Complete weird tales of.., p.281
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 281
“Carus! Carus!” he said softly, “have they not told you?”
“Told me?” I stared. “What? What — in the name of God?”
“She was taken when we struck their rear-guard at one o’clock this afternoon! Was there no one to tell you, lad!”
“Unharmed?” I asked, steadying myself against his stirrup.
“Faint with fatigue, brier-torn, in rags — his vengeance, but — nothing worse. That quarter-breed Montour attended her, supported her, struggled on with her through all the horrors of this retreat. He had herded the Valley prisoners together, guarded by Cayugas. The executioner lies dead a mile below, his black face in the water. And here he lies!”
He swung his horse, head sternly averted. I flung myself into my saddle.
“This way, lad. She lies in a camp-wagon at headquarters, asleep, I think. Mount and your Oneida guard her. And the girl, Montour, lies stretched beside her, watching her as a dog watches a cradled child.”
The hunting-horns of the light infantry were sounding the recall as we rode through the low brush of Jerseyfield, where the sunset sky was aflame, painting the tall pines, staining the melting snow to palest crimson.
From black, wet branches overhead the clotted flakes fell, showering us as we came to the hemlock shelter where the camp-wagon stood. A fire burned there; before it crowded a shadowy group of riflemen; and one among them moved forward to meet me, touching his fur cap and pointing.
As I reached the rough shelter of fringing evergreen Mount and Little Otter stepped out; and I saw the giant forest-runner wink the tears away as he laid his huge finger across his lips.
“She sleeps as sweetly as a child,” he whispered. “I told her you were coming. Oh, sir, it will tear your heart out to see her small white feet so bruised, and the soft, baby hands of her raw at the wrists, where they tied her at night.... Is he surely dead, sir, as they say?”
“I saw him die, thank God!”
“That is safer for him, I think,” said Mount simply. “Will you come this way, sir? Otter, fetch a splinter o’ fat pine for a light. Mind the wheel there, Mr. Renault — this way on tiptoe!”
He took the splinter-light from the Oneida, fixed it in a split stick, backed out, and turned away, followed by the Indian.
At first I could not see, and set the burning stick nearer. Then, as I bent over the rough wagon, I saw her lying there very white and still, her torn hands swathed with lint, her bandaged feet wrapped in furs. And beside her, stretched full length, lay Lyn Montour, awake, dark eyes fixed on mine.
She smiled as she caught my eye; then something in my face sobered her. “He is dead?” she motioned with her lips. And my lips moved assent.
Gravely, scarcely stirring, she reached up and unbound her hair, letting it down over her face. I understood, and, stepping to the fire, returned with a charred ember. She held out first one hand, then the other, and I marked the palms with the ashes, touched her forehead, her breast, her feet. Thus, in the solemn presence of death itself, she claimed at the tribunal of the Most High the justice denied on earth, signing herself a widow with the ashes none but a wedded wife may dare to wear.
Lower and lower burned the tiny torch, sank to a spark, and went out. The black curtains of obscurity closed in; redder and redder spread the glare from the camp-fire; crackling and roaring, the flames rose, tufted with smoke, through which a million sparks whirled upward, showering the void above. Dark shapes moved in the glow with a sparkle of spur and sword as they turned; the infernal light fell on the naked bodies of Oneidas, sitting like demons, eyes blinking at the flames. And through the roar of the fire I heard their chanting undertone, monotonous, interminable, saluting their dead:
“Cover the White Throat at Carenay,
Lest evil fall at Danascara,
Lay the phantom away,
Men of Thendara,
Trails of Kayaderos
And Adriutha
Cover our loss!
Tree of Oswaya,
From Garoga
To Caroga
Cover the White Throat
For the sake of the Silver Boat afloat
In the Water of Light, O Tharon!
This for the pledge of Aroronon
Lest the Long House end
And the Tree bend
And our dead ascend in every trail
And the Great League fail.
Now by the brotherhood ye’ve sworn
Let the Oneida mourn.”
And I heard from the forest the deadened blows of mattock and spade, and saw the glimmer of burial torches; and, through the steady chanting of the Oneida, the solemn voice of the chaplain in prayer for dead and living:
“Let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us. And establish Thou the work of our hands upon us — yea, the work of our hands, establish Thou it!”
* * *
It lacked an hour to dawn when the harsh, stringy drums rolled from the forest and the smoky camp awoke; and I, keeping my vigil, there in the shadow where she lay, listening and bending above her, was aware of a bandaged hand touching me — a feverish arm about my neck, drawing my head lower, closer, till, in the darkness, my face lay on hers, and our tremulous lips united.
“Is all well, my beloved?”
“All is well.”
“And we part no more?”
“No more.”
Silence, then: “Why do they cheer so, Carus?”
“It is a lost soul they are speeding, child.”
“His?”
“Yes.”
She breathed feverishly, her little bandaged hands holding my face. “Lift me a little, Carus; I can not move my legs. Did you know he abandoned me to the Cayugas because I dared to ask his mercy for the innocent? I think his reason was unseated when I came upon him there at Johnson Hall — so much of blood and death lay on his soul. His own men feared him; and, Carus, truly I do not think he knew me else he had never struck me in that burst of rage, so that even the Cayugas interposed — for his knife was in his hands.” She sighed, nestling close to me in the rustling straw, and closed her eyes as the torches flared and the horses were backed along the pole.
In the ruddy light I saw Jack Mount approaching. He halted, touched his cap, and smiled; then his blue eyes wandered to the straw where Lyn Montour lay, sleeping the stunned sleep of exhaustion; and into his face a tenderness came, softening his bold mouth and reckless visage.
“The Weasel drives, sir. Tim and Dave and I, we jog along to ease the wheels — if it be your pleasure, sir. We go by the soft trail. A week should see you and yours in Albany. The Massachusetts surgeon is here to dress your sweet lady’s hurts. Will you speak with him, Mr. Renault?”
I bent and kissed the bandaged hands, the hot forehead under the tangled hair, then whispering that all was well I went out into the gray dawn where the surgeon stood unrolling lint.
“Those devils tied their prisoners mercilessly at night,” he said, “and the scars may show, Mr. Renault. But her flesh is wholesome, and the torn feet will heal — are healing now. Your lady will be lame.”
“For life?”
“Oh — perhaps the slightest limp — scarce to be noticed. And then again, she is so sound, and her blood so pure — who knows? Even such tender little feet as hers may bear her faultlessly once more. Patience, Mr. Renault.”
He parted the hanging blankets and went in, emerging after a little while to beckon me.
“I have changed the dressing; the wounds are benign and healthy. She has some fever. The shock is what I fear. Go to her; you may do more than I could.”
As the sun rose we started, the Weasel driving, I crouching at her side, her torn hands in mine; and beside us, Lyn Montour, watching Jack Mount as he strode along beside the wagon, a new angle to his cap, a new swagger in his step, and deep in his frank blue eyes a strange smile that touched the clean, curling corners of his lips.
“Look!” breathed Murphy, gliding along on the other side, “’tis the gay day f’r Jack Mount whin Lyn Montour’s black eyes are on him — the backwoods dandy!”
I looked down at Elsin. The fever flushed her cheeks. Into her face there crept a beauty almost unearthly.
“My darling, my darling!” I whispered fearfully, leaning close to her. Her eyes met mine, smiling, but in their altered brilliancy I saw she no longer knew me.
“Walter,” she said, laughing, “your melancholy suits me — yet love is another thing. Go ask of Carus what it is to love! He has my soul bound hand and foot and locked in the wall there, where he keeps the letters he writes. If they find those letters some man will hang. I think it will be you, Walter, or perhaps Sir Peter. I’m love-sick — sick o’ love — for Carus mocks me! Is it easy to die, Walter? Tell me, for you are dead. If only Carus loved me! He kissed me so easily that night — I tempting him. So now that I am damned — what matter how he uses me? Yet he never struck me, Walter, as you strike!”
Hour after hour, terrified, I listened to her babble, and that gay little laugh, so like her own, that broke out as her fever grew, waxing to its height.
It waned at midday, but by sundown she grew restless, and the surgeon, Weldon, riding forward from the rear, took my place beside her, and I mounted my horse which Elerson led, and rode ahead, a deadly fear in my heart, and Black Care astride the crupper, a grisly shadow in the wilderness, dogging me remorselessly under pallid stars.
And now hours, days, nights, sun, stars, moon, were all one to me — things that I heeded not; nor did I feel aught of heat or cold, sun or storm, nor know whether or not I slept or waked, so terrible grew the fear upon me. Men came and went. I heard some say she was dying, some that she would live if we could get her from the wilderness she raved about; for her cry was ever to be freed of the darkness and the silence, and that they were doing me to death in New York town, whither she must go, for she alone could save me.
Tears seemed ever in my eyes, and I saw nothing clearly, only the black and endless forests swimming in mists; the silent riflemen trudging on, the little withered driver, in his ring-furred cap and caped shirt, too big for him; the stolid horses plodding on and on. Medical officers came from Willett — Weldon and Jermyn — and the surgeon’s mate, McLane; and they talked among themselves, glancing at her curiously, so that I grew to hate them and their whispers. A fierce desire assailed me to put an end to all this torture — to seize her, cradle her to my breast, and gallop day and night to the open air — as though that, and the fierce strength of my passion must hold back death!
Then, one day — God knows when — the sky widened behind the trees, and I saw the blue flank of a hill unchoked by timber. Trees grew thinner as we rode. A brush-field girdled by a fence was passed, then a meadow, all golden in the sun. Right and left the forest sheered off and fell away; field on field, hill on hill, the blessed open stretched to a brimming river, silver and turquoise in the sunshine, and, beyond it, crowning three hills, the haven! — the old Dutch city, high-roofed, red-tiled, glimmering like a jewel in the November haze — Albany!
And now, as we breasted the ascent, far away we heard drums beating. A white cloud shot from the fort, another, another, and after a long while the dull booming of the guns came floating to us, mixed with the noise of bells.
Elsin heard and sat up. I bent from my saddle, passing my arm around her.
“Carus!” she cried, “where have you been through all this dreadful night?”
“Sweetheart, do you know me?”
“Yes. How soft the sunlight falls! There is a city yonder. I hear bells.” She sank down, her eyes on mine.
“The bells of old Albany, dear. Elsin, Elsin, do you truly know me?”
She smiled, the ghost of the old gay smile, and her listless arms moved.
Weldon, riding on the other side, nodded to me in quiet content:
“Now all she lacked she may have, Renault,” he said, smiling. “All will be well, thank God! Let her sleep!”
She heard him, watching me as I rode beside her.
“It was only you I lacked, Carus,” she murmured dreamily; and, smiling, fell into a deep, sweet sleep.
Then, as we rode into the first outlying farms, men and women came to their gates, calling out to us in their Low Dutch jargon, and at first I scarce heeded them as I rode, so stunned with joy was I to see her sleeping there in the sunlight, and her white, cool skin and her mouth soft and moist.
Gun on gun shook the air with swift concussion. The pleasant Dutch bells swung aloft in mellow harmony. Suddenly, far behind where our infantry moved in column, I heard cheer on cheer burst forth, and the horns and fifes in joyous fanfare, echoed by the solid outbreak of the drums.
“What are they cheering for, mother?” I asked an old Dutch dame who waved her kerchief at us.
“For Willett and for George the Virginian, sir,” she said, dimpling and dropping me a courtesy.
“George the Virginian?” I asked, wondering. “Do you mean his Excellency?”
And still she dimpled and nodded and bobbed her white starched cap, and I made nothing of what she said until I heard men shouting, “Yorktown!” and “The war ends! Hurrah!”
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted a mounted officer, spurring past us up the hill; “Butler’s dead, and Cornwallis is taken!”
“Taken?” I repeated incredulously.
The booming guns were my answer. High against the blue a jeweled ensign fluttered, silver, azure and blood red, its staff and halyards wrapped in writhing jets of snow-white smoke flying upward from the guns.
I rode toward it, cap in hand, head raised, awed in the presence of God’s own victory! The shouting streets echoed and reechoed as we passed between packed ranks of townspeople; cheers, the pealing music of the bells, the thunderous shock of the guns grew to a swimming, dreamy sound, through which the flag fluttered on high, crowned with the golden nimbus of the sun!
“Carus!”
“Ah, sweetheart, did they wake you? Sleep on; the war is over!” I whispered, bending low above her. “Now indeed is all well with the world, and fit once more for you to live in.”
And, as we moved forward, I saw her blue eyes lifted dreamily, watching the flag which she had served so well.
CHAPTER XVI
THE END
THAT BRIEF AND lovely season which in our Northland for a score of days checks the white onset of the snow, and which we call the Indian summer, bloomed in November when the last red leaf had fluttered to the earth. A fairy summer, for the vast arches of the skies burned sapphire and amethyst, and hill and woodland, innocent of verdure, were clothed in tints of faintest rose and cloudy violet; and all the world put on a magic livery, nor was there leaf nor stem nor swale nor tuft of moss too poor to wear some royal hint of gold, deep-veined or crusted lavishly, where the crested oaks spread, burnished by the sun.
Snowbird and goldfinch were with us — the latter veiling his splendid tints in modest russet; and now, from the north, came to us silent flocks of birds, all gray and rose, outriders of winter’s crystal cortège, still halting somewhere far in the silvery north, where the white owls sit in the firs, and the world lies robed in ermine.
All through that mellow Indian summer my betrothed grew strong, and her hurts had nearly healed. And I, writing my letters by the open window in the drawing-room, had been promised that she might make her first essay to leave her chamber that day — sit in the outer sunshine perhaps, perhaps stand upright and take a step or two. And, at this first tryst in the sunshine, she was to set our wedding day.
From my open window I could see the city on its three hills against the azure magnificence of the sky, and the calm, wide river, still as a golden pond, and the white sails of sloops, becalmed on glassy surfaces reflecting the blue woods.
A little stream ran foaming down to the river, passing the house through a lawn all starred with late-grown dandelions; and even yet the trout were running up to the still sands of their breeding-nooks above — great brilliant fish, spotted with flecks that glowed like living sparks; and now I looked to see if I might spy them pass, shooting the falls, gay in their bridal-dress of iridescent gems, wishing them good speed to their shadowy woodland tryst.
Too deeply happy, too content to more than trifle with the letters I must pen, I idled there, head on hand, listening for her I loved, watching the fair world in the sunshine there. Sometimes, smiling, I unfolded for the hundredth time and read again the generous letter from Sir Peter and Lady Coleville — so kindly, so cordial, so honorable, all patched with shreds of gossip of friend and foe, and how New York lay stunned at the news of Yorktown. Never a word of the part that I had played so long beneath their roof — only one grave, unselfish line, saying that they had heard me praised for my bearing at Johnstown battle, and that they had always known that I could conduct in no wise unworthy of a soldier.
Too, they promised, if a flag was to be had, to come to Albany for our wedding, saying we were wild and wilful, and needed chiding, promising to read us lessons merited.
And there was a ponderous letter from Sir Frederick Haldimand in answer to one I wrote telling him all — a strange mélange of rage at Butler’s perfidy and insolence, and utter disgust with me; though he said, frankly enough, that he would rather see his kinswoman wedded to twenty rebels than to one Butler. With which he slammed his pen to an ungracious finish, ending with a complaint to heaven that the world had used him so shabbily at such a time as this.
Which sobered Elsin when I read it, she being the tenderest of heart; but I made her laugh ere the quick tears dried in her eyes, and she had written him the loveliest of letters in reply, which was already on its journey northward.
Writing to my father and mother of the happy news, I had not as yet received their approbation, yet knew it would come, though Elsin was a little anxious when I spoke so confidently.
Yet one more happiness was in store for me ere the greatest happiness of all arrived; for that morning, from Virginia, a little packet came to Elsin; and opening it together, we found a miniature of his Excellency, set in a golden oval, on which we read, inscribed: “With great esteem,” and signed, “Geo. Washington.”
