SIMON.
There seemed to be much tumult in the block when I awoke. Captain
Carteret was writing at a small table, as I sat up, rubbing my eyes.
“Well, have you slept enough?” he asked.
“I could rest longer,” I said, “but it is not my habit to sleep much
after the sun is first up in the morning.”
“Morning,” he laughed. “Why, man, ’tis long past noon now. I would not
let them disturb you, though many were clamoring for a look at the hero
of the occasion.”
“Enough,” I said. “I had much rather have a breakfast than pose as a
hero, which I am not.”
“Breakfast in the afternoon?”
“Are you jesting?”
“Look at the sun,” was his reply.
I glanced from a window. It was half way down in the west. I had slept
nearly eighteen hours.
“We will soon have supper,” went on the Captain. “Meanwhile I’ll let you
know how matters stand.”
Scouts had been sent out, he said, and, for miles around had found no
trace of Indians, save the dead ones. One wounded savage had been
brought in. With what little English he had, he told how the war party
had fled to the four winds. They had been given a severe lesson, he
said, and one that would put an end to Indian uprisings in New Jersey
for many years.
Men had been set at work burying the bodies. Others were rebuilding the
stockade, and some were detailed to lay to rest our dead.
Many families, who lived near by, had gone back to their homes, to begin
life where they had left off when the Indians came. Wagons laden with
household goods were leaving the fort. Only a few farmhouses had been
burned by the savages.
“I am writing to Governor Phips,” said Carteret, “to tell him you are
here, and send him back the warrant for witchcraft, which is of no use,
since he has pardoned you. That was a marvelous tale you told, of the
days in Salem.”
“Do not recall them,” I begged. “They were days of sorrow and peril.”
“Lieutenant Jenkins is about to sail for Boston in a few days,” went on
the Captain, “and he will take this missive to Sir William Phips. So
that matter is ended.”
“What of Simon?”
“I have not seen him since that time we were all in the room together,”
said Carteret, “but he is doubtless about somewhere. He will probably
want to leave this place now. If you wish I will offer him passage to
Boston with Master Jenkins. He can join his friends there.”
“I think I should like that,” I replied. “For, somehow, I am not at ease
while he is about, particularly as Mistress Lucille is here.”
“Then he goes to Boston, friend Amherst.”
The Captain and I fell to talking of the future. Supper was served ere
we had finished, and we continued over the meal. He asked me if I would
not like to settle in Elizabeth.
“Or there is a little town, called Newark, on the Passaic River,” he
added, “not far from here. That is a pleasant place, I am told. The
Indians, I hear, are most kind and trustworthy, as they were here before
this uprising, trading with the settlers in land and furs, greatly to
the advantage of the town folk. You might like it there.”
“I will make no plans until I have talked with Mistress Lucille,” I
replied.
“That reminds me,” exclaimed Carteret. “She sent in three times, while
you were asleep, to have me let her know the instant you were awake. I
forgot all about it.”
I did not stay to eat more, when I heard that. I found Lucille sitting
alone in the doorway of the women’s room, looking at the men repairing
the stockade.
“It seemed as if you were never coming,” she said, when I had greeted
her. “Captain Carteret would not let me see you. But never mind, you are
with me now,” and she blushed at her boldness.
“I wanted to talk to you, Edward, and see if you had made any plans for
the future,” went on Lucille, after a pause. “Have you thought that our
coming here was an accident, and that I can scarce go traveling about
with you as if--as if----”
Her face crimsoned again.
“Aye, we are like strangers in a strange land,” I said bitterly, for now
that the strain of battle was over, I saw the plight in which we were;
myself penniless.
“I have the clothes I stand in,” I added.
“Nothing more?” asked Lucille, softly.
“My sword,” I answered, not looking up, for my mind was busy.
“No more?”
“My horse.”
“No more?”
Her voice went so strange that I looked at her. Her eyes were dim with
tears.
“Forgive, me, sweetheart,” I cried, clasping her close to me. “I have
you, and, with you, more than all the world.”
“You were near to forgetting your great wealth,” she said, mockingly,
while she struggled to free herself. “Perchance ’tis of little value,
after all.”
“Nay, sweet,” I replied. “’Tis so great that I wonder at myself for
possessing it.”
“Yet you thought of your sword first.”
“Forgive me.”
“And then your horse.”
“Will you not forgive?”
“And of me last,” she persisted, trying to escape from my arms.
“It was because with them I won you,” I whispered.
“I shall be jealous of your sword.”
“No more,” I cried, drawing it from the scabbard. “’Tis a pretty piece
of steel, but, if it should come between us, see----”
I raised it high in the air, my hands on either end.
“I’ll snap it in twain.”
I brought the weapon half way down, as though I would break it across my
knee.
“Nay! Nay! Edward!” she exclaimed, catching my arm. “I did but jest. Put
it up. There is need of a sword in this land.”
I sheathed my blade, sitting down beside Lucille.
“Seriously, now, what is to become of me?” she asked.
“Why,” I answered, as gaily as I could, “since you are mine, you must
follow my poor fortunes, it would seem; that is, if you are willing to
follow one who has but----”
“But his sword,” she broke in, smiling at me.
“Nay, I had not finished. But his love, his sword, his horse, and the
clothes on his back.”
“Except for my love, I am even poorer than that,” confessed Lucille,
“unless I could go back to Salem, and that I will not. There was some
little money that my father left, but it was nearly spent. I have no
sword, no horse, and only this poor sea-stained dress.”
“Yet in it I would rather have you than the most richly robed lady in
all the world,” I cried.
“Come,” I went on, “we are betrothed,” and I took her by the hand. “Let
us go to the good dominie here, ask him to join us in wedlock, then we
may seek our fortune as man and wife.”
“What? Wed in this frock?” Lucille looked at it as if it was all rags,
but indeed it was a pretty dress.
“What matters the gown?” I asked.
“Why, I would be the laughing stock of the Colony if I plighted my troth
in this,” responded Lucille. “We must wait until I can get some new
garments.”
“From where?”
Then we both laughed, for, between us we had not so much as a shilling,
I having spent my last on my journey. The laugh did us good, and we felt
brighter after it.
While we were talking Captain Carteret passed. He was not going to stop,
but I called to him.
“What now?” he asked.
“We were talking of the future, Lucille and I. We are betrothed, as you
know, Carteret, and I have just urged her to come with me to the
dominie’s.”
“Surely,” he exclaimed. “That would be fine. We could trim up the block
house, and have a regular wedding feast. Mistress Carteret would be glad
to help, for there has been very little merrymaking, of late, and a
wedding would be the very thing to take the gloom away. When can it be?
Next week, or the week after.”
“Next week!” cried Lucille, with such an accent of horror in her voice
that Carteret and I had to laugh.
“Why, you see, Captain,” I went on, never heeding Lucille’s sly punches
in my ribs, “she says she has no clothes; a woman’s ever ready excuse.
Her gowns were left behind in Salem town. She will not be wed in the
garments which were drenched by the sea. So, I fear, we must wait until
I can raise a few pounds, and then----”
But Lucille, with a reproachful glance at me, ran away, leaving the
Captain and I alone.
“I marvel at you,” said Carteret.
“Why?”
“Talking of raising a few pounds. There is not a man in the Colony,
myself included, who would not be glad to give you----”
I stopped him with a look.
“Tut, tut, man, do not go off half-cocked, I was not going to offer you
charity. But if I can put you in the way to get a position that
pays----”
“My everlasting thanks are yours,” I interrupted.
“I am about to resign the command of the forces here,” Carteret went on,
“for my brother, the Governor, has some plans afoot, and needs my aid
elsewhere. I have talked with the men, and they all agree that, after I
left, they would have no other captain than yourself. The pay is not
large, for the Colony is young yet, but you and Mistress Lucille could
live in such comfort as there is here, on it. What say you? Will you
take it?”
I could not answer at first. It seemed almost too good to be true. After
all our troubles to find a haven at last, and one that promised so much.
“Carteret,” I began, brokenly, “I cannot thank you enough. I----” but
there was something in my voice that would not let me go on.
“Then do not try,” he said, cheerfully. “I know how you feel. I will
carry your answer to the men. They are waiting for it. The sooner I turn
the command of the Colony over to you, the quicker I can get away. Is it
yes or no?”
“Yes, with all my heart,” I said, giving him my hand, and there was a
lump as big as an egg in my throat.
Carteret turned away, while I hastened to find Lucille and tell her the
good news. She could have her wedding gown now, I told myself.
She was not in the room with the other women. It was getting dusk, and I
hastened through many apartments in search of her. Once or twice I
called her name, but there was no answer. I went out of the block. Near
the door I confronted Simon. His face was so pale that I was startled.
“What is the matter, man? Are you ill?” I asked.
“No,” he answered, huskily. “I am not sick. I was thinking of Sir
George. I am without a master now.”
“I hear you are to leave us, Simon,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied, “Captain Carteret has been kind enough to get me
passage to Boston. Thence I can sail for England, to Sir George’s
kinfolk.”
“Well, a pleasant voyage,” I called, as I was about to pass on.
“Wait,” he said, thickly.
I turned around.
“Captain Amherst,” he began, “you have much reason to hate me.”
“Oh, that is past and gone,” I responded, as heartily as I could, for I
did not like the man, and indeed, though he only acted for another, he
was a bitter foe.
“Perhaps I should not have done what I did,” he went on, “but Sir George
swore me to an oath.”
“’Tis past,” I said. “You only served your master.”
“Then you forgive me?”
“Aye, surely,” I murmured, impatient to be away and find Lucille.
Simon came toward me, holding out his hand. I marked that it was his
left, but I was too hurried to give it a thought, so I clasped it
firmly.
His fingers closed over mine with the grip of a vise. He pulled me near
him. His right hand shot out from his jacket, beneath which it was
hidden. In it I caught the glitter of a knife. I saw him raise it above
my head.
There was no time for me to draw my sword. I threw up my left arm to
protect my head. Simon’s hand came down.
There was a pain in my arm, as if a hot iron had seared me. Then I felt
it, ten times as hot, in my side. My ears rang with the roar of waters;
my eyes saw only blackness.
I felt a warm gush of blood; I heard a confused murmur, a woman’s shrill
scream--Lucille’s voice. Then Simon leaned over me, as I was
falling--falling--falling--down into some bottomless pit.
“Traitor and murderer!” he cried. “I have kept my oath!”
It was night.