Complete weird tales of.., p.168
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 168
“Come, Cato,” I remonstrated, “am I dressing for a ball at Augustine, that you stand there pulling my finery about to choose and pick? I tell you to give me a sober suit!” I snatched a flowered robe from the bed’s foot-board, pulled it about me, and stepped to the floor.
Cato brought a chair and bowl, and, when I had washed once more I seated myself while the old man shook out my hair, dusted it to its natural brown, then fell to combing and brushing. My hair, with its obstinate inclination to curl, needed neither iron nor pomade; so, silvering it with my best French powder, he tied the short queue with a black ribbon and dusted my shoulders, critically considering me the while.
“A plain shirt,” I said, briefly.
He brought a frilled one.
“I want a plain shirt,” I insisted.
“Dishyere sho’t am des de plaines’ an’ de—”
“You villain, don’t I know what I want?”
“No, suh!”
And, upon my honor, I could not get that black mule to find me the shirt that I wished to wear. More than that, he utterly refused to permit me to dress in a certain suit of mouse-color without lace, but actually bundled me into the silver-gray, talking volubly all the while; and I, half laughing and wholly vexed, almost minded to go burrowing myself among my boxes and risk peppering silk and velvet with hair-powder.
But he dressed me as it suited him, patting my silk shoes into shape, smoothing coat-skirt and flowered vest-flap, shaking out the lace on stock and wrist with all the delicacy and cunning of a lady’s-maid.
“Idiot!” said I, “am I tricked out to please you?”
“You sho’ is, Cap’in Ormond, suh,” he said, the first faint approach to a grin that I had seen wrinkling his aged face. And with that he hung my small-sword, whisked the powder from my shoulders with a bit of cambric, chose a laced handkerchief for me, and, ere I could remonstrate, passed a tiny jewelled pin into my powdered hair, where it sparkled like a frost crystal.
“I’m no macaroni!” I said, angrily; “take it away!”
“Cap’in Ormond, suh, you sho’ is de fines’ young gemm’n in de province, suh,” he pleaded. “Dess regahd yo’se’f, suh, in dishyere lookum-glass. What I done tell you? Look foh yo’se’f, suh! Cap’in Butler gwine see how de quality gemm’n fixes up! Suh John Johnsing he gwine see! Dat ole Kunnel Butler he gwine see, too! Heah yo’ is, suh, dess a-bloomin’ lak de pink-an’-silver ghos’ flower wif de gole heart.”
“Cato,” I asked, curiously, “why do you take pride in tricking out a stranger to dazzle your own people?”
The old man stood silent a moment, then looked up with the mild eyes of an aged hound long privileged in honorable retirement.
“Is you sho’ a Ormond, suh?”
“Yes, Cato.”
“Might you come f’om de Spanish grants, suh, long de Halifax?”
“Yes, yes; but we are English now. How did you know I came from the Halifax?”
“I knowed it, suh; I knowed h’it muss be dat-away!”
“How do you know it, Cato?”
“I spec’ you favor yo’ pap, suh, de ole Kunnel—”
“My father!”
“Mah ole marster, suh; I was raised ‘long Matanzas, suh. Spanish man done cotch me on de Tomoka an’ ship me to Quebec. Ole Suh William Johnsing, he done buy me; Suh John, he done sell me; Mars Varick, he buy me; an’ hyah ah is, suh — heart dess daid foh de Halifax san’s.”
He bent his withered head and laid his face on my hands, but no tear fell.
After a moment he straightened, snuffled, and smiled, opening his lips with a dry click.
“H’it’s dat-a-way, suh. Ole Cato dess ‘bleged to fix up de young marster. Pride o’ fambly, suh. What might you be desirin’ now, Mars’ Ormond? One li’l drap o’ musk on yoh hanker? Lawd save us, but you sho’ is gallus dishyere day! Spec’ Miss Dorry gwine blink de vi’lets in her eyes. Yaas, suh. Miss Dorry am de only one, suh; de onliest Ormond in dishyere fambly. Seem mos’ lak she done throw back to our folk, suh. Miss Dorry ain’ no Varick; Miss Dorry all Ormond, suh, dess lak you an’ me! Yaas, suh, h’its dat-a-way; h’it sho’ is, Mars’ Ormond.”
I drew a deep, quivering breath. Home seemed so far, and the old slave would never live to see it. I felt as though this steel-cold North held me, too, like a trap — never to unclose.
“Cato,” I said, abruptly, “let us go home.”
He understood; a gleam of purest joy flickered in his eyes, then died out, quenched in swelling tears.
He wept awhile, standing there in the centre of the room, smearing the tears away with the flapping sleeves of his tarnished livery, while, like a committed panther, I paced the walls, to and fro, to and fro, heart aching for escape.
The light in the west deepened above the forests; a long, glowing crack opened between two thunderous clouds, like a hint of hidden hell, firing the whole sky. And in the blaze the crows winged, two and two, like witches flying home to the infernal pit, now all ablaze and kindling coal on coal along the dark sky’s sombre brink.
Then the red bars faded on my wall to pink, to ashes; a fleck of rosy cloud in mid-zenith glimmered and went out, and the round edges of the world were curtained with the night.
Behind me, Cato struck flint and lighted two tall candles; outside the lawn, near the stockade, a stable-lad set a conch-horn to his lips, blowing a deep, melodious cattle-call, and far away I heard them coming — tin, ton! tin, ton! tinkle! — through the woods, slowly, slowly, till in the freshening dusk I smelled their milk and heard them lowing at the unseen pasture-bars.
I turned sharply; the candle-light dazzled me. As I passed Cato, the old man bowed till his coat-cuffs hung covering his dusky, wrinkled fingers.
“When we go, we go together, Cato,” I said, huskily, and so passed on through the brightly lighted hallway and down the stairs.
Candle-light glimmered on the dark pictures, the rusted circles of arms, the stags’ heads with their dusty eyes. A servant in yellow livery, lounging by the door, rose from the settle as I appeared and threw open the door on the left, announcing, “Cap’m Ormond!” in a slovenly fashion which merited a rebuke from somebody.
The room into which the yokel ushered me appeared to be a library, low of ceiling, misty with sour pipe smoke, which curled and floated level, wavering as the door closed behind me.
Through the fog, which nigh choked me with its staleness, I perceived a bulky gentleman seated at ease, sucking a long clay pipe, his bulging legs cocked up on a card-table, his little, inflamed eyes twinkling red in the candle-light.
“YOU’RE MY COUSIN, GEORGE ORMOND, OR I’M THE FATTEST LIAR SOUTH OF MONTREAL!”.
“Captain Ormond?” he cried. “Captain be damned; you’re my cousin, George Ormond, or I’m the fattest liar south of Montreal! Who the devil put ’em up to captaining you — eh? Was it that minx Dorothy? Dammy, I took it that the old Colonel had come to plague me from his grave — your father, sir! And a cursed fine fellow, if he was second cousin to a Varick, which he could not help, not he! — though I’ve heard him damn his luck to my very face, sir! Yes, sir, under my very nose!”
He fell into a fit of fat coughing, and seized a glass of spirits-and-water which stood on the table near his feet. The draught allayed his spasm; he wiped his broad, purple face, chuckled, tossed off the last of the liquor with a smack, and held out a mottled, fat hand, bare of wrist-lace. “Here’s my heart with it, George!” he cried. “I’d stand up to greet you, but it takes ten minutes for me to find these feet o’ mine, so I’ll not keep you waiting. There’s a chair; fill it with that pretty body of yours; cock up your feet — here’s a pipe — here’s snuff — here’s the best rum north o’ Norfolk, which that ass Dunmore laid in ashes to spite those who kicked him out!”
He squeezed my hand affectionately. “Pretty bird! Dammy, but you’ll break a heart or two, you rogue! Oh, you are your father all over again; it’s that way with you Ormonds — all alike, and handsome as that young devil Lucifer; too proud to be proud o’ your dukes and admirals, and a thousand years of waiting on your King. As lads together your father used to take me by the ear and cuff me, crying, ‘Beast! beast! You eat and drink too much! An Ormond’s heart lies not in his belly!’ And I kicked back, fighting stoutly for the crust he dragged me from. Dammy, why not? There’s more Dutch Varick than Irish Ormond in me. Remember that, George, and we shall get on famously together, you and I. Forget it, and we quarrel. Hey! fill that tall Italian glass for a toast. I give you the family, George. May they keep tight hold on what is theirs through all this cursed war-folly. Here’s to the patroons, God bless ‘em!”
Forced by courtesy to drink ere I had yet tasted meat, I did my part with the best grace I could muster, turning the beautiful glass downward, with a bow to my host.
“The same trick o’ grace in neck and wrist,” he muttered, thickly, wiping his lips. “All Ormond, all Ormond, George, like that vixen o’ mine, Dorothy. Hey! It’s not too often that good blood throws back; the mongrel shows oftenest; but that big chit of a lass is no Varick; she’s Ormond to the bones of her. Ruyven’s a red-head; there’s red in the rest o’ them, and the slow Dutch blood. But Dorothy’s eyes are like those wild iris-blooms that purple all our meadows, and she has the Ormond hair — that thick, dull gold, which that French Ormond, of King Stephen’s time, was dowered with by his Saxon mother, Helen. Eh? You see, I read it in that book your father left us. If I’m no Ormond, I like to find out why, and I love to dispute the Ormond claim which Walter Butler makes — he with his dark face and hair, and those dusky, golden eyes of his, which turn so yellow when I plague him — the mad wild-cat that he is.”
Another fit of choking closed his throat, and again he soaked it open with his chilled toddy, rattling the stick to stir it well ere he drained it at a single, gobbling gulp.
A faint disgust took hold on me, to sit there smothering in the fumes of pipe and liquor, while my gross kinsman guzzled and gabbled and guzzled again.
“George,” he gasped, mopping his crimsoned face, “I’ll tell you now that we Varicks and you Ormonds must stand out for neutrality in this war. The Butlers mean mischief; they’re mad to go to fighting, and that means our common ruin. They’ll be here to-night, damn them.”
“Sir Lupus,” I ventured, “we are all kinsmen, the Butlers, the Varicks, and the Ormonds. We are to gather here for self-protection during this rebellion. I am sure that in the presence of this common danger there can arise no family dissension.”
“Yes, there can!” he fairly yelled. “Here am I risking life and property to persuade these Butlers that their interest lies in strictest neutrality. If Schuyler at Albany knew they visited me, his dragoons would gallop into Varick Manor and hang me to my barn door! Here am I, I say, doing my best to keep ’em quiet, and there’s Sir John Johnson and all that bragging crew from Guy Park combating me — nay, would you believe their impudence? — striving to win me to arm my tenantry for this King of England, who has done nothing for me, save to make a knight of me to curry favor with the Dutch patroons in New York province — or state, as they call it now! And now I have you to count on for support, and we’ll whistle another jig for them to-night, I’ll warrant!”
He seized his unfilled glass, looked into it, and pushed it from him peevishly.
“Dammy,” he said, “I’ll not budge for them! I have thousands of acres, hundreds of tenants, farms, sugar-bushes, manufactories for pearl-ash, grist-mills, saw-mills, and I’m damned if I draw sword either way! Am I a madman, to risk all this? Am I a common fool, to chance anything now? Do they think me in my dotage? Indeed, sir, if I drew blade, if I as much as raised a finger, both sides would come swarming all over us — rebels a-looting and a-shooting, Indians whooping off my cattle, firing my barns, scalping my tenants — rebels at heart every one, and I’d not care tuppence who scalped ’em but that they pay me rent!”
He clinched his fat fists and beat the air angrily.
“I’m lord of this manor!” he bawled. “I’m Patroon Varick, and I’ll do as I please!”
Amazed and mortified at his gross frankness, I sat silent, not knowing what to say. Interest alone swayed him; the right and wrong of this quarrel were nothing to him; he did not even take the trouble to pay a hypocrite’s tribute to principle ere he turned his back on it; selfishness alone ruled, and he boasted of it, waving his short, fat arms in anger, or struggling to extend them heavenward, in protest against these people who dared urge him to declare himself and stand or fall with the cause he might embrace.
A faint disgust stirred my pulse. We Ormonds had as much to lose as he, but yelled it not to the skies, nor clamored of gain and loss in such unseemly fashion, ignoring higher motive.
“Sir Lupus,” I said, “if we can remain neutral with honor, that surely is wisest. But can we?”
“Remain neutral! Of course we can!” he shouted.
“Honorably?”
“Eh? Where’s honor in this mob-rule that breaks out in Boston to spot the whole land with a scurvy irruption! Honor? Where is it in this vile distemper which sets old neighbors here a-itching to cut each other’s throats? One says, ‘You’re a Tory! Take that!’ and slips a knife into him. T’other says, ‘You’re a rebel!’ Bang! — and blows his head off! Honor? Bah!”
He removed his wig to wipe his damp and shiny pate, then set the wig on askew and glared at me out of his small, ruddy eyes.
“I’m for peace,” he said, “and I care not who knows it. Then, whether Tory or rebel win the day, here am I, holding to my own with both hands and caring nothing which rag flies overhead, so that it brings peace and plenty to honest folk. And, mark me, then we shall live to see these plumed and gold-laced glory-mongers slinking round to beg their bread at our back doors. Dammy, let ’em bellow now! Let ’em shout for war! I’ll keep my mills busy and my agent walking the old rent-beat. If they can fill their bellies with a mess of glory I’ll not grudge them what they can snatch; but I’ll fill mine with food less spiced, and we’ll see which of us thrives best — these sons of Mars or the old patroon who stays at home and dips his nose into nothing worse than old Madeira!”
He gave me a cunning look, pushed his wig partly straight, and lay back, puffing quietly at his pipe.
I hesitated, choosing my words ere I spoke; and at first he listened contentedly, nodding approval, and pushing fresh tobacco into his clay with a fat forefinger.
I pointed out that it was my desire to save my lands from ravage, ruin, and ultimate confiscation by the victors; that for this reason he had summoned me, and I had come to confer with him and with other branches of our family, seeking how best this might be done.
I reminded him that, from his letters to me, I had acquired a fair knowledge of the estates endangered; that I understood that Sir John Johnson owned enormous tracts in Tryon County which his great father, Sir William, had left him when he died; that Colonel Claus, Guy Johnson, the Butlers, father and son, and the Varicks, all held estates of greatest value; and that these estates were menaced, now by Tory, now by rebel, and the lords of these broad manors were alternately solicited and threatened by the warring factions now so bloodily embroiled.
“We Ormonds can comprehend your dismay, your distress, your doubts,” I said. “Our indigo grows almost within gunshot of the British outpost at New Smyrna; our oranges, our lemons, our cane, our cotton, must wither at a blast from the cannon of Saint Augustine. The rebels in Georgia threaten us, the Tories at Pensacola warn us, the Seminoles are gathering, the Minorcans are arming, the blacks in the Carolinas watch us, and the British regiments at Augustine are all itching to ravage and plunder and drive us into the sea if we declare not for the King who pays them.”
Sir Lupus nodded, winked, and fell to slicing tobacco with a small, gold knife.
“We’re all Quakers in these days — eh, George? We can’t fight — no, we really can’t! It’s wrong, George, — oh, very wrong.” And he fell a-chuckling, so that his paunch shook like a jelly.
“I think you do not understand me,” I said.
He looked up quickly.
“We Ormonds are only waiting to draw sword.”
“Draw sword!” he cried. “What d’ye mean?”
“I mean that, once convinced our honor demands it, we cannot choose but draw.”
“Don’t be an ass!” he shouted. “Have I not told you that there’s no honor in this bloody squabble? Lord save the lad, he’s mad as Walter Butler!”
“Sir Lupus,” I said, angrily, “is a man an ass to defend his own land?”
“He is when it’s not necessary! Lie snug; nobody is going to harm you. Lie snug, with both arms around your own land.”
“I meant my own native land, not the miserable acres my slaves plant to feed and clothe me.”
He glared, twisting his long pipe till the stem broke short.
“Well, which land do you mean to defend, England or these colonies?” he asked, staring.
“That is what I desire to learn, sir,” I said, respectfully. “That is why I came North. With us in Florida, all is, so far, faction and jealousy, selfish intrigue and prejudiced dispute. The truth, the vital truth, is obscured; the right is hidden in a petty storm where local tyrants fill the air with dust, striving each to blind the other.”
I leaned forward earnestly. “There must be right and wrong in this dispute; Truth stands naked somewhere in the world. It is for us to find her. Why, mark me, Sir Lupus, men cannot sit and blink at villany, nor look with indifference on a struggle to the death. One side is right, t’other wrong. And we must learn how matters stand.”
“And what will it advance us to learn how matters stand?” he said, still staring, as though I were some persistent fool vexing him with unleavened babble. “Suppose these rebels are right — and, dammy, but I think they are — and suppose our King’s troops are roundly trouncing them — and I think they are, too — do you mean to say you’d draw sword and go a-prowling, seeking for some obliging enemy to knock you in the head or hang you for a rebel to your neighbor’s apple-tree?”
