Complete weird tales of.., p.116
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 116
“The beast!” I snarled. “That he should come a-suing you without a word to Sir William! Do gentlemen conduct in such a manner towards gentlewomen? Now hear me! Do you swear to me upon your oath and honour never to stay again after school, never to listen to another word from this sneaking fellow until you are sixteen, never to receive his addresses until Sir William speaks to you of him? Swear it! Or I will go straight to Mr. Butler and strike him in the face!”
“Micky, what are you saying? Sir William knows all this.”
Taken aback, I dropped her hands, but in a moment seized them again.
“Swear!” I repeated, crushing her hands. “I don’t care what Sir William says! Swear it!”
“I swear,” she said, faintly. “You are hurting my fingers!”
She drew her hands from mine. Where the fishing-line had cut a single drop of blood had been squeezed out again.
“First you bind my hand, then you tear it,” she said, without resentment. “It is like all men — to hurt, to heal, then wound again.”
I scarcely heard her, being occupied with my anger and my designs against Mr. Butler. Such hatred as I now felt for him I never had conceived could be cherished towards any living thing. My right hand itched for a sword-hilt; I longed to see him facing me as I never had craved for anything in this world or the next. And to think that Sir William approved it!
Unconsciously we had both risen, and now, side by side, we were moving slowly along the stream, saying nothing, yet in closer communion than we had ever been.
Little by little the hot anger cooled in my veins, leaving a refreshing confidence that all would come right. Such passions are too powerful for young hearts. Anger and grief heal their own wounds quickly when life is yet new.
With my sudden, astonished respect for Silver Heels came another sentiment, a recognition of her rights as an equal, and a strangely solicitous desire to control and direct her enjoyment of these rights. It is the instinct of chivalry, latent in the roughest of us, and which, in extreme youth, first manifests as patronage. Thus, walking with Silver Heels I unburdened my heart, telling her that I too had been in love, that the object of my respectful passion was one Marie Livingston, who would undoubtedly be mine at some distant date. I revealed my desire to see Silver Heels suitably plighted, drawing a pleasing portrait of an imaginary suitor who should fill all requirements.
To this she replied that she, too, had desired a suitor resembling the highly attractive portrait I had painted for her; that she found a likeness between that portrait and her 72 secret ideal, and that she should be very glad to encounter the portrait in the flesh.
It hurt me a little that she had not recognized in me many of the traits I had painted for her so carefully, and presently I disclosed myself as the mysterious original of the portrait.
“You!” she exclaimed, in amazement. Then, not to hurt me, she said it was quite true that I did resemble her ideal, and only lacked years and titles and wealth and reputation to make me desirable for her.
“I believe, also,” she said, “that Aunt Molly means that we marry. Betty says so, and she is wiser than a black cat.”
“Well,” said I, “we can’t marry, can we, Silver Heels?”
“Why, no,” she said, simply; “there’s all those things you lack.”
“And all those things which you lack,” said I, sharply. “Now, Marie Livingston—”
“She is older than I!” cried Silver Heels.
“And those things I lack come with years!” I retorted.
“That is true,” she answered; “you are suitable for me excepting your years, which includes all you ought to be.”
“Suppose you wait for me?” I proposed. “If I wed not Marie Livingston, I will wed you, Silver Heels.”
I meant to be generous, but she grew very angry and vowed she would rather wed young Bareshanks than me.
“I don’t care a fig,” said I; “I only meant you to be suitably wed one day, and was even willing to do so myself to save you from Captain Butler. Anyway I’ll kill him next year, so I don’t care whether you marry me or not.”
“A sorry match, pardieu!” she snapped, and fell a-laughing. “Michael, I will warn you now that I mean to wed a gentleman of rank and wealth, and wear jewels which will blind you! And I shall wed a gallant gentleman of years, Michael, and scarred with battles — not so to disfigure a pleasing countenance, but under his clothes where none can see — and I shall be ‘my lady!’ — mark me! Michael, and shall be well patched and powdered as befits my rank! I shall strive to be very kind to you, Michael.”
Her cheeks were aflame, her eyes daring and bright. She picked up her skirt and mocked me in a curtsey, then marched off, nose in the wind, to join Sir William and Mr. 73 Duncan, who were returning along the bank with a few brace of fish.
The sun had dropped low behind the trees ere we were prepared to depart. Bareshanks brought around my horse, and I mounted without difficulty this time.
As the wagon moved off Mr. Duncan started a hymn of Watts, which all joined, the soldiers and young Bareshanks also singing lustily, it being permitted for servants to aid in holy song.
So among the woods and out into the still country, with the sun a red ball sinking through saffron mist and the new moon aslant and dim overhead.
As I rode, the whippoorwill called after me from the darkening woods; the crickets began from every tuft, and far away I heard the solitary hermit at vespers in the still pines.
It was night ere the lights of Johnstown glimmered out against the hill-side where, on the hillock called Mount Johnson, the candles in our windows spun little rings of fire in the evening haze.
As we passed through the village, the good people turned to smile and to doff their hats to Sir William, thinking not less of him for riding with his flock in the straw-lined wagon, and on they went; I pulling rein at the blacksmith’s, as Warlock had cast a shoe on the stony way below.
While the smith was at his forge I dismounted and stood in the fire-glow, stroking Warlock’s velvet nose, and watching the fiery flakes falling from the beaten metal.
And as I stood, musing now on Silver Heels, now on Mr. Butler, came one a-swaggering by the shop, and bawling loudly a most foolish lilt:
“Diddle diddle dumpling,
My son John
Went to bed with one shoe on;
One shoe off and one shoe on;
Diddle diddle dumpling,
My son John!”
Perceiving me in full uniform the songster halted and saluted so cheerfully that I rendered his salute with a smile. He was drunk but polite; a great fellow, six feet two at 74 least, all buckskin and swagger and raccoon cap, with tail bobbing to his neck, a true coureur-de-bois, which is the term for those roaming free-rifles whose business and conduct will not always bear investigation, and who live by their wits as well as by their rifles.
“A fine horse, captain,” quoth he, with good-natured, drunken freedom, which is not possible for gentlemen to either ignore or resent. “A fine horse, sir, and, by your leave, worthy of his master!” And he stood swaying there heel and toe, with such a jolly laugh that I laughed too, and asked the news from Canada.
“Canada!” he roared, in his voice of a giant. “I’ve not sniffed priest or Jesuit these six months! Do you take me for a Frenchy, captain?”
At that moment another man who had been pushing his nose against the window of a bake-shop crossed the street and joined the giant in buckskin, saluting me carelessly as he came up.
He was short and meagre and weasel-eyed, sharp-muzzled, and dingy as a summer fox. He was also drunk, yet his mouth was honest, and I judge not from such things, nor yet by the eye, but by men’s lips and how they rest one upon the other, and how they laugh.
Waiting there for my horse, I paced up and down the doorway, sometimes glancing at the motley pair in their fringed buckskins, who were fondly embracing one another, sometimes watching the towns-people, passing before the lighted windows. There were soldiers strolling, two by two, lingering at bake-shops to sniff the ovens; there were traders, come to town to solicit permits from Sir William for the Canadas. At times the tall, blanketed form of a Mohawk passed like a spectre with the red forge light running along his rifle barrel, followed by his squaw, loaded with bags of flour, or a haunch of salted beef, or a bale of pelts crackling on her back.
My pair of buckskin birds, loitering before the tavern, had been observed and mistaken for French trappers by half a dozen soldiers of the Royal Americans, who were squatting in a row on the tavern porch, and a volley of chaff was fired at short range.
“Mossoo! Oh, Mossoo! I say, Mossoo! How’s Mrs. Parleyvoo and the little Parleyvoos? What’s the price of cat-stew in Canada? Take that cat-tail off your cap, Mossoo!”
The big ranger gave them a drunken stare, then burst into a laugh.
“Why, it’s some of those lobster-backs. Hello! Old red-bellies! They’re going to give another tea-party in Boston, I hear. Didn’t they invite you?”
“Come across the street and we’ll give you a tea-party, you damned Yankee!” cried the soldiers, unbuckling their leather belts and swinging them.
“Come over here and we’ll drum the rogue’s march on you!” shouted the little ranger, planting his legs wide apart and drawing the ramrod from his long rifle.
A watchman with rattle, pike, and lanthorn came hobbling up, threatening to sound his call. A group of towns-people gathered behind him, protesting against the disturbance.
But the two rangers flourished their ramrods and taunted the soldiers with inquiries which I did not understand at the time, such as: “How’s Bully Tryon and his blood-pudding?” “I learn that Tommy Gage has the gout; too much Port-Bill; he needs bleeding, does Tommy Gage!”
Then the big ranger, addressing soldiers, watchman, and towns-people as “bloody-backs,” “cow-rumps,” and “scratch-wigs,” advised them all to pickle their heads and sell them in Albany, where cabbage was much esteemed among the Dutchmen.
“Come up to the barracks and we’ll show you what pickling is,” shouted the soldiers, wrathfully.
“Come out in the woods and I’ll show you something to beat pickled pig!” replied the little ranger, cheerfully.
Behind me I heard the trample of hoofs; the smith was backing Warlock out into the street. I paid him; he held my stirrup, and I mounted, walking my horse out between the soldiers, the people, and the two rangers.
“Come, boys,” said I, pleasantly, “this town is no place for brawls. Let it end here — do you understand? — or Sir William shall learn of it!”
The soldiers had stepped forward to salute, the two rangers laughed scornfully, flung their rifles over their shoulders, 76 and passed on into the darkness with noiseless, moccasined stride.
Waiting to see that the crowd dispersed without disorder, far down the dim street I heard the two rangers break out into a foolish catch:
“Who comes here?
A grenadier!
What d’ye lack?
A pot o’ beer!
Where’s your penny?
I forgot —
Get you gone, you red-coat sot!”
A most uncomfortable sensation came over me, although I did not fully understand that “red-coat” was a reproach. But the loose laughter, the disrespectful tone, the devil-may-care swagger of these fellows disturbed me. What had they meant by “lobster-back” and “Tommy Gage” and “Bully Tryon?” Surely they could not have referred to General Gage of Boston or to our Governor! Did they mean Sir William’s son, John, by their “diddle dumpling?” What quarrel had they with the King’s soldiers? They had been courteous enough to me, unless they intended their song as an insult.
The blood stung my face; I put Warlock to a gallop and overtook the pair. They were arm in arm, swaggering along, ogling the towns-people, jostling the crowd, sometimes mocking the bare shanks of a Highlander, sometimes hustling an Indian, or tweaking the beard of a Jew peddler, now doffing their caps to some pretty maid, now digging the ribs of a sober Quaker, and ever singing of “diddle diddle dumpling” or of the grenadier and his pot of beer.
Such license and freedom displeased me. I had never before observed it in our town or among those who came to the Hall. However, I now saw that I could not with dignity notice either their boorish gallantry, their mischief, or the songs they were pleased to bawl out in the street.
I therefore passed them in silence, and, loosening bridle, set Warlock at a gallop for home.
I did not comprehend it at the time; indeed, the whole matter 77 passed from my mind ere the lights of the Hall broke out in the blue night. Yet the scene I had witnessed was my first view of the unrest which tormented the whole land, the first symptom of that new fever for which no remedy had yet been found.
CHAPTER VI
IT WAS NOT yet dawn, though a few birds sang in the darkness around us, as Sir William and I set off for the Cayuga’s lodge, which stood beyond the town on a rocky knoll, partly cleared of trees.
The air was cold and without fragrance, for in our country it is the sun that draws the earth’s sweetness in early spring.
The stars lighted us through the streets of Johnstown, empty of life save for the muffled watchman dozing in his own lanthorn glow, who roused as he heard us, and shook his damp cloak. And far behind us we heard his sing-song:
“Four o’clock! A cold, fair morn, and all well!”
One inn there was, where the dim bush swung wet and sleek as a clinging bat, and where stale embers of the night’s revelry still flickered; for, behind the lighted windows, men were singing, and we heard them as we passed:
“Oh, we’re all dry
Wi’ drinking on’t —
We’re all dry
Wi’ drinking on’t.
The piper kissed
The fiddler’s wife;
And I can’t sleep
For thinking on’t!”
“Starbuck’s Inn,” muttered Sir William, grimly. “He’s a Boston man; they drink no tea there.”
And, as we strode on in the darkness, behind us, from the lighted hostelry, came a husky echo of that foolish catch:
“Diddle diddle dumpling,
My son John—”
So I knew that my buckskin birds were still chirping among us.
But now we were on the stony way and the town sank below us as we climbed towards Quider’s lodge, knee-deep in dewy thistles.
The spark of a tiny council fire guided us. Coming nearer we smelled black birch burning, and we saw the long thread of aromatic smoke mounting steadily to the paling stars.
We passed a young basswood-tree from which hung a flint, symbol of the Mohawks. From another chestnut-sapling dangled the symbol of the Cayugas, a pipe. All at once we saw Quider, standing motionless before his lodge.
Sir William drew flint and tinder from his pouch, and sent a spark flying into the dry tobacco of his pipe. He drew it to a long glow, twice, and passed it, through the smoke of the fire, to Quider.
I saw the Cayuga’s face then. It was a strange red, yet it was not painted. He seemed ill; his eyes glittered like the eyes of a lynx.
And now, as the Indian sank down into his blanket before the fire, Sir William produced a belt from the folds of his cloak and held it out. The belt was black with two figures woven in white on it. The hands of the figures were clasped together. It was a chain-belt.
“Brother,” he said, slowly: “The clouds which hang over us prevent us from seeing the sun. It is, therefore, our business, with this belt, to clear the sky. And we also, with this belt, set the sun in its proper course, so that we may be enabled to see the narrow path of peace.”
(Gives the belt.)
“Brother: We have heard what you have said about Colonel Cresap; we believe he has been misled, and we have rekindled the council fire at Johnstown with embers from Onondaga, with embers from the Ohio, with coals from our proper fireplace at Mount Johnson.
“We uncover these fires to summon our wisest men so that they shall judge what word shall be sent to Colonel Cresap, to secure you in your treaty rights which I have sworn to protect by these strings!”
(A bunch of strings.)
“Brother: By this third and last belt I send peace and love to my brethren of the Cayuga; and by this belt I bid 80 them be patient, and remember that I have never broken my word to those within the Long House, nor yet to those who dwell without the doors.”
(A large black belt of seven rows.)
Then Sir William drew from his girdle a belt of wampum, so white that, in the starlight, it shimmered like virgin silver.
“Who mourns?” asked Sir William, gently, and the Indian rose and answered: “We mourn — we of the Cayuga — we of three clans.”
“What clans shall be raised up?” asked Sir William.
“Three clans lie stricken: the Wolf, the Plover, the Eel. Who shall raise them?”
“Brother,” said Sir William, gravely. “With this belt I raise three clans; I cleanse their eyes, their ears, their mouths, their bodies with clean water. With this belt I clear their path so that no longer shall the dead stand in your way or in ours.”
(The belt.)
“Brother: With these strings I raise up your head and beg you will no longer sorrow.”
(Three strings.)
“Brother: With this belt I cover the graves.”
(A great white belt.)
In the dead stillness that followed the northern hill-tops slowly turned to pink and ashes. The day had dawned.
When again we reached the village cocks were crowing in every yard; the painted weather-vanes glowed in the sun; legions of birds sang.
From Starbuck’s Inn stumbled forth a blinking, soiled, and tipsy company, linking arms, sidling, shoving, lurching, and bawling:
“Oh, we’re all dry
Wi’ drinkin’ on’t!”
And I plainly saw my two coureurs-de-bois, boozy as owls, a-bussing the landlord’s greasy wench while mine host pummelled them lustily, foot and fist.
So on through the cold shadowy street and out into the sun-warmed road again, and at last to the Hall where, on the sunny porch, stood Silver Heels, hair in her eyes, her naked white feet in moccasins, washing her cheeks in the dew.
