Complete weird tales of.., p.117
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 117
“Tut! tut!” cried Sir William, sharply. “What foolishness is this, Felicity? Off to bed! with your bare legs!”
“Betty said that beauty grew with dew-baths at dawn,” said Silver Heels, coolly. “I have bathed my limbs and my body in the grass and I’m all over leaves.”
“Betty’s a fool! Be off to bed! — you little baggage!” cried Sir William. And away up-stairs scampered Silver Heels, dropping both moccasins in her flight.
“Betty! Betty!” fumed Sir William. “I’ll Betty her, the black witch!” And he stamped off to the nursery, muttering threats which I knew would never be fulfilled.
That day Sir William sat in his library writing with Mr. Butler, so there was no school, and Peter, Esk, Silver Heels, and I went a-fishing in the river. And I did not wear my uniform, for fear of soiling.
All day long, as we sat in the grass to watch our poles a-quiver, horsemen from our stables passed us, galloping east and south, doubtless bearing letters from Sir William to Albany and New York — and farther south, perchance — for there came one rider with six soldiers in escort, and two led horses well packed, all trotting and clattering away towards the Fort Pitt trail.
That day was the last of the old days for us; but how could we suspect that, as we waded in the shallows there, laughing, chattering, splashing each other, and quarrelling to our hearts’ content. The familiar river, which every freshet changed just enough to sharpen our eyes for new pools, slipped over its smooth golden stones, inviting our dusty feet. Up to our knees we moved in the ice-cold stream, climbing out on the banks at times to warm our legs in the sun, and lie deep in the daisies, winking at the swallows in the sky.
We played all our old games again — but that we played them for the last time, none of us suspected. I held a buttercup under Silver Heels’s snowy chin to prove her love for cheese; I played buzzing bee-songs on grass-blades; I whittled 82 whistles for Peter and Esk; I skipped flat stones; I coloured Silver Heels’s toes yellow with dandelion juice so she should ever afterwards wade in gold — this at her own desire.
Twice those tiny spotted lady-beetles perched on my hand, and Silver Heels, to ward off threatening evil, took them on the pink tip of her little finger, repeating:
“Lady-bird, Lady-bird, fly away home!
Thy lodge is afire! thy babies will burn!”
Which she said would save me from torture at the stake some day.
The late sun settled in the blue ashes of the western forests as we pulled on our stockings and moccasins and gathered up our strings of silvery fish.
For a whole day I had carefully forgotten that I was anything but a comrade to these children; but I did not know how wise I had been to lay by, in my memory, one more perfect day ere the evil days came and the years drew nigh wherein, God wot! I found no pleasure.
Silver Heels and I walked back together through the evening glow, and I remember that the windows of our house were all on fire from the sun as we climbed the hill under the splendour of the western sky.
As we came through the orchard I saw Sir William sitting on the stone seat near the bee-hives. His chin had fallen on his chest, both hands rested on his cane, and over his body fell the glory of the red sky.
He heard us as we came through the orchard, and he raised his head to smile a welcome. But there was that in his eyes which told me to stay there with him after the others had trooped in to be fed, and I waited.
Presently he said: “Quider is sick. Did you discover anything in his face that might betoken — a — a fever?”
“His eyes,” I said.
“Was he blotched? My sight is dim these years.”
“His face was over-red,” I answered, wondering.
Sir William said nothing more. After a little while he rose, leaning on his cane, and passed heavily under the fruit-trees towards the house.
That night came our doctor, Pierson, galloping from the 83 village with an urgent message for Sir William. Later I saw soldiers set out with bayonets on their muskets, and, with them, the doctor, leading his horse.
In the morning we knew that the small-pox had seized the Cayuga, and that our soldiers patrolled Quider’s lodge to warn all men of the black pest.
The days which followed were busy days for us all — days fraught with bustle and perplexity — hours which hurried on, crowding one on another like pages turning in a book — turning too swiftly for me to cipher the ominous text.
All Sir William’s hopes of averting war were now centred in the stricken Cayuga. He and I haunted the neighbourhood of Quider’s lodge, staring for hours at the silent hut in the clearing, or, rambling by starlight, we watched the candle burning in the lodge door as though it were the flame of life, now flaring, now sinking in its socket.
On such rambles he seldom spoke, but sometimes he leaned on my shoulder as we walked, and his very hand seemed burdened with the weight of his cares.
Once, however, when from the sentinels we learned that Quider might live, Sir William appeared almost gay, and we walked to a little hill, all silvery in the light of the young moon, and rested on a rock.
“Black Care rides behind the horseman, but — I have dismounted,” he said, lightly. “Quider will live, I warrant you, barring those arrows of outrageous fortune of which you have doubtless heard, Michael.”
“What may those same arrows be marked with?” I asked, innocently.
“With the totem of Kismet, my boy.”
I did not know that totem, and said so, whereupon he fell a-laughing and pinched my cheek, saying, “Are there no people in the world but the Six Nations of the Long House?”
I answered cautiously: “Oe-yen-de-hit Sar-a-ta-ke,” meaning, “there are favourable signs (of people) where the tracks of (their) heels may be seen. I have not travelled; there may be other tracks in the world.”
“Ten-ca-re Ne-go-ni,” replied Sir William, gravely. “He scatters His people everywhere, Michael. The world lies outside of the Long House!”
“I shall say to the world I come from Ko-lan-e-ka, and that I am kin to you, sir,” said I, dropping easily into that intimate dialect we children often used together, or in the family circle.
“The world will say: ‘He comes from Da-o-sa-no-geh, the place without a name; let him return to The-ya-o-guin, the Gray-Haired, who sent him out so ignorant.’”
“Do you say that, sir, because I am ignorant of the poets?” I asked.
“Even women know the poets in these days,” he said, smiling. “You would not wish to know less than your own wife, would you?”
“My wife!” I exclaimed, scornfully.
“Why, yes,” said Sir William, much amused; “you will marry one day, I suppose.”
After a moment I said:
“Is Silver Heels going to marry Mr. Butler?”
“I hope so,” replied Sir William, a little surprised. “Mr. Butler is a gentleman of culture and wealth. Felicity has no large dower, and I can leave but little if I provide for all my children. I deem it most fortunate that Captain Butler has spoken to me.”
“If,” said I, slowly, “Silver Heels and I are obliged to marry somebody, why can we not marry each other?”
Sir William stared at me.
“Are you in love with Felicity?” he asked.
“Oh no, sir!” I cried, resentfully.
“Is she — does she fancy she is in love with you?” insisted Sir William, in growing astonishment.
“No! no!” I said, hastily, for his question annoyed and irritated me. “But I only don’t want her to marry Mr. Butler; I’d even be willing to marry her myself, though I once saw a maid in Albany—”
“What the devil is all this damned nonsense?” cried Sir William, testily. “What d’ye mean by this idiot’s babble? Eh?”
The expression of my face at this outburst first disconcerted, then sent him into a roar of laughter. Such startled and injured innocence softened his impatience; he carefully explained to me that, as Felicity had no fortune, and I barely 85 sufficient to sustain me, such a match could but prove a sorry and foolish one for Silver Heels and for me.
“If you were older,” he said, “and if you loved each other, I should, perhaps, be weak enough not to interfere, though wisdom prompted. But it is best that Felicity should wed Mr. Butler, and that as soon as may be, for I am growing old very fast, older than I care to confess, older than I dare believe. This I say to you, for I have come to trust you and to lean on you, Michael; but you must never hint to others that I complain of age or feebleness. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, soberly.
“Besides,” said Sir William, with a forced smile, “I have much to do yet; I mean to accomplish a deal of labour before I — well, before many weeks. Come, lad; we must not grope out here seeking unhappiness under these pretty stars. We are much to each other; we shall be much more — eh? Come, then; Quider will live, spite of those same slings and arrows of which you know not the totem marks.”
As we descended the hill through shadowy drifts of spice-fern, Sir William looked long and hopefully at the candle burning in Quider’s hut.
“Ho-no-we-eh-to,” he murmured; “I have given him white belts — ho-way-ha-tah-koo! — they shall disinter him, though he lie dead. He came, bearing wampum; shall his spirit go out bearing a quiver — o-tat-sheh-te? — hoo-sah-ha-ho?”
“So-yone-wes; sa-tea-na-wat; he has a long wampum belt; he holds it fast, sir,” I said, cheerfully mixing the tongues of the Six Nations to piece out my symbol.
So we went home, comforted and hopeful; but the morrow brought gravest tidings from Quider’s lodge, for the Cayuga had fallen a-raving in his fever, and it was necessary to tie him down lest he break away.
Weighed down with anxiety concerning what Colonel Cresap might be doing on the Ohio, dreading an outbreak which must surely come if the Cayuga belts remained unanswered, Sir William, in his sore perplexity, turned once more to me and opened his brave heart.
“I know not what intrigues may be afoot, what double intrigues revolve within, what triple motives urge the men who have despatched Colonel Cresap on this adventure. But I 86 know this, that should Cresap’s colonials in their blindness attack my Cayugas, a thousand hatchets will sparkle in these hills, and the people of the Long House will never sit idle when these colonies and England draw the sword!”
Again that cold, despairing amazement crept into my heart, for I could no longer misunderstand Sir William that his sympathies were not with our King, but with the provinces.
He appeared to divine my troubled thoughts; I knew it by the painful smile which passed like a pale light from his eyes, fading in the shadowy hollows which care and grief had dug in his good, kind face.
“Learn from others, not from me, what acid chemistry is changing the heart of this broad land to stone,” he said.
“I cannot understand, sir,” I broke out, “why we should warn Colonel Cresap. Is it loyalty for us to do so?”
Sir William turned his sunken eyes on me.
“It is loyalty to God,” he said.
The solemn peace in his eyes awed me; the ravage which care had left in his visage frightened me.
He spoke again:
“I may have to answer to Him soon, my boy. I have searched my heart; there is no dishonour in it.”
We had been sitting on the bed in my little chamber. The window was open, the breeze fluttered the cotton curtains, a spicy breeze, laden with essence of the fern which covers our fields, and smells like bay-leaves crushed in one’s palm.
The peace of Sabbath brooded over all, a cow-bell tinkled from the pasture, birds chirped. Sir William rose to stand by the window, and his gaze softened towards the sunlit meadows where buttercups swayed with daisies, and blue flower-de-luce quivered in the wind.
“God!” he muttered, under his breath. “That this sweet peace on earth should be assailed by men!”
Again into my breast came that strange uneasiness which this month of May had brought to us along with the robins and the new leaves, and which I began to breathe in with the summer wind itself — a vague unrest, a breathless waiting — for what? — I did not know.
And so it went on, Sir William and I walking sometimes alone together on the hill-sides, speaking soberly of that 87 future which concerned our land and kin, I listening in silence with apprehension ever growing.
Often during that week came Mohawk sachems and chiefs of the Senecas and Onondagas to the Hall, pestering Sir William with petty disputes to judge between them. Sometimes it was complaint against drunken soldiers who annoyed them, sometimes a demand for justice, touching the old matters of the moonlight survey, in which one, Collins, did shamefully wrong the Mohawks by stealing land; and William Alexander, who is now Lord Sterling, and William Livingston did profit thereby — guiltily or innocently, I know not.
But these troubles Sir William settled impartially and with that simple justice which made fraud loathsome, even to frauds.
I do remember how he scourged and scored that villain German, Klock, for making the Mohawks drunk to rob them of their lands by cunning; and I recall how he summoned Counsellor John Chambers to witness justice between Mr. Livingston and the Mohawks:
“Billy Livingston,” said Sir William, “bear this message to Billy Alexander, that the land belongs not to him or to you, but to my Mohawks! It is enough that I say this to you, for you are my old comrades and honoured friends, and I am assured you will relinquish all title to what is not your own. But, by God! Billy, if you do not, I shall spend every penny of my own on lawyers to drive you out — every farthing, though it beggars me!”
This was but one of many scenes at which I was present. Why Sir William always called me to bear him company in such private matters, I could not at once comprehend. Little by little, however, I saw that it was because of his trust in me, and his desire that I should know of such affairs; and his love and confidence made me proud. Was I not the only person in the world who knew his sentiments and his desire to stop Colonel Cresap on the Ohio, lest, in ignorance, he should turn the entire Six Nations against the colonies?
Had he not told me, sadly, that he could not speak of this plan even to his own son, Sir John Johnson, lest his son, placing loyalty to the King before obedience to his father, should thwart Sir William, and even aid Colonel 88 Cresap to anger the Cayugas, and so injure the cause of the colonies?
He told me, too, that he could not confide in Mr. Butler or in his father, Colonel John Butler; neither dared he trust his sons-in-law, Colonel Claus or Colonel Guy Johnson, although they served as his deputies in Indian affairs.
All of these gentlemen were, first of all, loyal to our King, and all of them, clearly foreseeing a struggle between King and colonies, would not raise a finger to prevent Colonel Cresap from driving the Six Nations as allies into the King’s arms.
“What I am striving for,” said Sir William to me, again and again, “is to so conduct that these Indians on our frontiers shall take neither one side nor the other, but remain passive while the storm rages. To work openly for this is not possible. If it were possible to work openly, and if Quider should die, I would send such a message to my Lord Dunmore of Virginia as would make his bloodless ears burn! And they may burn yet!”
At my expression of horrified surprise Sir William hesitated, then struck his fist into the open palm of his left hand.
“Why should you not know it?” he cried. “You are the only one of all I can trust!”
He paused, eying me intently.
“Can I not trust you, dear lad?” he said, gently.
“Yes, sir,” I cried, in an overwhelming rush of pity and love. “You are first in my heart, sir — and then the King.”
Sir William smiled and thought awhile. Then he continued:
“You are to know, Michael, that Lord Dunmore, Governor of Virginia, is, in my opinion, at the bottom of this. He it is who, foreseeing the future, as do all thinking men, has sent the deluded Cresap to pick a quarrel with my Cayugas, knowing that he is making future allies for England. It is vile! It is a monstrous thing! It is not loyalty, it is treason!”
He struck his pinched forehead and strode up and down.
“Can Dunmore know what he is doing? God! The horror of it! — the horror of border war! Has Dunmore ever seen how savages fight? Has he seen raw scalps ripped from 89 babies? Has he seen naked prisoners writhing at the stake, drenched in blood, eyeless sockets raised to the skies?”
He stood still in the middle of the room. There was a sweat on his cheek-bones.
“If we must fight, let us fight like men,” he muttered, “without fear or favour, without treachery! But, Michael, woe to the side that calls on these savages for aid! Woe to them! Woe! Woe! For the first scalp taken will turn this border into such a hell of blood and flame as the devil himself in his old hell never dreamed of!”
This outburst left me stunned. Save for Sir William, I knew not where now to anchor my faith. Our King already in these few days had become to my youthful mind a distant wavering shadow, no longer the rock to which loyal hearts must cling — unquestioning. And it is ever so; old faiths fall when hearts question, and I know not whether hearts be right or wrong to strive so hard for the answer which is their own undoing.
Still, however, in that distant England which I had never seen, the King, though fading to a phantom in my heart, yet loomed up still a vast and mighty shape, awful as the threatening majesty of a dim cloud on the world’s edge, behind which lightning glimmers.
CHAPTER VII
NOW THE DARK pages turning in the book of fate were flying faster than young eyes could mark. First to the Hall came Thayendanegea, brother to Mistress Molly, and embraced us all, eagerly admiring my uniform with an Indian’s frank naïveté, caressing Silver Heels’s curly pate and praising her beauty, and fondling Esk and Peter with Albany sweets till I forbade them to approach, for their stickiness did disgust me.
