Complete weird tales of.., p.161
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 161
“They butchered his brother behind the red barn yonder,” 486 whispered a lean yokel beside me. “He’ll hang ‘em, that’s what he’ll do.”
“That’s it! Hang ‘em!” bawled out a red-headed lout, flourishing a pitchfork. “Hang the damn — !”
“Put that fool under arrest,” said the officer, sharply. Some Acton Minute Men seized the lout and hustled him off; others formed a guard and conducted the big, perspiring, red-coated soldiers towards “Buckman’s Tavern.”
“You will treat them humanely?” I asked, as the officer passed me.
He gave me a blank glance; the tears again had filled his eyes.
“Certainly,” he said, shortly; “I am not a butcher.”
I gave him the officer’s salute; he returned it absently, and walked on, with drawn sword and head sunk on his tarnished brass gorget.
A restless, silent crowd had gathered at “Buckman’s Tavern,” where two dead Minute Men lay on the porch, stiffening in their blood.
The sun had not yet risen, but all the east was turning yellow; great clouds of red-winged blackbirds rose and settled in the swampy meadows, and filled the air with their dry chirking; robins sang ecstatically.
Back along the muddy Bedford Road trudged the remnants of the scattered Lexington company of militia; the little barelegged drummer posted himself in front of the Meeting-house once more, and drummed the assembly. Men seemed to spring from the soil; every bramble-patch was swarming now; they came hurrying across the distant fields singly, in twos and threes, in scores.
Far away in the vague dawn bells rang out in distant villages, and I heard the faint sound of guns and the throbbing of drums. I passed the Lexington company re-forming on the trodden village green. Their captain, Parker, called out to me: “Forest-runner! We need your rifle! Will you fight with us?”
“I cannot,” I said, and ran towards the post-chaise, rifle on shoulder.
The women and children of Lexington were gathered around it. I saw at a glance that Silver Heels had given 487 her seat to a frightened old woman, and that other women were thrusting their children into the vehicle, imploring Mount and Foxcroft to save them from the British.
“Michael,” said Silver Heels, looking up with cool gray eyes, “the British are firing at women in the farm-houses on the Concord Road above here. We must get the children away.”
“And you?” I asked, sharply. She lifted a barefooted urchin into the chaise without answering.
A yoke of dusty, anxious oxen, drawing a hay-cart, came clattering up, the poor beasts running heavily, while their driver followed on a trot beside them, using his cruel goad without mercy.
“Haw! Haw! Gee! Gee! Haw!” he bellowed, guiding his bumping wagon into the Bedford Road.
“The children here!” called out Silver Heels, in her clear voice, and caught up another wailing infant, to soothe it and lift it into the broad ox-wagon.
In a moment the wagon was full of old women and frantic children; a young girl, carrying a baby, ran alongside, begging piteously for a place, but already other vehicles were rattling up behind gaunt, rusty horses, and places were found for the frightened little ones in the confusion.
Some boys drove a flock of sheep into the Bedford Road; a herd of young cattle broke and ran, scattering the sheep. Mount and I sprang in front of Silver Heels, driving the cattle aside with clubbed rifles. Then there came a heavy pounding of horses’ hoofs in the mud, a rush, a cry, and a hatless, coatless rider drew up in a cloud of scattering gravel.
“More troops coming from Boston!” he shouted in his saddle. “Lord Percy is at Roxbury with three regiments, marines, and cannon! Paul Revere was taken at one o’clock this morning!” And away he galloped, head bent low, reeking spurs clinging to his horse’s gaunt flanks.
Silver Heels, standing beside me in the hanging morning mist, laid her hand on my arm.
“If the British are at Roxbury,” she said, “we are quite cut off, are we not?”
I did not answer. Mount turned a grave, intelligent eye 488 on me; Foxcroft came up, wiping the mud and sweat from his eyes.
At that moment the drum and fife sounded from the green; the Lexington company, arms trailing, came marching into the Bedford Road, Indian file, Captain Parker leading.
Beside him, joyous, alert, transfigured, trotted the Weasel. “We’ve got them now!” he called out to Mount. “We’ll catch the redskins with our hands at Charlestown Neck!”
The little barelegged drummer nodded seriously; the old Louisburg drum rumbled out the route-march.
Into “Buckman’s Tavern” filed the Lexington men and fell to slamming and bolting the wooden shutters, piercing the doors and walls for rifle-fire, piling tables and chairs and bedding along the veranda for a rough breastwork.
“You must come with the convoy,” I said, taking Silver Heels by the hand.
Her grave, gray eyes met mine in perfect composure.
“We must stay,” she said.
“They are bringing cannon — can you not understand?” I repeated, harshly.
“I will not go,” she said. “Every rifle is required here. I cannot take you from these men in their dire need. Dear heart, can you not understand me?”
“Am I to sacrifice you?” I asked, angrily. “No!” I cried. “We have suffered enough—”
Tears sprang to her eyes; she laid her hand on my rifle.
“Other women have sent their dearest ones. Am I less brave than that woman whose husband died yonder on his own door-sill? Am I a useless, passionless clod, that my blood stirs at naught but pleasure? Look at those dead men on the tavern steps! Look at our people’s blood on the grass yonder! Would you wed with a pink-and-white thing whose veins run water? I saw them kill that poor boy behind his own barn! — these redcoat ruffians who come across an ocean to slay us in our own land. Do you forget I am a soldier’s child?”
A loud voice bellowing from the tavern: “Women here for the bullet-moulds! Get your women to the tavern!”
She caught my hand. “You see a maid may not stand idle in Lexington!” she said, with a breathless smile.
CHAPTER XXVIII
SILVER HEELS STOOD in the tap-room of “Buckman’s Tavern” casting bullets; the barefoot drummer watched the white-hot crucible and baled out the glittering molten metal or fed it with lumps of lead stripped from the gate-post of Hooper’s house in Danvers.
Near the window sat some Woburn Minute Men, cross-legged on the worn floor, rolling cartridges. From time to time the parson of Woburn, who had come to pray and shoot, took away the pile of empty powder-horns and brought back others to be emptied.
The tavern was dim and damp; through freshly bored loopholes in the shutters sunlight fell, illuminating the dark interior.
In their shirts, barearmed and bare of throat to the breast-bone, a score of Lexington Minute Men stood along the line of loopholes, their long rifles thrust out. They had no bayonets, but each man had driven his hunting-knife into the wall beside him.
Jack Mount and the Weasel lay, curled up like giant cats, at the door, blinking peacefully out through the cracks into the early sunshine. I could hear their low-voiced conversation from where I stood at my post, close to Silver Heels:
“Redcoats, Cade, not redskins,” corrected Mount. “British lobster-backs — eh, Cade? You remember how we drubbed them there in Pittsburg, belt and buckle and ramrod — eh, Cade?”
“That was long ago, friend.”
“Call me Jack! Why don’t you call me Jack any more?” urged Mount. “You know me now, don’t you, Cade?”
“Ay, but I forget much. Do you know how I came here?”
“From Johnstown, Cade — from Johnstown, lad!”
“I cannot remember Johnstown.”
Presently the Weasel peered around at Silver Heels.
“Who is that young lady?” he asked, mildly.
Silver Heels heard and smiled at the old man. The faintest quiver curved her mouth; there was a shadow of pain in her eyes.
The fire from the crucible tinted her cheeks; she raised both bared arms to push back her clustering hair. Hazel gray, her brave eyes met mine across the witch-vapour curling from the melting-pot.
“Do you recall how the ferret, Vix, did bite Peter’s tight breeches, Michael?”
“Ay,” said I, striving to smile.
“And — and the jack-knife made by Barlow?”
“Ay.”
She flushed to the temples and looked at my left hand. The scar was there. I raised my hand and kissed the blessed mark.
“Dear, dear Michael,” she whispered, “truly you were ever the dearest and noblest and best of all!”
“Unfit to kiss thy shoon’s latchet, sweet—”
“Yet hast untied the latchets of my heart.”
A stillness fell on the old tavern; the Minute Men stood silently at the loopholes, the barefoot drummer sat on his drum, hands folded, watching with solemn, childish eyes the nuggets of lead sink, bubble, and melt.
A militiaman came down-stairs for a bag of bullets.
“They be piping hot yet,” said the drummer-boy, “and not close pared.”
But the soldier carelessly gathered heaping handfuls in his calloused palms, and went up the bare, creaking stairs again to his post among the pigeons.
The heat of the brazier had started the perspiration on Silver Heels’s face and neck; tiny drops glistened like fresh dew on a blossom. She stood, dreamily brushing with the back of her hand the soft hair from her brow. Her dark-fringed eyes on me; under her loosened kerchief I saw the calm breathing stir her neck and bosom gently as a white flower stirs at a breath of June.
“The scent of the sweet-fern,” she murmured; “do you savour it from the pastures?”
I looked at her in pity.
“Ay, dear heart,” she whispered, with a sad little smile, “I am homesick to the bones of me, sick for the blue hills o’ Tryon and the whistling martin-birds, sick for the scented brake and the smell of sweet water babbling, sick for your arm around me, and your man’s strength to crush me to you and take the kiss my very soul does ache to give.”
A voice broke in from the pigeon-loft above, “Is there a woman below to sew bandages?”
“Truly there is, sir,” called back Silver Heels.
“I’ll take the mould,” said the small drummer, “but you are to come when the fight begins, for I mean to do a deal o’ drumming!”
She started towards the stairway, then turned to look at me.
“My post is wherever you are,” I said, stepping to her side.
I took her little hand, all warm and moist from the bullet-moulding, and I kissed the palm and the delicate, rounded wrist.
“There is a long war before us ere we find a home,” I said.
“I know,” she said, faintly.
“A long, long war; separation, sadness. Will you wed me before I go to join with Cresap’s men?”
“Ay,” she said.
“There is a parson below, Silver Heels.”
Her face went scarlet.
“Let it be now,” I whispered, with my arm around her.
She looked up into my eyes. I leaned over the landing-rail and called out, “Send a man for the parson of Woburn!”
An Acton man stepped out on the tavern porch and shouted for the parson. Presently the good man came, in rusty black, shouldering a fowling-piece, his pockets bulging with a Bible and Book of Common Prayer, his wig all caked and wet from a tour through the dewy willows behind the inn.
“Is there sickness here — or wounds?” he asked, anxiously. Then he saw me above and came wheezing up the stairs.
“Heart-sickness, sir,” I said; “we be dying, both of us, for the heart’s ease you may bring us through your holy office.”
At length he understood — Silver Heels striving to keep her 492 sweet eyes lifted when he spoke to her, and I quiet and determined, asking that he lose no time, for no man knew how long we few here in the tavern had to live. In the same breath I summoned a soldier from the south loophole in the garret, and asked him to witness for me; and he took off his hat and stood sheepishly twirling it, rifle in hand.
And so we were wedded, there in the ancient garret, the pigeons coo-cooing overhead, the blue wasps buzzing up and down the window-glass, and our hands joined before the aged parson of Woburn town. I had the plain gold ring which I had bought in Albany for this purpose, nor dreamed to wed my sweetheart with it thus! — and O the sweetness in her lips and eyes when I drew it from the cord around my neck and placed it on her smooth finger at the word!
Little else I remember, save that the old parson kissed her, and the soldier kissed her outstretched hand, and let his gun fall for bashful fright. Nor that we were truly wedded did I understand, even when the parson of Woburn went away down the creaking stairs with his fowling-piece over his shoulder, leaving us standing mute together under the canopy of swinging herbs. We still held hands, standing quiet, in a vague expectation of some mystery yet to come. Children that we were! — the mystery of mysteries had been wrought, never to be undone till time should end.
A pigeon flew, whimpering, to the beam above us, then strutted and bowed and coo-cooed to its startled, sleek, white sweetheart; a wind blew through the rafters, stirring the dry bunches of catnip, mint, and thyme, till they swung above, scented censers all, exhaling incense.
There was a pile of cotton cloth on the floor; Silver Heels sank down beside it and began to tear it into strips for sewing bandages.
I looked from the window, seeing nothing.
Presently the Minute Man at the south loop spoke:
“A man riding this way — there! — on the Concord Road!”
Silver Heels on the floor worked steadily, ripping the snowy cotton.
“There is smoke yonder on the Concord Road,” said the Minute Man.
“AND SO WE WERE WEDDED”
I roused and rubbed my eyes.
“Do you hear firing,” he asked, “far away in the west?”
“Yes.”
“Concord lies northwest.”
Silver Heels, absorbed in her task, hummed a little tune under her breath.
“The smoke follows the road,” said the Minute Man.
The firing became audible in the room. Silver Heels raised her head with a grave glance at me. I went and knelt beside her.
“It is coming at last, little sweetheart,” I said. “Will you go, now? Foxcroft will take you across the fields to some safe farm.”
“You know Sir William would not have endured to see me leave at such a time,” she said.
“Yes, dear heart, but you cannot carry a rifle.”
“But I can make bullets and bandages.”
“The British fire at women; you must go!” I said, aloud.
“I will not go.”
“I command.”
“No.” She bent her fair, childish head and the tears fell on the cloth in her lap.
“Look! Look at the redcoats!” called out the Minute Man at the attic window.
As I rose I heard plainly the long, resounding crash of musket firing, and the rattle of rifles followed like a hundred echoes.
“Look yonder!” he cried.
Suddenly the Concord Road was choked with scarlet-clad soldiers. Mapped out below us the country stretched, and over it, like a blood-red monster worm, wound the British column — nay, like to a dragon it came on, with flanking lines thrust out east and west for its thin red wings, and head and tail wreathed with smoke.
And now we could see feathery puffs of smoke from the road-side bushes, from distant hills, from thickets, from ploughed fields, from the long, undulating stone walls which crossed the plain. Faster and faster came the musket volleys, but faster yet rang out the shots from our yeomanry, gathering thicker and thicker along the British route, swarming in from distant towns and hamlets and lonely farms.
The old tavern was ringing with voices now — commands of officers, calls from those who were posted above, clattering steps on the porch as the Acton men ran out to their posts behind the tufted willows in the swamp.
He who had been placed in charge at the tavern, a young officer of the Woburn Alarm Men, shouted for silence and attention, and ordered us not to fire unless fired upon, as our position would be hopeless if cannon were brought against us. Then he commanded all women to leave the tavern and seek shelter at Slocum’s farm across the meadows.
“No, no!” murmured Silver Heels, obstinately, as I took her hand and started for the stairs, “I will not go, — I cannot — I cannot! Let me stay, Michael; for God’s sake, let me stay!” And she fell on her knees and caught at my hands.
“To your posts!” roared the Woburn officer, drawing his sword and coming up the stairs two at a jump. He stopped short when he saw Silver Heels, and glanced blankly at me; but there was no time now for flight, for, as he stepped to the window beside me, pell-mell into the village green rushed the British light infantry, dusty, exhausted, enraged. In brutal disorder they surged on, here a squad huddled together, there a company, bullied, threatened, and harangued by its officers with pistols and drawn swords; now a group staggering past, bearing dead or wounded comrades, now a heavy cart loaded with knapsacks and muskets, driven by hatless soldiers.
Close on their heels tramped the grenadiers. Soldier after soldier staggered and fell from the ranks, utterly exhausted, unable to rise from the grass.
The lull in the firing was broken by a loud discharge of musketry from Fiske’s Hill, and presently more redcoats came rushing into the village, while at their very heels the Bedford Alarm Men shot at them, and chased them. Everywhere our militia came swarming — from Sudbury, Westford, Lincoln, Acton; Minute Men from Medford, from Stowe, from Beverly, and from Lynn — and their ancient firelocks blazed from every stone wall, and their long rifles banged from the distant ridges.
Below me in the street I saw the British officers striving desperately to reform their men, kicking the exhausted creatures 495 to their feet again, striking laggards, shoving the bewildered and tired grenadiers into line, while thicker and thicker pelted the bullets from the Minute Men and militia.
