A PASSAGE AT ARMS
He stood motionless, one hand grasping the limb of a tree, leaning far
out so as to gaze up the river, totally unconscious of my approach.
The fellow was tall, yet heavily built, wearing a great leather helmet
with brass facings, his body encased in a slashed doublet, the strap
fastenings of a steel breastplate showing at waist and shoulders, while
high boots of yellow cordovan leather extended above his knees. I
noticed also the upward curve of a huge gray moustache against the
stern profile of his face, while a long straight sword dangled at his
side. Evidently the stranger was a soldier, and one not to be despised
in feats at arms, although in what service I might merely conjecture,
as his dress was not distinctive. Yet it was small likelihood any
other nation than Spain had armed men in those parts.
That he had discovered and was watching our camp, I entertained no
doubt, yet for the moment the surprise of seeing him was so great I was
unable to choose my safer course,--should I withdraw silently as I
came, or make quick attack? If the first, he would certainly see me
recross the river, and suspect my mission. Nor was the other
alternative more promising. If I sprang upon him (and he looked a
burly antagonist), such combat could not be noiseless, and surely the
fellow was not alone in this wilderness. How close at hand lurked his
companions was beyond guessing, yet, if the sound of struggle aroused
that band of wolves, my life would not be worth the snapping of a
finger. I felt cold chills creep up my spine as I stood hesitating,
one foot uplifted, my eyes staring at that motionless figure.
I waited too long, until every vantage left me. Suddenly the soldier
swung back from his lookout on to firmer ground, wheeled, and faced me.
I marked his start of surprise, noting his right hand drop, with
soldierly instinct, upon the sword hilt, half drawing the blade before
recovering from that first impulse. Then curiosity usurped the place
of fear. He took one step backward, still upon guard, surveying me
carefully with one glinting gray eye, for the other had been closed by
a slashing cut, which left an ugly white scar extending half-way down
his cheek. Except for this deformity, he was a man of fair appearance,
having a stern, clearly chiselled face, with a certain arrogant manner,
telling of long authority in scenes of war. A half smile of contempt
played across his features as he ran me down from head to foot,
evidently with the thought I was little worthy of his steel. It was
then I recognized him. There had been familiarity about his great bulk
from the first, yet now, as I faced him fairly, marking the haughty
sneer curl his lips, I knew him instantly as that officer who passed us
in the boat with the priest.
"By the true cross!" he exclaimed at last, as if his breath had barely
returned, "you gave me a start such as I have not often had in all my
soldiering. Yet you are no ghost; your aspect is altogether too
healthful for one condemned to exist upon air. _Saprista_! you must
have a light foot to steal thus on me unheard. Who are you, fellow?
What do you here upon this soil of Spain?"
I leaned lightly on my rifle, so that I might swing it easily if
occasion warranted, determined now not to fire unless it proved
necessary to save my life, and made careless answer, using the same
tongue in which I had been addressed.
"Nor are you more surprised, Señor, at my presence, than was I a moment
back to stumble upon you when I supposed our party alone here in this
wilderness. Who did you say held dominion over this country?"
"His most gracious Christian Majesty, Charles the Third, of Spain," he
replied shortly. "As his officer, I require that you give proper heed
and direct answer to my questioning. Who are you, and where are you
going?"
The man's domineering manner amused me, yet I replied civilly to his
words.
"A wandering hunter, Señor, from the Illinois country, homeward bound.
I was not aware this territory had fallen into Spanish hands, supposing
it still to be under French control. You are then a soldier of Spain?"
"Ay," he returned ungraciously, eying me in his irritating way, "of the
battalion of Grenada."
He was evidently in doubt whether to believe my word, and I rejoiced to
mark such indecision, accepting it as proof he had not gained a glimpse
of De Noyan, for whom he was in eager search.
"It may be, fellow," he consented to say at last, "you speak truth, and
it may be your tongue is false as hell. These are times of grave
suspicion, yet there are means of discovery open to men of action. I
just noted the position of your camp yonder, and have sufficient men
within easy reach of my voice to make it mine if need arise. So I warn
you to deal fairly, or accept the consequences. The Marquis de Serrato
is not one given to speaking twice in such quest. I have a soft tongue
in ladies' bowers, but my hand is hard enough in camp and field."
He uttered these words in fierce threat, his one evil eye glaring full
at me as though to terrify. Before I could answer, he shot forth a
question, direct as a bullet from a gun.
"I beheld the flap of a dress yonder amid those trees; what means it?
Women are not common in these parts--have you one in your company?"
"We have, my lord," I replied, holding myself to calmness, striving to
speak with apparent respect for his rank. "We are four, altogether;
one has his wife along to cook for us."
"You are voyaging from New Orleans?"
"Nay; from the savannahs of Red River, where we enjoyed a good season
of sport."
"You are French?"
"A natural guess, yet a wrong one, Señor. I am of English blood."
"_Saprista_! 't is a beast of a nation! I like not that such as you
should be here. I will call some of my men and visit your camp." He
spoke sternly, taking a step backward as if about to seek his
companions. "The tale you tell may be true enough, yet these are
troublous days along the river, and my orders are strict against
permitting any to pass unsearched."
My hands clinched hard around the gun-barrel for a swing, while I
braced my body for a leap forward, yet held back from such desperate
action, making hazard of one more effort to draw him out.
"I have met soldiers of Spain before, my lord," I said, speaking the
words with deference, yet managing to inject sufficient tinge of
sarcasm to the tone, "yet never previously found them so fearful of a
stray hunter's camp as not to dare approach it without a guard of armed
men. My companions yonder are asleep, excepting the woman; we are only
three, and of peaceful life. You would discover nothing except warm
welcome at our fire."
I caught the quick responsive smile lighting his hard, thin face,
observing how suddenly awakened pride and contempt combined to curl his
upturned moustache.
"Ah!" he exclaimed gayly, with a derisive wave of the hand, "so you
suppose it is from fear I proposed calling others to accompany me!
_Caramba_! 'tis well you put your suspicion in no stronger words. But
stay; I trust not altogether the truth of your tale. Saints' love! a
soldier can place faith only in what he sees--yet your face is frank
and simple enough, and, as you say, there are but three of you, besides
the woman. I did mark that much from yonder tree. It will be small
risk to one of my experience in arms, and my men sleep in weariness.
Lead on, fellow, yet do not forget I wear this sword for use, not show."
With muttered thanksgiving at my possessing so honest a countenance,
and a blessing on the Spaniard's pride, I turned back, beginning to
retrace my steps along the narrow ridge, never deigning to glance
across my shoulder, yet confident he was close behind. Every
additional step I inveigled him from his camp was to my advantage, nor
would I permit him to feel suspicion on my part, as fearlessness was
certain to beget confidence, and my final plan of action was already
made. We thus passed the spot where I had climbed the steep bank, and
were, to the best of my memory, some twenty yards beyond the
hiding-place of my boat, when the ridge widened, a thick fringe of
low-growing trees completely shutting out all view of the water. It
was a likely spot enough, having firm ground under-foot, with
sufficient room for a royal struggle, and here I determined to try a
passage-at-arms with my burly antagonist. It was useless to hope for
surprise. He was an old soldier dogging my steps, doubtless eying my
every motion, his own hand hard gripping his sword hilt, ready to cut
me down did slightest need arise. No; it must be foot to foot, eye to
eye, a club of steel against the dancing blade; yet I felt the strange
contest would not prove unfair, for he was a man not as agile as in
years agone, while his armor of proof, valuable as it might be in the
turning of a sword thrust, would be more burden than protection against
my rifle-stock.
"Señor," I said, in studied courtesy, stopping suddenly and confronting
him, "I have hunted across this wilderness more than one season, and
dislike greatly being estopped now by Spanish decree. Nor do I
comprehend your right in this matter. Have you warrant for opposing
our peaceful passage to the Ohio?"
He stared at me in undisguised amazement at my boldness, a grim smile
on his hard, set face.
"Ay! I have, fellow," he finally retorted angrily, tapping his hilt.
"'Tis in this scabbard at my side."
"Then draw it, Señor," I exclaimed, throwing forward my long rifle
menacingly. "And may God stand with the better man."
I have a conception that at the moment he believed he was being fronted
by a crazed man, yet there was in my face an expression quickly
teaching him otherwise, and, with a swift twist, he flashed his sword
forth into the sunlight, standing on guard.
"_Por Baco_!" he growled savagely, "you must be little better than a
fool to hoist that club. It will give me pleasure to teach you better
manners toward a grandee of Spain."
"Grandee, or not," I retorted, angered at his implied contempt, "I may
teach you a trick, Señor, with that same club, never learned in your
Spanish fencing-schools."
It was swift, intense fighting from the word, he proving past-master of
his weapon, yet my stiff rifle-barrel was no mean defence against his
lighter blade, with a reach preventing his point touching my body, and
sufficient weight to bear down the thin, murderous steel whenever the
two came into contact. It had been long practice with me, having
picked up the pretty trick from a French zouave when I was a boy, so I
swung the iron as if it were a single-stick; and, in truth, I know of
no better fence against the stroke of a straight sword, although
fencing-masters, I have heard, make light of it. Nevertheless it was
new experience to this Spaniard, and it did me good to note how it
angered the fellow to be held back by such a weapon. He made such
stress to press in behind my guard that he began to pant like a man
running a hard race. Nor did I venture to strike a blow in return,
for, in simple truth, this soldier kept me busier with parry and feint
than any swordsman before, while he tried every trick of his trade, not
a few of them strange to me. So I bided my time, confident he must
make an opening for fit return if he kept up such furious attack, and
thus, with retreat and advance, hack and guard, thrust and parry, we
tramped up a wide bit of ground, while there was no sound of the
struggle, except our hard breathing, with now and then a fierce curse
from him as his flashing steel nicked on my gun-barrel, or flew off
into thin air just as he thought to send its deadly point home.
Such fighting is wearing even to seasoned nerves, and the dazzle of the
sun bothered my eyes, yet he had pressed me back scarcely more than a
couple of yards when his dancing blade slipped stealthily up my brown
barrel, suddenly nipping the loose sleeve of my doublet. As it pricked
into the cloth, scraping the skin of my forearm, I let the fellow have
the end of the muzzle full in the side. It was not the best spot for
such a thrust, nor could I give it proper force, yet I think it cracked
a rib, from the way the Spaniard drew back, and the sudden pallor of
his face; indeed, so ghastly white he got, I thought him done for, and
lowered my barrel carelessly. He was more of a man than I had reckoned
on, or else his pride made him averse to accepting defeat, for with one
quick spring, like a wounded tiger, he was inside my guard, his ugly
point rasping into me just beneath the shoulder. Saint Andrew! It was
an awkward touch, especially as the tough steel held, the punctured
flesh burning like fire; but fortunately the fellow was in too great
pain himself to press his advantage, and, as we clinched and went down
together, I chanced to be on top, throttling him with right good-will.
That which followed was but a small matter, yet I left him there,
waiting the discovery of his comrades, in as comfortable a posture as
possible, confident he could give no alarm. That Spaniard was a brave
man, and I have ever had respect for such.