Complete weird tales of.., p.135
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 135
I had already determined to defer my interview with Lord Dunmore, because, after the great chief’s speech, my poor words must fall stale on ears attuned to the majestic music of a mighty soul. So, in the stir and noise around us, I rose and touched Jack Mount, motioning him to follow. But before he could find his feet and summon his wits to set them in motion, and ere I myself had edged half-way to the aisle, I heard Doctor Connolly speaking in that loud, hectoring tone, and I caught the name of Sir William Johnson shouted from the platform.
“If the messenger from Johnstown be present,” continued Doctor Connolly, “let him be assured of a warm welcome from his Lordship, the Earl of Dunmore, Governor of Virginia.”
So the infatuated Dunmore, grasping at a straw to dam the current of public sentiment, thought to fill empty minds with the news of his betrothal, trusting that as all the world 247 loves a lover, this same planet might find an opportunity to take him to its sentimental bosom.
His purpose was plain to me and perfectly loathsome; and as I stood there, watching him, I could see the rouge crack when he simpered. But I would not speak now.
Presently, looking around, I found that all those who had risen had again seated themselves, and that I, fascinated by the repulsive visage of Dunmore, stood there all alone.
My first impulse was to sit down hastily; my next to keep my feet, for it was too late to seek cover now, and Connolly was smiling at me, and Gibson nodded like a dazed mandarin. Dunmore, too, was peering at me and tapping his snuff-box complacently, and the sight of him brought the blood to my head and opened my mouth. But no sound issued. A woman in the gallery laughed outright.
“Are you not a messenger from Sir William Johnson?” prompted Connolly, with his domineering smile of patronage.
“Yes, Doctor Connolly,” I replied, slowly. As I spoke, fright vanished.
There was a pause. Dunmore tapped on his box and moistened his slitted mouth with a tongue which looked perfectly blue to me, and he fell a-smirking and bridling, with sly, rheumy glances at the gallery.
“Lord Dunmore,” I said, steadily, “ere I inform you why I am here, you shall know me better than you think you do.
“I am not here to tell you of that chain which links the Governor of Virginia with the corpse of Logan’s youngest child! — nor to count the links of that chain backward, from Greathouse to Murdy, to Gibson, to Connolly, to—”
“Stop!” burst out Connolly, springing to his feet. “Who are you? What are you? How dare you address such language to the Earl of Dunmore?”
Astonished, furious, eyes injected with blood, he stood shaking his mottled red fists at me; Dunmore sat in a heap, horrified, with the simper on his face stamped into a grin of terror. The interruption stirred up my blood to the boiling; I clutched the back of the bench in front of me, and fixed my eyes on Connolly.
“I do not reply to servants,” I said; “my business here is not with Lord Dunmore’s lackeys. If the Earl of Dunmore 248 knows not my name and title, he shall know it now! I am Michael Cardigan, cornet in the Border Horse, and deputy of Sir William Johnson, Baronet, his Majesty’s Superintendent of Indian Affairs for North America!
“Who dares deny me right of speech?”
Dunmore lay in his chair, a shrunken mess of lace and ribbon; Connolly appeared paralyzed; Gibson stared at me over his table.
“I am not here,” I said, coolly, “to ask your Lordship why this war, falsely called Cresap’s war, should be known to honest men as ‘Dunmore’s war.’ Nor do I come to ask you why England should seek the savage allies of the Six Nations, which this war, so cunningly devised, has given her—”
“Treason! Treason!” bawled a voice behind me. It was Wraxall; I recognized his whine.
“But,” I resumed, pointing my finger straight at the staring Governor, “I am here to demand an account of your stewardship! Where are those Cayugas whom you have sworn to protect from the greed of white men? Where are they? Answer, sir! Where are Sir William Johnson’s wards of the Long House? Where are the Shawanese, the Wyandottes, the Lenape, the Senecas, who keep the western portals of the Long House? Answer, sir! for this is my mission from Sir William Johnson. Answer! lest the King say to him, ‘O thou unfaithful steward!”
Hubbub and outcry and tumult rose around me. Dunmore was getting on his feet; Connolly flew to his aid, but the Governor snarled at him and pushed him, and went shambling out of the door behind the platform, while, in the hall, the uproar swelled into an angry shout: “Shame on Dunmore! God save Virginia!”
An officer in the gallery leaned over the edge, waving his gold-laced hat.
“God save the King!” he roared, and many answered, “God save the King!” but that shout was drowned by a thundering outburst of cheers: “God save our country! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”
“Three cheers for Boston!” bawled Jack Mount, jumping up on his bench; and the rolling cheers echoed from balcony to pavement till the throng went wild and even the sober 249 Quakers flung up their broad-brimmed hats. In the gallery ladies were cheering, waving scarfs and mantles; the British soldiers at the door looked in at the astounding scene, some with sheepish grins, some gaping, some scowling under their mitred head-gear.
Mount had caught me up in his arms and was shouldering his way towards the door, yelping like a Mohawk at a corn feast; and presently others crowded around, patting my legs and cheering, bearing me onward and out past the sentinels, where, for a moment, I thought soldiers and people would come to blows.
But Mount waved his cap and shouted an ear-splitting watchword: “The ladies! Honour the ladies!” and the crowd fell back as the excited dames and maidens from the balcony issued in silken procession from the hall, filing between the soldiers and the crowd, to enter coaches and chairs and disappear into the depths of the starlight.
I could not find Silver Heels, and presently I gave up that hope, for the throng, hustled by the soldiers, began shoving and scuffling and pressing, now forward, now backward, until the breath was near squeezed from my body and I made out to slip back with Mount and Renard to the open air.
Mount was enthusiastic. “Look sharp!” he said eagerly. “There will be heads to break anon. Ha! See them running yonder! Hark! Do you not hear that, Cade? Clink — whack! Bayonet against cudgel! They’re at it, lad! Come on! Come on! Give it to the damned Tories!”
The next instant we were enveloped in the crowd, buffeted, pushed, trodden, hurled about like shuttle-cocks, yet ever retreating before the line of gun-stocks which rose and fell along the outer edge of the mob.
The fight was desperate and silent, save for the whipping swish of ramrods whistling, the dull shocks of blows, or the ringing crack of a cudgel on some luckless pate. Under foot our moccasins moved and trampled among fallen hats and wigs, and sometimes we stumbled over an insensible form, victim of gun-stock or club or a buffet from some swinging fist.
Once, forced to the front where the soldiers were jabbing and lashing the mob with gun-butt, ramrod, and leather belt, 250 a drummer boy ran at me and fell to thumping me with his drum, while a soldier cuffed my ears till I reeled. Astonished and enraged by such scurvy treatment I made out to wrest the drum from the boy and jam it violently upon the head of the soldier, so that his head and mitre-cap stuck out through the bursted parchment.
A roar of laughter greeted the unfortunate man, who backed away, distracted, clawing at the drum like a cat with its head in a bag. Then the battle was renewed with fury afresh; a citizen wrested a firelock from a soldier, drove the butt into the pit of his stomach, and struck out sturdily in all directions, shouting, “Long live our country!” Another knocked a soldier senseless and tore off his white leggings for trophies — an operation that savoured of barbarism.
“Scalp their legs! Skin ‘em!” bawled the man, waving the leggings in triumph; and I saw he was that same ranger of Boone and Harrod who wore a baldrick of Wyandotte scalps.
It began to go hard with the King’s soldiers, but they stuck to the mob like bulldogs, giving blow for blow so stanchly and so heartily that my blood tingled with pleasure and pride, and I called out to Jack Mount: “Look at them, Jack! What very gluttons for punishment! Nobody but British could stand up to us like that!”
A crack on the sconce from a belt transformed my admiration into fury, and I drove my right fist into the eye of one of these same British soldiers, and followed it with a swinging blow which sent him spinning, receiving at the same moment such a jolt in the body that I, too, went sprawling and gasping about until Mount pulled me out of the crush.
When I had found my breath again, and had mastered that sick faintness which comes from a blow in the stomach, I prepared to return to the fray, which had now taken on a more sinister aspect. Bayonets had already been used, not as clubs but as daggers; a man was leaning against a tree near me, bleeding from a wound in the neck, and another reeled past, tugging at a bayonet which had transfixed his shoulder. But the end came suddenly now; horsemen were galloping up behind the jaded soldiers; I saw Shemuel dart out of the swaying throng and take to his heels, not even 251 stopping to gather up hats, handkerchiefs, and wigs, of which the sack on his back was full to the top.
When Shemuel left a stricken field it was time for others to think of flight; this I perceived at once when the Weasel came scurrying past and called out to me. Mount followed, lumbering on at full speed; the throng melted and scattered in every direction, and I with them. Trust me, there was fine running done that night in Pittsburg streets, and many a tall fellow worked his legs as legs are seldom worked, for the gentlemen of the Governor’s horse-guards were riding us hard, and we legged it for cover, each fox to his own spinny, each rabbit to the first unstopped earth. Tally-ho! Stole away! Faith, it was merry hunting that night in Pittsburg town, with the towns-people at every window and the town-watch bawling at our heels, and the gentlemen riders pelting down the King’s Road till those who could double back doubled, and walked panting to cover, with as innocent mien as they could muster.
Mount, Renard, Shemuel, and I had crossed the Boundary at respectable speed, and were now headed for the dirty alley which conducted to the rear door of Shemuel’s den, the “Bear and Cubs.” We were about to enter this lane, no longer fearing pursuit — and I remember that Mount was laughing, poking the Weasel in his short-ribs — when, without warning, five men rushed at us in a body, overturning us all save Jack Mount. The next moment we were locked in a struggle; there was not a cry, not an oath, not a sound but the strained gasp and heavy breathing, at first; but presently a piercing yell echoed through the alley, and Shemuel ran squattering into the inn. He had stuck a handful of needles into his assailant’s leg, and the man bounded madly about, while the alley re-echoed with his howls of dismay.
As for me, I found myself clutched by that villain, Wraxall, and I would have shouted with joy had he not held me by the windpipe until I was nigh past all shouting. The creature was powerful; he held me while Toby Tice tried to tie my wrists; but the Weasel fell upon them both and kicked them so heartily that they left me and took to their heels perdu.
And now came the host of the “Bear and Cubs,” lanthorn 252 in one hand, a meat-knife in the other, and after him a tap-boy, an hostler, a frowzy maid, and finally Shemuel, white with fear. But reinforcements had arrived too late — too late to help us take the impudent band, which had fled — too late to bring to life that dark mass lying at the foot of the wall in the filth of the alley.
Mount seized the lanthorn and lowered it beside the shape on the ground.
“His neck is broken,” he said, briefly. It was his quarry; he ought to know.
One by one we took the lanthorn and looked in turn on the dead.
“Greathouse,” whispered Mount, moving the body with his foot.
“Greathouse, eh?” grumbled the host of the “Bear and Cubs.” “Well, he can’t lie here behind my house.” And he caught him by the heels and dragged him to a black spot under a rotten shed. There was a cistern there. I moved away, feeling strangely faint. Mount linked his arm in mine.
Presently there sounded a dull noise under the ground, a shock and thick splashing.
“Greathouse, eh?” muttered the shaggy innkeeper, winking at us. “Well, Greathouse is in a small house behind a pot-house now, and the devil, no doubt, will see that he lands in a hot-house!”
Mount shrugged his shoulders and turned away indifferently. He had done his part; he had no slur for the dead. The Weasel and I followed, and together we traversed the market-square unmolested, and headed for the “Virginia Arms,” discussing the utterly unprovoked attack on us by Butler’s band.
There had been five of them; I had recognized Wraxall and Tice, the Weasel identified Murdy, Shemuel had thrust half his stock of needles into one fellow’s leg, whom I knew to be the man who had supped on his own hatchet, and Mount had sternly accounted for his assailant.
“So Greathouse is dead,” muttered the Weasel.
“One thing is clear: they were after you,” observed Mount, turning on me.
“It is strange,” I said, “that Butler was not there. He 253 must know what it means for him unless he can strike me from behind, because I shall never miss him, face to face.”
I spoke not in boast, nor in angry heat; I meant what I said, and devoutly believed that nothing on earth could shield such a man from the man he had so foully misused.
Coming into Pitt Street we found all empty and dark save for the lanthorn hanging on its pole from every seventh house, and a lone watchman who lifted his light to scan us, but durst not question or stop us, though we bore marks enough of the fray to satisfy any friendly jury of our guilt.
As for Mount, his shirt and leggings were in rags, for he had played Orlando Furioso to his simple heart’s satisfaction, and now one naked arm peeped coyly from a flapping sleeve, and his great legs twinkled white under the tattered nether-garments. The Weasel, who had a genius for keeping himself neat under distressing circumstances, appeared to be none the worse for wear, but guiltless he could not be, for he carried a soldier’s mitre-cap in his hand and obstinately refused to part with the proof of his valour. As for me, there were some seams which needed a thread, and somebody’s blood on my shirt which water would wash away.
“I went this noon to a tailor-woman on the Buckeye Road, and did command me new deer-skins,” said Mount. “I will borrow their cost of you,” he added, naïvely.
I felt for my money-belt and luckily found it safe. Mount accepted the money cheerfully, promising to show me on the morrow how fine he could be in new clothes, and mourning the fact that his greasy garments had cost him a cruel epithet that day from a maid he had attempted to kiss behind a barn on three minutes’ acquaintance.
“Faith, she mocked me for a tankard-tip and called me pottle-pot,” he said, sadly. “God knows I drink little for my height, and so I told her, too!”
We were already at the “Virginia Arms,” and I took him by the elbow and drew him firmly past the tap-room.
“Are we not to sniff a posset?” he demanded, in injured surprise. But he surrendered without a scene, for the late fighting had cleared his head of alcohol, and we mounted to my chamber, bidding a servant to fetch ink-horn, wax, sand, quill, and three sheets of good, clean paper.
When I had lighted my candle, and the materials for writing had been brought, I sat down on the bed and drew the table up before me.
“What are we to do while you write?” asked Mount, sulkily.
“Keep out o’ mischief and the tap-room,” said I, mending the quill with my hunting-knife.
They stood around rather blankly for a spell while I was composing the first letter, but presently I noticed they had squatted on the floor and were playing at jack-straws with pine splinters from the boards.
My three letters cost me great labour; writing and composition do ever rack me, mind and body, for I know that I spell not as others spell, nor write as I ought to write in the Boston style, and, moreover, those little dots which warn the wise reader that a phrase is ended mean little to me; so I pepper my sheet well with them and trust to God that they fall not on barren soil.
Thus armed with my quill, and doubly armed in the innocence of my ignorance, I made out to accomplish my three letters. The first was this:
“Sir William Johnson, Bart.
“Honoured and beloved Sir, — My mission I have discharged and It hath come to naut. i return to johnsonhall Tomorrow, setting out with Felicity. i, will explane all. War is brocken out, ye Senecas, Lenape, Wyandot, and Showanese dugg up ye hatchett Cresap is fled ye fort and camp burnt Logans famly foully murderd with my duties and respects to Ant Molly and my duties and respectfull affections for you. I have the honnour to subscribe myself your dutyfull deputy and kinsman
“Michael Cardigan
“Cornet, Border Horse.”
My second letter read thus:
“My deer Kinswoman Mistress Warren.
“Deer cozzen, — I write to say that I write to acquaint you that it Is my determination to set out for johnsonhall tomorrow morning therefore Pray be prepared to accompanie me with Black Betty and Your boxes i will command a post-chaise, escort, and horses for such is my right as deputy of Sir William. if I ketch enny fools who seek to mate you I will harm them. i will find a suitable husband for you never fear cozzen i sign myself your affectnate cozzen
Michael Cardigan
“Cornet of Border Horse.”
255 My third letter was brief:
“To the Hon: the Earl of Dunmore,
Royal Governor of Virginia, etc.
“My Lord, — My kinswoman Misstress Felicity Warren is my betrothed and She will leave Pitt tomorrow with me and under the escort which it is my right to demand and your lordship’s dutie to furnish, with post-chaise, forage, and provisions. Escort and conveyance should be at the Virginia Arms by noon.
