Complete weird tales of.., p.143
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 143
When I first recognized the room, my memory served me a trick, and I thought of the school-room below where the others were imprisoned — Silver Heels, Peter, and Esk. Slyly content to doze abed here in Sir William’s room, I understood that I must have been lying sick a long, long time, but could not remember when I had fallen ill. One thing sure: I did not mean they should know that I was better; I closed my eyes when I felt a presence near, lying still as a mouse until alone again.
Sometimes my thoughts wandered to the others in the school-room with Mr. Yost, for I did not remember he had been scalped by the Lenape, and I pitied Silver Heels and Esk and fat Peter a-thumbing their copy-books and breathing chalk-dust. Faith, I was well off in the great white bed, here in Sir William’s room.
I could see his fish-rods on the wall, looped with silk lines and scarlet feather-flies; his hunting-horn, too, and his whip and spurs hanging from hooks beneath a fox’s-mask and brush. There hung his fowling-pieces above the mantel, pouch and horn dangling from crossed ramrods; there rose his book-case with the eared-owl atop and the Chinese jar full o’ pipes, long as my arm and twice as strong — a conceit which sent a weak wave of mirth through my body I could not move.
Soft! They are coming to watch me now. So I slyly 321 close my eyes till they go away or give me the drinks they brew to make me sleep. I know them; were I minded I might gather strength to spit out their sense-stealing stuffs. But I swallow and dream and wake to a new sun or to mark the waxing moon, now near its full.
Our Doctor Pierson was here to-day and caught me watching him. They’ll soon have me in the school-room now, though I do still play possum all I can, eating my gruel, which a strange servant brings, and pretending not to see her. Yet I am wondering why the maid is so silent and that her gown is so dark and stiff.
Later that day I saw Colonel Guy Johnson come into the room and look at me, but I did not mean he should think me awake, and so closed my eyes and lay quiet. When Sir William should come, however, I would open my eyes, for I had been desiring to see him since I saw his rods and guns. It fretted me at times that he neglected me, knowing my love for him.
Once, as I lay dozing, Peter crept into the room and stared at me. He had grown tall and gross and heavy-eyed, so that I scarce knew him, nor had he a trace of Sir William in his slinking carriage, which was all Mohawk, and the worst Mohawk at that. I was glad when he ceased thumbing the bedposts and left me.
The next day I saw Doctor Pierson beside me and asked for Sir William. He said that Sir William was away and that I was doing well. We often spoke after that, and he was ever busy with my head, which no longer ached save when he fingered it.
Then one night I awoke with a cry of terror and found myself sitting upright, bathed in chilly sweat, shouting that the Cayugas were abroad and that I must hold them back by the throat till Sir William could arrive and restrain them.
Lights soon moved into the room; I saw Doctor Pierson and Guy Johnson, but the dammed-up floods of memory had broken loose like an old wound, and the past came crowding upon me till I fell back on the pillows, convulsed and gasping, while the strong hands of the doctor began their silent work, tapping head and body, till somebody gave me a draught and I drowsed perdu.
Day broke — the bitterest day of life I was to know. I felt it, listening to the rain; I felt it, in the footsteps that passed my door — footsteps I did not know. Why was the house so silent? Why did all go about so quietly, dressed in black? Was there some one dead in the house below? Where was Silver Heels? Why had she never come to me? How came I here? Where was Jack Mount and Cade Renard? And Sir William, where was he that he came not near me — me who had lain sick unto death in his service and for his sake?
Dread numbed me; I strove to call, but my dumb lips froze; I strove to rise, and found my body wrecked in bed without power, without sense, a helpless, inert thing between two sheets.
Why was I here? Why was I alive if aught had harmed Silver Heels? God! And I safe here in bed? Where was she? Where was she? Dead? Why do they not tell me? Why do they not kill me as I lie here if I have returned without her?
I must have cried aloud in my agony, for the doctor came running and leaned over me.
“Tell me! Tell me!” I stammered. “Why don’t you tell me?” and strove to strike him, but could not use my arms.
“Quiet, quiet,” he said, watching me; “I will tell you what you wish to know. What is it then, my poor boy?”
“I — want — Felicity,” I blurted out.
“Felicity?” he repeated, blankly. “Oh — Miss — ahem! — Miss Warren?”
I glared at him.
“Miss Warren has gone with Sir John Johnson to Boston,” he said, dryly.
My eyes never left him.
“Is that why you cried out?” he asked, curiously. “Miss Warren left us a week ago. Had you only known her she would have been happy, for she has slept for weeks on the couch yonder.”
“Why — why did she go?”
“I cannot tell you the reasons,” he said, gravely.
“When will she return?”
“I do not know.”
With a strength that came from God knows where, I dragged myself upright and caught him by the hand.
“She is dead!” I whispered. “She is dead, and all in this house know it save I who love her!”
A strange light passed over the doctor’s face; he took both my hands and looked at me carefully. Then he smiled and gently forced me back to the pillows.
“She is alive and well,” he said. “On my honour as a man, lad, I set your heart at rest. She is in Boston, and I do know why, but I may not meddle with what concerns this family, save in sickness — or death.”
I watched his lips. They were solemn as the solemn word he uttered. I knew death had been in the house; I had felt that for days. I waited, watching him.
“Poor lad,” he said, holding my hands.
My eyes never left his.
“Ay,” he said, softly, “his last word was your name. He loved you dearly, lad.”
And so I knew that Sir William was dead.
CHAPTER XIX
DAY AFTER DAY I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling till night blotted it out. Then, stunned and exhausted, I would lie in the dark, crying in my weakness, whimpering for those I loved who had left me here alone. There was no strength left in me, body or mind; and, perhaps for that reason, my suffering was too feeble to waste what was left of me, for I had not even the strength of the fretful who do damage themselves with every grimace.
Certain it was that my thinned blood was growing gradually warmer, and its currents flowed with slightly increasing vigour day by day. The fever, which had come only partly from my wounds, had doubtless been long in me, and had fermented my blood as the opportunity offered when Wraxall nigh drained my every vein with his butcher’s blade.
The emaciation of my body was extreme, my limbs were pithless reeds, my skull grinned through the tensely stretched skin, and my eyes were enormous.
Yet, such sturdy fibre have I inherited from my soldier father that grief itself could not retard the mending of me, and in the little French mirror I could almost see my sunken muscles harden and grow slowly fuller. Like a pear in a hot-frame, I was plump long before my strength could aid me or my shocked senses gather to take counsel for the future.
The dreadful anguish of my bereavement came only at intervals, succeeded by an apathy which served as a merciful relief. But most I thought of Silver Heels, and why she had left me here, and when she might return. Keen fear lurked near to stab me when, rousing from blank slumber, my first thought was of her. Then I would lie and wonder why she had gone, and tell myself I loved her above all else, or whimper and deem her cruel to leave me.
One late afternoon the doctor came with a dish of China 325 oranges, which I found relief in sucking, my gums being as yet somewhat hot and painful. He made a hole in an orange and I sucked it awhile, watching him meditatively. He wore crape on his arm — the arm that Quider had broken, and which now he could not bend as formerly.
“Why does not my Aunt Molly come to see me?” I asked, quietly.
“Dear lad,” said the doctor, raising his eyebrows, “did you not know she had gone to Montreal?”
“How should I know it,” I asked, “when you tell me nothing?”
“I will tell you what I am permitted,” he answered, gently.
“Then tell me when my cousin Felicity is coming back? Have you not heard from Sir John Johnson?”
“Yes — I have heard,” replied the doctor, cautiously.
I waited, my eyes searching his face.
“Sir John returns to-morrow,” he said.
A thrill set my blood leaping. I felt the warm colour staining my pinched face.
“To-morrow!” I repeated.
The doctor regarded me very gravely.
“Miss Warren will remain in Boston,” he said.
The light died out before my eyes; presently I closed them.
“How long?” I asked.
“I do not know.”
The orange, scarcely tasted, rolled over the bed and fell on the floor. I heard him rise to pick it up.
I opened my eyes and looked at the distant pines through the window.
“Doctor,” I muttered, “I am heartsick for a familiar face. Where are the people who have lived in this house? It is scarce four months that I have been away, yet all is changed and strange — new servants everywhere, no old, friendly faces — nay, even Peter has grown so gross and sullen that I scarce knew him. Where is Esk? Is there not one soul unchanged?”
“Have I changed?” he asked.
“Yes — you are gray! gray! — and smaller; and you stoop when you sit.”
After a moment he said: “These are times to age all men. Have you yourself not aged in these five months? You went away a fresh-faced lad, scarce weaned from your alley-taws and the chalky ring! You return a man, singed already by the first breath of a fire which will scorch this land to the bedded rock!”
Presently I asked, “Is war certain?”
He nodded, looking at the floor.
“And — and the Six Nations?” I asked again.
“On our side surely,” he said, in a low voice.
“On our side?” I repeated.
He looked at me suddenly, stern mouth tightly shut. A cold light touched his gray eyes and seemed to harden every feature.
“When I say ‘our side’ I assume you to be loyal, Mr. Cardigan,” he said, curtly.
The change in his shrewd, kindly face amazed me. Was it possible for old friends to turn so quickly? Was this coming strife to poison the world with its impending passions?
“If you have become tainted with rebel heresy since you left us, thank God you have returned in time to purge your mind,” he said, sternly. “Sir William has gone — Heaven rest his brave soul! — but Sir John is alive to take no uncertain stand in the face of this wicked rebellion which all true loyal hearts must face.”
I looked at him serenely. Who but I should know what Sir William had thought about the coming strife. Those sacred confidences of the past had cleared my mind, and made it up long since. Had I not, in Sir William’s service, braved death for the sake of these same rebels? I understood my mission better now. I had gone in the cause of humanity — a cause which was not embraced by the loyal subjects of our King. I had failed, but failure had brought wisdom. Never could I set my back against the firm rock of loyalty to fight for a name that now meant nothing to me. I had quenched my thirst at bitter waters; I had learned that men could beggar themselves for principle and die for a tuppenny tax with pockets full.
“Lad,” said the doctor, kindly, “the two rough woodsmen who brought you home did what their rude skill permitted 327 to save your life. They washed your wounds and bound them with balsam and linen; they bore you faithfully for miles and miles through the valley of death itself. But, lad, they could not have saved you had not something intervened between you and that keen blade which searched your life to slay it!”
He rose and took something from the chest of drawers in the corner. It was a British flag, all torn and hacked and covered with black stains.
“It was found rolled up beneath your hunting-shirt,” he said, solemnly. “Look on it, lad! For this torn flag, which your father died defending, held back that deadly knife, shielding the vital spark beneath its folds. A hair’s-breadth more and you had died at the first stab. The flag was your strength and shield: let it become your salvation! It was your father’s flag: exalt it!”
He spread the flag reverently upon the bed. I touched its folds, stiff with my own blood. It was the flag of Cresap’s fort which I had taken, seeing it abandoned by all.
“I shall always honour it,” I said, half unconsciously.
“And the men who bear it!” he added.
“That is very different,” I said, wearily, and turned my head on the pillow.
When I looked again he was folding the flag and placing it in the chest of drawers, smiling quietly to himself. Doubtless he thought me loyal to the King whose armies bore the flag my father died for. But I was too tired to argue further.
“There is one man I would like to see,” I said, “and that is Mr. Duncan. Will you send to the guard-house and beg him to come to me, doctor?”
“Ay, that I will, lad,” he said, cheerily, picking up his hat and case of drugs. “And, by-the-way, your regiment of Border Horse will be here in a month. You will doubtless be content to see the gallant troopers in whose ranks you will one day serve, please God.”
“Perhaps,” I said, closing my eyes.
I must have fallen into a light sleep, for when I unclosed my eyes I saw Mr. Duncan beside me, looking down into my face. I smiled and raised one hand, and he took it gently in both of his strong, sun-browned hands.
“Well, well, well,” he muttered, smiling, while the tears stood in his pleasant eyes; “here is our soldier home again — that same soldier whom I last saw in the guard-house, having his poll clipped by honest Wraxall, à la coureur-de-bois — eh?”
I motioned feebly for him to find a chair beside my bed, and he sat down, still holding my hand in his.
“Now,” I said, “explain to me all that has happened. The doctor tells me what I ask, but I have had little inclination to hear much. I like you, Mr. Duncan. Tell me everything.”
“You mean — about Sir William?” he asked, gently.
“Yes — but that last of all,” I muttered, choking.
After a silence he straightened up, unhooked his sword, and laid it against the wall. Then, settling comfortably back in his chair, he clasped his hands over his white gaiters and looked at me.
“You must know,” he said, “that Colonel Guy Johnson is now superintendent of Indian affairs in North America for his Majesty. He has appointed as deputies Colonel Claus and Colonel John Butler—”
“Who?” I exclaimed.
“Colonel Butler,” repeated Mr. Duncan; “you remember him, don’t you?”
“Yes, I remember him,” I replied; “where is he?”
“He and Joseph Brant are organizing the loyalists and Indians north of us,” said Mr. Duncan, innocently. “This border war in Virginia has set the Six Nations afire. Many of our Mohawks have slipped away to join Logan and Sowanowane against this fellow Cresap who murdered Logan’s children; the others are restless and sullen. There was but one man in the world who could have controlled them—”
He paused.
“I know it,” said I. “You mean Sir William.”
“Ay, Mr. Cardigan, I mean Sir William. Well, well, there is no help now. It is Sir John Johnson’s policy to win over the savages to our side; but I often think Sir William knew best how to manage them. It will be dreadful, dreadful! I for one wish no such allies as are gathering north of us under Joseph Brant and Colonel Butler.”
“Why do you not say as much to Sir John?” I asked.
“I? What weight would my opinion carry? I have said often to those who ask me that I would give all I possess to see the savages remain neutral in this coming strife.”
“Do you also believe it is coming?”
“Surely, surely,” he said, lifting his hand solemnly. “Mr. Cardigan, you have been away, and have also been too ill to know what passes at our very doors. You are ignorant of the passion which has divided every town, village, and hamlet in Tryon County — ay, the passion which has turned neighbours to bitterest foes — the passion which has turned kinship to hatred — which sets brother against brother, son against father!
“Our village of Johnstown yonder seethes and simmers with Tory against Whig, loyalist against rebel. Houses are barricaded; arms stored, stolen, and smuggled; seditious words uttered, traitorous songs sung, insults flung in the faces of the King’s soldiers. We of the Royal Americans receive the grossest epithets; curses and threats are flung in our teeth; sentries on guard are mocked and reviled; officers jeered at in tavern and street.
“I do not believe such fierceness would betray itself if the question here were but the old Boston grievance — the ancient protest against taxing people without the people’s consent. No, it is not the wrangle between Parliament and colonies that has brought the devil’s own confusion into Tryon County; it is the terrible possibility that one or the other side may let loose the savages. We of Tryon County know what that means. Small wonder then, I say, that the rebels curse us for swine and dogs and devils incarnate because we are slowly gaining the good-will of the Six Nations.”
He wiped his face with a laced hanker and pressed his temples, frowning.
“Yet,” he said, “the rebels, too, would doubtless use the savages against us if they could win them over. Sir John says so. That is why he sent Thayendanegea and Colonel Butler to recruit in the north. They say that Captain Walter Butler is with Cresap. I don’t know; I have not seen him in months.”
“I know,” said I, quietly.
“Doubtless you met him then at Cresap’s camp?”
“Doubtless.”
Mr. Duncan waited a moment, then laughed.
