I belonged, and then gave me a dipper full of sweet milk.
When I had satisfied my thirst, she took me by the hand and drew me into a grove of pines where none could observe us. And here she told me her name, which was Angelica Vrooman, and warned me not to travel through Schoharie by any highway.
For, said she, the district was all smouldering with disloyalty, and the Tories growing more defiant day by day with news of Sir John’s advance and McDonald also on the way from the southward to burn the place and murder all.
“My God, sir,” says she, in a very passion of horror and resentment, “I know not how we, in Schoharie, shall contrive, for Herkimer has called out our regiment and they march this morning to their rendezvous with the Palatine Regiment.
“What are we to do, sir? The Middle Fort alone is defensible; the Upper and Lower Forts are still a-building, and sodders still at labour, and neither ditch nor palisade begun.”
“You have your exempts,” said I, troubled, “and your rangers.”
“Our exempts work on the forts; our rangers are few and scattered, and Colonel Harper knows not where to turn for a runner or a rifleman!
“General Schuyler has writ to my father and says how he desires General Ten Broeck to order out the whole of the militia, only that he fears that they will behave like the Schenectady and Schoharie militia have done and that very few will march unless provision is made for their families’ security.
“A man rides express today to the garrison in the Highlands to pray for two hundred Continentals. Which is only just, as we are exposed to McDonald and Sir John, and have already sent most of our men to the Continental Line, and have left only our regiment, which marches today, and the remainder all disaffected and plotting treason.”
“Plotting treason? What do you mean, child?” I demanded anxiously.
“Why, sir, Captain Mann and his company refuse to march. He declares himself a friend to King George, has barricaded Brick House, is collecting Indians and Tories, and swears he will join McDonald’s outlaws and destroy us unless we lay down our arms and accept royal protection.”
“Why — why the filthy dog!” I stammered, “I have never heard the like of such treason!”
“Can you help us, sir?” she asked earnestly.
“I shall endeavour to do so,” said I, red with wrath.
“Our people have planned to seize and barricade Stone House,” said she. “My father rides express to Albany. Why, sir, so put to it are we that Henry Hager, an aged exempt of over seventy years, is scouting for our party. Is our situation not pitiful?”
“Have all the young men gone? Have you no brothers to defend this house?”
“No, sir.... I have a lover.... He is Lieutenant Wirt, of the Albany Light Horse. But he has writ to my father that he can not leave his cavalry to help us.”
It was sad enough; and I promised the girl I would do what I could; and so left her, continuing on along the fences in the shadow of the woods.
It was not long afterward when I heard military music in the distance. And now, from a hill, I saw long files of muskets shining in the early sun.
It was the Canajoharie Regiment marching with fife, drum, and bugle-horn to join Herkimer; and so near they passed at the foot of the low hill where I stood that I could see and recognize their mounted officers; and saw, riding with them, Spencer, the Oneida interpreter, splendidly horsed; and Colonel Cox, old George Klock’s smart son-in-law, who, when Brant asked him if he were not related to that thieving villain of the Moonlight Survey, replied: “Yes, I am, but what is that to you, you s — of an Indian!”
