Works of robert w chambe.., p.154
Works of Robert W Chambers, page 154
“May I ask who that is?” I inquired, respectfully.
“The gentleman is Sir George Covert, captain on my personal staff, and now under your orders.”
“I shall set out to-night, sir,” I said, abruptly; then stepped back to let him pass me into the hallway beyond.
“Saddle my mare and make every preparation,” I said to Mount. “When you are ready lead the horses to the stockade gate.... How long will you take?”
“An hour, sir, for rubbing down, saddling, and packing fodder, ammunition, and provisions.”
“Very well,” I said, soberly, and walked out to the long drawing-room, where the company had taken chairs and were all whispering and watching a green baize curtain which somebody had hung across the farther end of the room.
“Charades and pictures,” whispered Cecile, at my elbow. “I guessed two, and Mr. Clavarack says it was wonderful.”
“It certainly was,” I said, gravely. “Where is Ruyven? Oh, sitting with Miss Haldimand? Cecile, would you ask Miss Haldimand’s indulgence for a few moments? I must speak to Sir Lupus and to you and Ruyven.”
I stepped back of the rows of chairs to where Sir Lupus sat in his great arm-chair by the doorway; and in another moment Cecile and Ruyven came up, the latter polite but scarcely pleased to be torn away from his first inamorata.
“Sir Lupus, and you, Cecile and Ruyven,” I said, in a low voice, “I am going on a little journey, and shall be absent for a few days, perhaps longer. I wish to take this opportunity to say good-bye, and to thank you all for your great kindness to me.”
“Where the devil are you going?” snapped Sir Lupus.
“I am not at liberty to say, sir; perhaps General Schuyler may tell you.”
The patroon looked up at me sorrowfully. “George! George!” he said, “has it touched us already?”
“Yes, sir,” I muttered.
“What?” whispered Cecile.
“Father means the war. Our cousin Ormond is going to the war,” exclaimed Ruyven, softly.
There was a pause; then Cecile flung both arms around my neck and kissed me in choking silence. The patroon’s great, fat hand sought mine and held it; Ruyven placed his arm about my shoulder. Never had I imagined that I could love these kinsmen of mine so dearly.
“There’s always a bed for you here; remember that, my lad,” growled the patroon.
“Take me, too,” sniffed Ruyven.
“Eh! What?” cried the patroon. “I’ll take you; oh yes — over my knee, you impudent puppy! Let me catch you sneaking off to this war and I’ll—”
Ruyven relapsed into silence, staring at me in troubled fascination.
“The house is yours, George,” grunted the patroon. “Help yourself to what you need for your journey.”
“Thank you, sir; say good-bye to the children, kiss them all for me, Cecile. And don’t run away and get married until I come back.”
A stifled snivel was my answer.
Then into the room shuffled old Cato, and began to extinguish the candles; and I saw the green curtain twitch, and everybody whispered “Ah-h!”
General Schuyler arose in the dim light when the last candle was blown out. “You are to guess the title of this picture!” he said, in his even, pleasant voice. “It is a famous picture, familiar to all present, I think, and celebrated in the Old World as well as in the New.... Draw the curtain, Cato!”
Suddenly the curtain parted, and there stood the living, breathing figure of the “Maid-at-Arms.” Her thick, gold hair clouded her cheeks, her eyes, blue as wood-violets, looked out sweetly from the shadowy background, her armor glittered.
A stillness fell over the dark room; slowly the green curtains closed; the figure vanished.
There was a roar of excited applause in my ears as I stumbled forward through the darkness, groping my way towards the dim gun-room through which she must pass to regain her chamber by the narrow stairway which led to the attic.
She was not there; I waited a moment, listening in the darkness, and presently I heard, somewhere overhead, a faint ringing sound and the deadened clash of armed steps on the garret floor.
“Dorothy!” I called.
The steps ceased, and I mounted the steep stairway and came out into the garret, and saw her standing there, her armor outlined against the window and the pale starlight streaming over her steel shoulder-pieces.
I shall never forget her as she stood looking at me, her steel-clad figure half buried in the darkness, yet dimly apparent in its youthful symmetry where the starlight fell on the curve of cuisse and greave, glimmering on the inlaid gorget with an unearthly light, and stirring pale sparks like fire-flies tangled in her hair.
“Did I please you?” she whispered. “Did I not surprise you? Cato scoured the armor for me; it is the same armor she wore, they say — the Maid-at-Arms. And it fits me like my leather clothes, limb and body. Hark!... They are applauding yet! But I do not mean to spoil the magic picture by a senseless repetition.... And some are sure to say a ghost appeared.... Why are you so silent?... Did I not please you?”
She flung casque and sword on the floor, cleared her white forehead from its tumbled veil of hair; then bent nearer, scanning my eyes closely.
“Is aught amiss?” she asked, under her breath.
I turned and slowly traversed the upper hallway to her chamber door, she walking beside me in silence, striving to read my face.
“Let your maids disarm you,” I whispered; “then dress and tap at my door. I shall be waiting.”
“Tell me now, cousin.”
“No; dress first.”
“It will take too long to do my hair. Oh, tell me! You have frightened me.”
“It is nothing to frighten you,” I said. “Put off your armor and come to my door. Will you promise?”
“Ye-es,” she faltered; and I turned and hastened to my own chamber, to prepare for the business which lay before me.
I dressed rapidly, my thoughts in a whirl; but I had scarcely slung powder-horn and pouch, and belted in my hunting-shirt, when there came a rapping at the door, and I opened it and stepped out into the dim hallway.
At sight of me she understood, and turned quite white, standing there in her boudoir-robe of China silk, her heavy, burnished hair in two loose braids to her waist.
In silence I lifted her listless hands and kissed the fingers, then the cold wrists and palms. And I saw the faint circlet of the ghost-ring on her bridal finger, and touched it with my lips.
Then, as I stepped past her, she gave a low cry, hiding her face in her hands, and leaned back against the wall, quivering from head to foot.
“Don’t go!” she sobbed. “Don’t go — don’t go!”
And because I durst not, for her own sake, turn or listen, I reeled on, seeing nothing, her faint cry ringing in my ears, until darkness and a cold wind struck me in the face, and I saw horses waiting, black in the starlight, and the gigantic form of a man at their heads, fringed cape blowing in the wind.
“All ready?” I gasped.
“All is ready and the night fine! We ride by Broadalbin, I think.... Whoa! back up! you long-eared ass! D’ye think to smell a Mohawk?... Or is it your comrades on the picket-rope that bedevil you?... Look at the troop-horses, sir, all a-rolling on their backs in the sand, four hoofs waving in the air. It’s easier on yon sentry than when they’re all a-squealin’ and a-bitin’ — This way, sir. We swing by the bush and pick up the Iroquois trail ‘twixt the Hollow and Mayfield.”
XIV
ON DUTY
As we galloped into Broadalbin Bush a house on our right loomed up black and silent, and I saw shutters and doors swinging wide open, and the stars shining through. There was something sinister in this stark and tenantless homestead, whose void casements stared, like empty eye-sockets.
“They have gone to the Middle Fort — all of them except the Stoners,” said Mount, pushing his horse up beside mine. “Look, sir! See what this red terror has already done to make a wilderness of County Try on — and not a blow struck yet!”
We passed another house, doorless, deserted; and as I rode abreast of it, to my horror I saw two shining eyes staring out at me from the empty window.
“A wolf — already!” muttered Mount, tugging at his bridle as his horse sheered off, snorting; and I saw something run across the front steps and drop into the shadows.
The roar of the Kennyetto sounded nearer. Woods gave place to stump-fields in which the young corn sprouted, silvered by the stars. Across a stony pasture we saw a rushlight burning in a doorway; and, swinging our horses out across a strip of burned stubble, we came presently to Stoner’s house and heard the noise of the stream rushing through the woods below.
I saw Sir George Covert immediately; he was sitting on a log under the window, dressed in his uniform, a dark military cloak mantling his shoulders and knees. When he recognized me he rose and came to my side.
“Well, Ormond,” he said, quietly, “it’s a comfort to see you. Leave your horses with Elerson. Who is that with you — oh, Jack Mount? These are the riflemen, Elerson and Murphy — Morgan’s men, you know.”
The two riflemen saluted me with easy ceremony and sauntered over to where Mount was standing at our horses’ heads.
“Hello, Catamount Jack,” said Elerson, humorously. “Where ‘d ye steal the squaw-buckskins? Look at the macaroni, Tim — all yellow and purple fringe!”
Mount surveyed the riflemen in their suits of brown holland and belted rifle-frocks.
“Dave Elerson, you look like a Quakeress in a Dutch jerkin,” he observed.
“’Tis the nate turrn to yere leg he grudges ye,” said Murphy to Elerson. “Wisha, Dave, ye’ve the legs av a beau!”
“Bow-legs, Dave,” commented Mount. “It’s not your fault, lad. I’ve seen ’em run from the Iroquois as fast as Tim’s—”
The bantering reply of the big Irishman was lost to me as Sir George led me out of earshot, one arm linked in mine.
I told him briefly of my mission, of my new rank in the army. He congratulated me warmly, and asked, in his pleasant way, for news of the manor, yet did not name Dorothy, which surprised me to the verge of resentment. Twice I spoke of her, and he replied courteously, yet seemed nothing eager to learn of her beyond what I volunteered.
And at last I said: “Sir George, may I not claim a kinsman’s privilege to wish you joy in your great happiness?”
“What happiness?” he asked, blankly; then, in slight confusion, added: “You speak of my betrothal to your cousin Dorothy. I am stupid beyond pardon, Ormond; I thank you for your kind wishes.... I suppose Sir Lupus told you,” he added, vaguely.
“My cousin Dorothy told me,” I said.
“Ah! Yes — yes, indeed. But it is all in the future yet, Ormond.” He moved on, switching the long weeds with a stick he had found. “All in the future,” he murmured, absently— “in fact, quite remote, Ormond.... By-the-way, you know why you were to meet me?”
“No, I don’t,” I replied, coldly.
“Then I’ll tell you. The General is trying to head off Walter Butler and arrest him. Murphy and Elerson have just heard that Walter Butler’s mother and sister, and a young lady, Magdalen Brant — you met her at Varicks’ — are staying quietly at the house of a Tory named Beacraft. We must strive to catch him there; and, failing that, we must watch Magdalen Brant, that she has no communication with the Iroquois.” He hesitated, head bent. “You see, the General believes that this young girl can sway the False-Faces to peace or war. She was once their pet — as a child.... It seems hard to believe that this lovely and cultivated young girl could revert to such savage customs.... And yet Murphy and Elerson credit it, and say that she will surely appear at the False-Faces’ rites.... It is horrible, Ormond; she is a sweet child — by Heaven, she would turn a European court with her wit and beauty!”
“I concede her beauty,” I said, uneasy at his warm praise, “but as to her wit, I confess I scarcely exchanged a dozen words with her that night, and so am no judge.”
“Ah!” he said, with an absent-minded stare.
“I naturally devoted myself to my cousin Dorothy,” I added, irritated, without knowing why.
“Quite so — quite so,” he mused. “As I was saying, it seems cruel to suspect Magdalen Brant, but the General believes she can sway the Oneidas and Tuscaroras.... It is a ghastly idea. And if she does attempt this thing, it will be through the infernal machinations and devilish persuasions of the Butlers — mark that, Ormond!”
He turned short in his tracks and made a fierce gesture with his stick. It broke short, and he flung the splintered ends into the darkness.
“Why,” he said, warmly, “there is not a gentler, sweeter disposition in the world than Magdalen Brant’s, if no one comes a-tampering to wake the Iroquois blood in her. These accursed Butlers seem inspired by hell itself — and Guy Johnson! — What kind of a man is that, to take this young girl from Albany, where she had forgotten what a council-fire meant, and bring her here to these savages — sacrifice her! — undo all those years of culture and education! — rouse in her the dormant traditions and passions which she had imbibed with her first milk, and which she forgot when she was weaned! That is the truth, I tell you! I know, sir! It was my uncle who took her from Guy Park and sent her to my aunt Livingston. She had the best of schooling; she was reared in luxury; she had every advantage that could be gained in Albany; my aunt took her to London that she might acquire those graces of deportment which we but roughly imitate.... Is it not sickening to see Guy Johnson and Sir John exercise their power of relationship and persuade her from a good home back to this?... Think of it, Ormond!”
“I do think of it,” said I. “It is wrong — it is cruel and shameful!”
“It is worse,” said Sir George, bitterly. “Scarce a year has she been at Guy Park, yet to-day she is in full sympathy with Guy and Sir John and her dusky kinsman, Brant. Outwardly she is a charming, modest maid, and I do not for an instant mean you to think she is not chaste! The Irish nation is no more famed for its chastity than the Mohawk, but I know that she listens when the forest calls — listens with savant ears, Ormond, and her dozen drops of dusky blood set her pulses flying to the free call of the Wolf clan!”
“Do you know her well?” I asked.
“I? No. I saw her at my aunt Livingston’s. It was the other night that I talked long with her — for the first time in my life.”
He stood silent, knee-deep in the dewy weeds, hand worrying his sword-hilt, long cloak flung back.
“You have no idea how much of a woman she is,” he said, vaguely.
“In that case,” I replied, “you might influence her.”
He raised his thoughtful face to the stars, studying the Twin Pointers.
“May I try?” he asked.
“Try? Yes, try, in Heaven’s name, Sir George! If she must speak to the Oneidas, persuade her to throw her influence for peace, if you can. At all events, I shall know whether or not she goes to the fire, for I am charged by the General to find the False-Faces and report to him every word said.... Do you speak Tuscarora, Sir George?”
“No; only Mohawk,” he said. “How are you going to find the False-Faces’ meeting-place?”
“If Magdalen Brant goes, I go,” said I. “And while I’m watching her, Jack Mount is to range, and track any savage who passes the Iroquois trail.... What do you mean to do with Murphy and Elerson?”
“Elerson rides back to the manor with our horses; we’ve no further use for them here. Murphy follows me.... And I think we should be on our way,” he added, impatiently.
We walked back to the house, where old man Stoner and his two big boys stood with our riflemen, drinking flip.
“Elerson,” I said, “ride my mare and lead the other horses back to Varicks’. Murphy, you will pilot us to Beacraft’s. Jack, go forward with Murphy.”
Old Stoner wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, bit into a twist of tobacco, spat derisively, and said: “This pup Beacraft swares he’ll lift my haar ‘fore he gits through with me! Threatened men live long. Kindly tell him me an’ my sons is to hum. Sir George.”
The big, lank boys laughed, and winked at me as I passed.
“Good trail an’ many skelps to ye!” said old Stoner. “If ye see Francy McCraw, jest tell him thar’s a rope an’ a apple-tree waitin’ fur him down to Fundy’s Bush!”
“Tell Danny Redstock an’ Billy Bones that the Stoner boys is smellin’ almighty close on their trail!” called out the elder youth.
Elerson, in his saddle, gathered the bridles that Mount handed him and rode off into the darkness, leading Mount’s horse and Sir George’s at a trot. We filed off due west, Murphy and Mount striding in the lead, the noise of the river below us on our left. A few rods and we swung south, then west into a wretched stump-road, which Sir George said was the Mayfield road and part of the Sacandaga trail.
The roar of the Kennyetto accompanied us, then for a while was lost in the swaying murmur of the pines. Twice we passed trodden carrying-places before the rushing of the river sounded once more far below us in a gorge; and we descended into a hollow to a ford from which an Indian trail ran back to the north. This was the Balston trail, which joined the Fish-House road; and Sir George said it was the trail I should have followed had it not been necessary for me to meet him at Fonda’s Bush to relieve him of his horse.
Now, journeying rapidly west, our faces set towards the Mayfield hills, we passed two or three small, cold brooks, on stepping-stones, where the dark sky, set with stars, danced in the ripples. Once, on a cleared hill, we saw against the sky the dim bulk of a lonely barn; then nothing more fashioned by human hands until, hours later, we found Murphy and Mount standing beside some rough pasture bars in the forest. How they had found them in the darkness of the woods — for we had long since left the stump-road — I do not know; but the bars were there, and a brush fence; and Murphy whispered that, beyond, a cow-path led to Beacraft’s house.
