Complete weird tales of.., p.745
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 745
After a moment, looking away from me across the meadow:
“Ask,” she said.
“Then the first is — will you take my hand in adieu — and let us part as good soldiers part?”
Still gazing absently across the meadow, she extended her hand. I retained it for a moment, then released it. Her arm fell inert by her side, but mine tingled to the shoulder.
“And one more thing,” I said, while this strange and curious reluctance to let her go was now steadily invading me.
“Yes?”
“Will you wear a comrade’s token — in memory of an hour or two with him?”
“What!”
She spoke with a quick intake of breath and her grey eyes were on me now, piercing me to the roots of speech and motive.
I wore a heavy ring beaten out of gold; Guy Johnson gave it. This I took from my trembling finger, scarce knowing why I was doing it at all, and stooping and lifting her little, wind-roughened hand, put it on the first finger I encountered — blindly, now, and clumsily past all belief, my hand was shaking so absurdly.
If my face were now as red as it was hot, hers, on the contrary, had become very strange and still and white. For a moment I seemed to read distrust, scorn, even hatred, in her level stare, and something of fear, too, in every quickening breath that moved the scarlet mantle on her breast. Then, in a flash, she had turned her back on me and was standing there in the grey dawn, with both hands over her face, straight and still as a young pine. But my ring was shining on her finger.
Emotion of a nature to which I was an utter stranger was meddling with my breath and pulses, now checking, now speeding both so that I stood with mind disconcerted in a silly sort of daze.
At length I gathered sufficient composure to step to her side again.
“Once more, little comrade, good-bye,” I said. “This ends it all.”
Again she turned her shoulder to me, but I heard her low reply:
“Good-bye — Mr. Loskiel.”
And so it ended.
A moment later I found myself walking aimlessly across the grass in no particular direction. Three times I turned in my tracks to watch her. Then she disappeared beyond the brookside willows.
I remember now that I had turned and was walking slowly back to where our horses stood, moving listlessly through the freshly mowed meadow between drenched haystacks — the first I had seen that year — and God alone knows where were my thoughts a-gypsying, when, very far away, I heard a gun-shot.
At first I could perceive nothing, then on the distant Bedford road I saw one of our dragoons running his horse and bending low in his saddle.
Another dragoon appeared, riding a diable — and a dozen more behind these; and on their heels a-galloping, a great body of red-jacketed horsemen — hundreds of them — the foremost shooting from their saddles, the great mass of them swinging their heavy cutlasses and spurring furiously after our flying men.
I had seen far more than was necessary, and I ran for my horse. Other officers came running, too — Sheldon, Thomas, Lockwood, and my Lieutenant Boyd.
As we clutched bridle and stirrup and popped upward into out saddles, it seemed that the red-coats must cut us off, but we spurred out of the meadow into the Meeting House road, and Boyd cried furiously in my ear:
“See what this damned Sheldon has done for us now! God! What disgrace is ours!”
I saw Colonel Sheldon presently, pale as death, and heard him exclaim:
“Oh, Christ! I shall be broke for this! I shall be broke!”
I made out to say to Boyd:
“The enemy are coming in hundreds, sir, and we have scarce four score men mounted by the Meeting House.”
“They’ll never stand, either,” he panted. “But if they do we’ll see this matter to an end.”
“Our orders?” I asked.
“Damn our orders,” said he. “We’ll see this matter to an end.”
We rode hard, but already some of Tallmadge’s terror-stricken patrol were overhauling us, and the clangor of the British cavalry broke louder and louder on our ears as we came in sight of the Meeting House. Sheldon’s four score troopers heard the uproar of the coming storm, wavered, broke, and whirled their horses about into a most disorderly flight along the Stamford road. Everybody ran — there was no other choice for officers and men — and close on our heels came pelting the 17th British Dragoons, the Hussars, and Mounted Yagers of the Legion; and behind these galloped their mounted infantry.
A mad anxiety to get away from this terrible and overwhelming force thundering on our heels under full charge possessed us all, I think, and this paramount necessity held shame and fury in abeyance. There was nothing on earth for us to do but to ride and try to keep our horses from falling headlong on the rocky, slippery road; for it was now a very hell of trampling horsemen, riding frantically knee against knee, buffeted, driven, crowded, crushed, slipping; and trooper after trooper went down with a crash under the terrible hoofs, horse and rider battered instantly into eternity.
For full three-quarters of a mile they ran us full speed, and we drove on headlong; then at the junction of the New Canaan road our horsemen separated, and I found myself riding in the rear beside Boyd and Jack Mount once more. Turning to look back, I perceived the Legion Cavalry were slowing to a trot to rest their hard-blown horses; and gradually our men did the same. But the Hussars continued to come on, and we continued our retreat, matching our speed to theirs.
They let drive at us once with their heavy pistols, and we in the rear returned their fire, emptying one saddle and knocking two horses into the roadside bushes.
Then they ran us hard again, and strove to flank us, but the rocky country was too stiff for their riders, and they could not make out to cut us off or attain our flanks.
“What a disgrace! What a disgrace!” was all Boyd found to say; and I knew he meant the shameful surprise, not the retreat of our eighty light horsemen before the thundering charge of their heavy hundreds.
Our troopers did not seem really frightened; they now jogged along doggedly, but coolly enough. We had with us on the New Canaan road some twenty light dragoons, not including Boyd, myself, and Jack Mount — one captain, one cornet and a trumpeter lad, the remainder being rank and file, and several mounted militiamen.
The captain, riding in the rear with us, was ever twisting his hatless head to scowl back at the Hussars; and he talked continually in a loud, confident voice to reassure his men.
“They’re dropping off by tens and twenties,” he said. “If they keep to that habit we’ll give ’em a charge. Wait till the odds lessen. Steady there, boys! This cattle chase is not ended. We’ll fetch ’em a crack yet. We’ll get a chance at their mounted infantry yet. All in God’s time, boys. Never doubt it.”
The bugle-horns of the Legion were now sounding their derisive, fox-hunting calls, and behind us we could hear the far laughter and shouting: “Yoicks! Forrard! Stole away — stole away!”
My cheeks began to burn; Boyd gnawed his lips continually, and I saw our dragoons turning angrily in their saddles as they understood the insult of the British trumpets.
Half a mile farther on there ran a sandy, narrow cross road into the woods on either side of us.
The captain drew bridle, stood up in his stirrups, and looked back. For some time, now, the taunting trumpets had not jeered us, and the pursuit seemed to have slackened after nearly three hard miles of running. But they still followed us, though it was some minutes before their red jackets came bobbing up again over the sandy crest of the hill behind us.
All our men who had been looking back were now wheeled; and we divided, half backing into the sandy road to the right, half taking the left-hand road under command of Lieutenant Boyd.
“They are not too many,” said the dragoon captain coolly, beckoning to his little bugle-horn.
Willows hid us until their advanced troopers were close to where we sat — so close that one of our excited dragoons, spurring suddenly forward into the main road, beat down a Hussar’s guard, flung his arms around him, and tore him from his saddle. Both fell from their horses and began to fight fisticuffs in the sandy ditch.
We charged instantly, and the enemy ran for it, our troopers raising the view halloo in their turn and whipping out their sabres. And all the way back to the Stamford road we ran them, and so excited became our dragoons that we could scarce hold them when we came in sight once more of the British main body now reforming under the rolling smoke of Poundridge village, which they had set on fire.
But further advance was madness, even when the remainder of our light troop came cantering down the Stamford road to rejoin us and watch the burning town, for we could now muster but two score and ten riders, having lost nearly thirty dead or missing.
A dozen of Captain Fancher’s militia came up, sober farmers of the village that lay below us buried in smoke; and our dragoons listened to the tales of these men, some of whom had been in the village when the onset came, and had remained there, skulking about to pick off the enemy until their main farces returned.
“Tarleton was in a great rage, I warrant you,” said one big, raw-boned militiaman. “He rode up to Major Lockwood’s house with his dragoons, and says he: ‘Burn me this arch rebel’s nest!’ And the next minute the Yagers were running in and out, setting fire to the curtains and lighting bundles of hay in every room. And I saw the Major’s lady stand there on her doorstep and demand the reason for such barbarity — the house already afire behind her. Mrs. Hunt and the servants came out with the children in their arms. And, ‘By God, madam,’ says Tarleton, ‘when shots are fired at my men from houses by the inhabitants of any town in America, I’ll burn the town and hang the men if I can get ‘em.’ Some Hussars came up, driving before them the Major’s fine herd of imported cattle — and a troop of his brood mares — the same he has so often had to hide in the Rock Hills. ‘Stand clear, madam!’ bawls Tarleton. ‘I’ll suffer nothing to be removed from that house!’ At this the Major’s lady gives one long look after her children, which Betsy Hunt and the blacks are carrying through the orchard; then she calmly enters the burning house and comes out again with a big silver platter and a load of linen from the dining-room in her arms. And at that a trooper draws his sabre and strikes her with the flat o’ the blade — God, what a blow! — so that the lady falls to her knees and the heavy silver platter rolls out on the grass and the fine linen is in the mud. I saw her blacks lift her and get her off through the orchard. I sneaked out of the brook willows, took a long shot at the beast who struck her, and then pulled foot.”
There was a shacked silence among the officers who had gathered to listen. Until this moment our white enemies had offered no violence to ladies. So this brutality toward the Major’s lady astounded us.
Somebody said in a low voice:
“They’ve fired the church, now.”
Major Lockwood’s house was also burning furiously, as also were his barns and stables, his sheds, and the new, unfinished barracks. We could see it all very plainly from the hilltop where we had gathered.
“Alsop Hunt was taken,” said a militiaman. “They robbed him of his watch and purse, damning him for a rebel broad-brim. He’s off to the Provost, I fear.”
“They took Mr. Reed, too,” said another. “They had a dozen neighbours under guard when I left.”
Sheldon, looking like death, sat his saddle a little apart. No one spoke to him. For even a deeper disgrace had now befallen the dragoons in the loss of their standard left behind in Lockwood’s house.
“What a pitiful mess!” whispered Boyd. “Is there nothing to be done but sit here and see the red beasts yonder sack the town?”
Before I could answer, I caught the sound of distant firing on the Lewisboro road. Colonel Thomas reared stiffly in his saddle, and:
“Those are my own men!” he said loudly, “or I lie like a Tory!”
A hill half a mile north of us suddenly became dark with men; we saw the glitter of their muskets, saw the long belt of white smoke encircle them, saw red-jacketed men run out of a farmhouse, mount, and gallop toward the burning town.
Along the road below us a column of Continental infantry appeared on the run, cheering us with their hats.
A roar from our dragoons answered them; our bugle-horn spoke, and I saw Major Tallmadge, with a trumpeter at his back, rein in while the troopers were reforming and calling off amid a whirlwind of rearing horses and excited men.
Below in the village, the British had heard and perfectly understood the volley from Thomas’s regiment, and the cavalry and mounted infantry of the Legion were assembling in the smoke, and already beginning a rapid retreat by the Bedford road.
As Boyd and I went clattering down the hill, we saw Major Lockwood with Thomas’s men, and we rode up to him. He passed his sword to the left hand, and leaning across in his saddle, exchanged a grip with us. His face was ghastly.
“I know — I know,” he said hurriedly. “I have seen my wife and children. My wife is not badly injured. All are in safety. Thank you, gentlemen.”
We wheeled our horses and fell in beside our infantry, now pressing forward on a heavy run, so that Colonel Thomas and Major Lockwood had to canter their horses.
Firing instantly broke out as we entered the smoky zone where the houses were burning. Into it, an our left, galloped Sheldon’s light dragoons, who, having but five muskets in the command, went at the Yagers with naked sabres; and suddenly found themselves in touch with the entire Legion cavalry, who set up a Loud bawling:
“Surrender, you damned rebels! Pull up, there! Halt!”
I saw a trooper, one Jared Hoyt, split the skull of a pursuing British dragoon straight across the mouth with a back-handed stroke, as he escaped from the melee; and another, one John Buckhout, duck his head as a dragoon fired at him, and, still ducking and loudly cursing the fellow, rejoin us as we sheered off from the masses of red-jacketed riders, wheeled, and went at the mounted Yagers, who did not stand our charge.
There was much smoke, and the thick, suffocating gloom was lighted only by streaming sparks, so that in the confusion and explosion of muskets it was difficult to manoeuvre successfully and at the same time keep clear of Tarleton’s overwhelming main body.
This body was now in full but orderly retreat, driving with it cattle, horses, and some two dozen prisoners, mostly peaceable inhabitants who had taken no part in the affair. Also, they had a wagon piled with the helmets, weapons, and accoutrements of Sheldon’s dead riders; and one of their Hussars bore Sheldon’s captured standard in his stirrup.
To charge this mass of men was not possible with the two score horsemen left us; and they retreated faster than our militia and Continentals could travel. So all we could do was to hang on their rear and let drive at them from our saddles.
As far as we rode with them, we saw a dozen of their riders fall either dead or wounded from their horses, and saw their comrades lift them into one of the wagons. Also we saw our dragoons and militia take three prisoners and three horses before we finally turned bridle after our last long shot at their rear guard.
For our business here lay not in this affair, and Boyd had disobeyed his orders in not avoiding all fighting. He knew well enough that the bullets from our three rifles were of little consequence to our country compared to the safe accomplishment of our mission hither, and our safe return with the Siwanois. Fortune had connived at our disobedience, for no one of us bore so much as a scratch, though all three of us might very easily have been done to death in the mad flight from the Meeting House, amid that plunging hell of horsemen.
Fortune, too, hung to our stirrup leathers as we trotted into Poundridge, for, among a throng of village folk who stood gazing at the smoking ashes of the Lockwood house, we saw our Siwanois standing, tall, impassive, wrapped in his blanket.
And late that afternoon we rode out of the half-ruined village, northward. Our saddle-bags were full; our animals rested; and, beside us, strode the Sagamore, fully armed and accoutred, lock braided, body oiled and painted for war — truly a terrific shape in the falling dusk.
On the naked breast of this Mohican warrior of the Siwanois clan, which is called by the Delawares “The Clan of the Magic Wolf,” outlined in scarlet, I saw the emblem of his own international clan — as I supposed — a bear.
And of a sudden, within me, vaguely, something stirred — some faint memory, as though I had once before beheld that symbol on a dark and naked breast, outlined in scarlet. Where had I seen it before? At Guy Park? At Johnson Hall? Fort Johnson? Butlersbury? Somewhere I had seen that symbol, and in that same paint. Yes, it might easily have been. Every nation of the Confederacy possessed a clan that wore the bear. And yet — and yet — this bear seemed somehow different — and yet familiar — strangely familiar to me — but in a manner which awoke within me an unrest as subtle as it was curious.
I drew bridle, and as the Sagamore came up, I said uneasily:
“Brother, and ensign of the great bear clan of many nations, why is the symbol that you wear familiar to me — and yet so strangely unfamiliar?”
He shot a glance of lightning intelligence at me, then instantly his features became smoothly composed and blank again.
“Has my brother never before seen the Spirit Bear?” he asked coldly.
“Is that a clan, Mayaro?”
“Among the Siwanois only.” “That is strange,” I muttered. “I have never before seen a Siwanois. Where could I have seen a Siwanois? Where?”
But he only shook his head.
Boyd and Mount had pricked forward; I still lingered by the Mohican. And presently I said:
“That was a brave little maid who bore our message to you.”
He made no answer.
“I have been wondering,” I continued carelessly, “whether she has no friends — so poor she seems — so sad and friendless, Have you any knowledge of her?”
