To a man whose life is regulated on a basis of a difference in
rank, a part of whose training is to conserve the respect due
his military station and his social supremacy, who is habituated
to stiff formalities of address, both in phrase and bearing, the
familiarities of an inferior have a grossness which a custom of lenient
condescension, or kindly indulgence, or careless indifference does not
as readily perceive. But no man, however little fastidious, would have
relished the peculiar impediments to Raymond’s progress across the
limited space of the “beloved square” to the spot where he thought--he
could now no longer see for the press--the old missionary was standing.
Indeed, Raymond might have better exerted tolerance had he not
perceived that the demonstration was actuated by a rancorous spirit.
The contact with the blanketed shoulders of the braves intentionally
thrust against him to impede his progress; a peering, painted face
stuck almost against his own, the survey followed by a wild cackle of
derision; a feathered crest of a man, not so tall as he, jerked into
his eyes, were incidents calculated to try the self-control of an
ardent, impetuous young soldier to the extremest tension. He set his
teeth and held hard to his composure, though his cheek flushed and his
eye glittered. Naught that was personal should jeopardize the success
of the forlorn hope of his appeal to the fears of the old missionary.
The sturdy soldiers at his heels marked his demeanor and emulated his
self-restraint. Presently, he almost ran against the old man, still
bare-headed, still between his guards, replying in Cherokee to the
jeers or reproaches of his recent converts as they gathered about him,
upbraiding for double-dealing, and threatening as if with the just
wrath of the deceived. He had a wistful, pained look as he sought to
justify himself, to explain the misunderstanding, and it cut Raymond
to the heart. He was of the temperament which throws itself with ardor
into the joys and griefs of others--especially he deprecated infinitely
the sight of sorrow in the aged. Let the young wrestle with the woes
of life--not when strength, and hope, and illusion are all gone! He
accosted the old man in a cheery voice, speaking in English, that the
crowd might catch no chance word of offence.
“Captain Howard presents his compliments, Reverend sir, and wishes me
to say that we have a place in our boat, which is at your service, and
we shall feel much honored if you will occupy it,” he said.
The old man, turning from the revilings and the insults heaped upon him
by the savage rabble, must have felt an attraction toward the young,
spirited face, and have softened to the sympathy in the ensign’s eyes,
the respect that vibrated in every inflection of his voice.
“I thank you, my young friend,” he said in a kindly tone, “but my
station is here. I cannot desert my post. I am a soldier of the Cross.”
“Under your favor, Reverend sir, we are taught that we have no right to
throw away our lives in desperate emprises, to the loss and detriment
of the British service. And it seems to me that the rule ought to hold
in the service of the Cross that sorely needs good soldiers.”
The argument struck home, and the old missionary made haste to justify
his position.
“There is not more danger than usual,” he declared, “I have often heard
such threats. I have weathered many such storms. My place is here.
I must recall these troubled and wandering sheep that have believed
in the truth and trusted in me, and whose faith has this day been so
rudely jostled.”
“Troubled and wandering--wolves!” Raymond could not help exclaiming,
as he noted the furious faces, the menacing gestures of a group here
and there colloguing apart, their feathered heads almost touching
each other, their drapery of coarse blankets intermingled as they
stood together, an absorbed brow lifted now and again to glance at
the subject of their conference. The dispensation that the sun shall
shine alike upon the just and the unjust seemed more an insensate
process of nature than a divine ordinance at that moment as he looked
about mechanically in the pause, noting the pellucid brilliance of the
noontide splendor that lay over all the wrangling crowd of braves, the
huddled huts of the town, the vast stretches of leafless woods that
had yet the aspect of winter, the blurred violet tones of the hills
hard by, the far-reaching of the myriads of azure ranges, the differing
blue of the sky as it bent to meet the horizon. So unwontedly still had
been the town during the morning that a drift of white swans lay asleep
in the river, close to the moorings of Raymond’s pettiaugre. Now,
warned by the tumult on shore, they had lifted their heads and were
beginning to glide imperceptibly along. A deer, approaching the town
on the hither side, had taken sudden affright, and, plunging into the
water, was swimming the river so near at hand that its head presented
a fair target to the short-range rifles of the day and even for an
arrow. No marksman sought the opportunity. The minds of the braves
were all intent, undivided. The dogs of the town caught the scent
and sight, and half a dozen hounds raced to the water-side, lustily
yelping excitement. But there was no human cry of encouragement, no
command to hie them on, and though one plunged in and swam twenty yards
in the wake of the fleeing animal, he lost heart in thus proceeding
on his own initiative, and turning about, came splashing in to the
bank, all unnoticed. Significant incidents these trifles seemed to
Raymond, showing an absorption that betokened no gentle fate to the
old missionary. He marvelled that the old man could be so mad. He
determined on a renewed effort.
“You could return at a more propitious time, dear sir. And permit me
to express my wonder, Mr. Morton,” he said, with gentle reproach,
“that though you do not entertain fears for yourself, you have no
consideration of the fears of your friends for you. Captain Howard, who
is a man of great experience on the frontier, thinks your life is not
worth an hour’s purchase after our departure, and I, myself, who am no
alarmist, feel that if we leave you here I look upon you for the last
time.”
Despite Raymond’s self-control, he was greatly harried during this
speech by the antics of a young tribesman, who had taken up his
position on the other side of Mr. Morton and was reproducing in grisly
caricature every word and gesture of the British officer--even to
the motions of the cocked hat in his hand. The ensign had uncovered
in token of his respect and as he talked he gesticulated, in his
earnestness, with the hat. In the florid imitation of mockery the
Indian permitted Mr. Morton’s hat, which he himself held, to sharply
graze, in one of his flourishes, the pallid cheek of the aged minister.
It was in effect a buffet, and Raymond gave a quick audible gasp,
recovering with difficulty his impassive demeanor.
“My dear young sir,” said the old man, “I have stanch friends among
these good people, who will not see me evilly entreated. I cannot
put aside--I cannot postpone the Lord’s work to a more convenient
season. I must remain--I must repair the damage to the faith of these
new Christians done by their chief’s crafty cross-questioning of the
commandant to-day. I must not leave my sheep to the lion, the weaklings
of all my flock to the ravening wolves of doubt. I must be with
them--but have no fears for me. I have twice been bound to the stake,
and yet came safely off.”
Raymond was at his wits’ end. There was a shifting in the crowds. They
were converging down the sunny slope toward the river-bank. Beyond
their heads he caught a gleam of scarlet against the shining current,
near the white flashing of the swans’ wings as the great birds rose
in flight. The soldiers were embarking. There came to his ears the
loud, guttural voice of the chief of the town, Rolloweh, pronouncing
the sonorous periods of his official farewell to Captain Howard. Time
pressed. The response of the captain would be curt and concise,--there
was scant utility to mint phrases for Rolloweh,--and Raymond could well
divine that the commandant was sick at heart. On the smooth spaces of
the “beloved square” there lingered those inimical plotting groups,
still whispering, still casting speculative glances at the missionary
and the ensign, still waiting, Raymond faithfully believed, to seize
the old man and bear him to his doom, before the English boats should
be a furlong down the river.
The ensign’s patience, never a formidable endowment, gave way suddenly.
He clapped his hat on his head with a nonchalant flap. He turned a
burning eye on two stalwart young soldiers of his escort and spoke but
one short phrase, with a significant gesture. The intelligent fellows
comprehended the extraordinary order in an instant. With light willing
steps they ran forward, bent down, seized the Reverend Mr. Morton
in their strong young arms, lifted him bodily, and at a swift, sure,
steady run they set out with their captive for the river-bank, their
young officer close on their heels calling out in Cherokee, with glad
bursts of laughter, “The ‘beloved man’ shall be removed!”
The whole community was in an uproar. The culmination came so suddenly,
with no sort of warning, that the crowds by the water-side, remembering
the urgency of the chiefs that the “beloved man” should be removed,
fell in with the apparent spirit of the exploit and shouted and laughed
as at some rude jest and boisterous horse-play. The conspirators of
the “beloved square” did not catch the significance of the incident
for one brief moment of stunned surprise, roused as they were from
the absorptions of their secret plottings, but though they came
howling their baffled rage and vengeance and frenzied protests hard
upon Raymond’s party, that one moment saved the life of the Reverend
Mr. Morton. Their voices were overborne in the joyous clamors of the
populace, not yet admitted into the plans of revenge, and chorusing
the ensign’s jocular mockeries. Raymond, himself standing in the bow
of the pettiaugre and urging his crew,--“Push off--Let fall--Back
oars--Row--Pull, lads, pull for your lives!” in a half-stifled
undertone of excitement, did not feel that the return trip was a
possibility till the pettiaugre reached the centre of the shining
stream, then turning southward caught the current and began to slip and
glide along as fast as oar could ply, and the momentum of the stream
could aid. Even then a rifle ball came whizzing past.
“It is nothing,” said Captain Howard, reassuringly--“some lawless
miscreant. The head-men intend no demonstration.”
The plans of the conspirators, divulged in that moment of embarkation,
had mightily caught the fancy of the “mad young men” of the
assemblage--that class on whom the Cherokee rulers charged the
responsibility of all the turmoils and riots, those who fought the
battles and endured the hardships, and carried out the treacherous
enterprises and marauding massacres which the head-men secretly planned
and ordered and abetted. Some who had just been rollicking with
laughter came running after the boats along the bank, their breath
short, their features swelled with savage rage, their eyes distended
with futile ferocity. Some were crying out mockeries, and blasphemies,
and furious maledictions on the head of the old missionary, and
others, among whom were the conspirators of the “beloved square,” were
protesting craftily that the missionary was abducted against his will
and was to be carried as a prisoner to Fort Prince George--adjuring the
commandant to permit him to return and threatening force to stop the
boats if he were not immediately set ashore.
“We shall meet them, sir, when we round the bend,” said Raymond, in a
low voice to Captain Howard, for the river made a deep swirling curve
around a considerable peninsula, and a swift runner cutting straight
across this tongue of land would have little difficulty in anticipating
the passing of the pettiaugre, although the men were bending to the
oars with every muscle stretched, and the iterative impact of the
strokes was like the rapid ticking of a clock.
As the boats came shooting with an arrowy swiftness around the
peninsula, an Indian, the foremost runner, was already there, standing
high on a rock. His figure on the promontory, distinct against the blue
sky with his hands up-stretched, the palms together, ready to spring
and dive, was visible from far off. He looked back over his shoulder
to make sure that other Cherokees were following, then timing his
adventure with incredible precision, he sprang into the water with a
great splash, was invisible a few seconds, and came up alongside the
pettiaugre, with a hand on the gunwale, near the bow.
A hundred braves, almost all armed, stood at gaze on the lower banks,
a trifle blown by the swift pace, a score or two laying aside their
weapons, apparently preparatory to entering the water. The soldiers,
well within rifle range, all frontier veterans, young though they were,
as obedient and as unmoved as parts of a mechanism, rowed steadily on,
disregarding their muskets, stowed in the bottom of the pettiaugre.
Only the man nearest the Indian, hanging to the boat, contrived in a
lengthened stroke to hit the pendulous legs some heavy covert blows
with a feathered oar, which, sooth to say, might have broken less
stalwart limbs.
“Ensign,” suggested Robin Dora, in the bow, plaintively, “wad it fash
your honor gif I dinged that fist a clout wi’ ae drum-stick? It’s gey
close to my shoulther.”
“Be silent,” said Raymond, severely, and Robin Dora subsided, even
ceasing to glance over his shoulder at the uncanny hand so close to his
arm.
Captain Howard, in the haste of embarkation had taken his place in
Raymond’s boat, and his own had fallen under the conduct of the
adjutant. It followed like a shadow the craft in the lead, as silent
as a shadow, as swift. Captain Howard had not by virtue of his rank
assumed command, the crew being already organized. He earnestly desired
to provoke no attack from the Indians, but he expected it momently, and
fingered his pistols in his belt as he eyed the gathering tribesmen
on shore; under these circumstances he was in doubt as to his wisest
course; the impunity of the figure clinging to the boat invited
recruits, yet to it Raymond gave not a glance. Captain Howard was moved
to a comment.
“You give transportation to passengers, Ensign?” he queried.
“It seems so, sir,” Raymond replied, succinctly.
It had evidently been the plan of the Indians to send out swimmers
to the boats, and demand and secure the return of the missionary on
the pretext that he was torn from them against his own desire, and if
the crew dared to refuse, despite the coercion of the rifles of the
hundreds on shore, the swimmers were to upset the craft, seize their
prey, and make for the main body. The leader had far out-stripped his
following, and his zeal had jeopardized the practicability of the feat.
He had given the little British force the opportunity to make a great
display of coolness and indifference. The contempt with which their
demonstration was treated disconcerted the Cherokees, who relished
naught so much as the terrors their presence was wont to inspire,--the
surprise, the agitation, and commotion that were the sequence of their
sudden attacks.
The crowd on shore stood at gaze, watching the unexpected scene--the
Indian clinging like a reptile to the boat, while its keel cleft the
clear brilliant waters, and the silent crew rowed like men spurting for
a prize. Suddenly the Indian, belabored possibly beyond endurance by
an eccentric oar, made a movement as though he would spring into the
boat. Raymond swiftly leaned forward, and with a courteous manner, as
of offering aid, caught the Cherokee’s arm with a grip like steel, and
fairly lifted him into the pettiaugre.
The Indian stood for a moment, staring at the calm faces of his
enemies. Had he been fifty instead of one the matter might have
resulted far more seriously, but his fellows had not followed; their
plans had not matured; they stood doubtful, watching the results of
his effort and its futility, for he was going straight down the river
as a prisoner to Fort Prince George. He looked bewildered, agitated,
glanced wildly from one to another, then as if fearing detention leaped
high into the air, fell into the water, and struck out for the shore
as fast as his limbs might carry him, while the tribesmen on the bank,
whom he had expected to lead, burst into derisive cries, and laughter,
and gay buffoonery.
It was the turn of the tide; it was the trifle that so often broke
the designs of the inconstant Indians. The two officers knew that the
game was played out when they heard, far up-stream, so fast was their
progress, the shouts of raillery and ridicule as the adventurous wight
waded ashore.
“Very well managed, Ensign Raymond,” said Captain Howard, laughing with
comfortable reassurance. “It might have been much more serious.”
“But is this well, Captain Howard?” said the deep melancholy voice of
the missionary. “I am a British subject. I have done naught to forfeit
my independence of action, my liberty. I am made a prisoner, and torn
from my sacred work and my chosen habitation against my will. I am in
no sense within your jurisdiction or under your control as commandant
of Fort Prince George, and I protest against this infringement of my
rights as most unwarrantable tyranny.”
Captain Howard, who happened to be standing in the pettiaugre, and
being a landsman had no sea legs to speak of, toppled to and fro in
his surprise and agitation, and had he not fallen instead against the
bulk of a tall and burly oarsman he might have fallen overboard. He
hastened to place himself on a seat, and then, red-faced, dumbfounded,
and sputtering with half a dozen phrases that tumbled over each other
in his amazement he exclaimed:--
“My God! sir, do I understand you? Can I believe my ears? Are you not
with us now by your own free will, the exercise of your own mature
judgment?”
“Indeed, no, sir, as I have already stated,” said the old man, with
dignity. “Did you not see, sir, that I was literally carried to the
boat in the arms of soldiers under the command of your own officer?”
“By God Almighty, sir,” declared the agitated commandant, “I swear when
I saw you carried in the arms of the soldiers I supposed it was in a
measure to shield you from the fury and malevolence of the Indians.
Ensign Raymond,” he turned upon the young officer, who was calm enough
to stand steadily, “you shall answer for this. I empowered you only to
invite, to persuade Mr. Morton to come with us.”
“And I did persuade him, sir,” Raymond stoutly averred.
“Do you define ‘persuasion’ as the kidnapping of a minister of God?
Damme, but you shall answer for this!”
“I am more than willing, sir, to endure any punishment that I may have
deserved,” Raymond replied, downcast and dreary. It seemed to him that
he was now always under the ban of reprimand. “But to leave Mr. Morton
there was to my mind like committing murder on a minister of God when I
have the means to bring him away.”
Captain Howard had a sudden recollection of the faces of hate and
craft, the frenzied foolish reasoning, the fateful ferocity of
temperament. He shuddered even yet for the old man’s sake.
“You ought to have had the reverend gentleman’s consent,” he said more
mildly.
“It is hard to be old and poor, and of no earthly consideration,”
plained the old man. “My consent was very easily dispensed with. But--I
_am_ a British subject!”
“He ought to have _given_ his consent,” Raymond boldly replied to
Captain Howard, “and saved one who only sought to do him kindness from
the necessity of incurring ignominy for his sake. But I care not,” he
continued, doggedly, tossing his head in its cocked hat. “I should
liefer have taken his life, old and gray as he is, than have left him
where he stood, if art, or force, or persuasion failed to get him away.
No--no, I could not leave him there--if I am to be broke for it!” he
declared with passion.
The generous temper of the old missionary was reasserted, although the
smart in his heart for his deserted Indian sheep was keen. He looked up
wistfully, anxiously, at the young officer who stood in the shadow of
discipline, of professional ruin, perhaps, on his account. Oh, it was
not his mission to wound, to drag down; but to bind up, to assuage, to
save. He spoke suddenly and with a different intonation.
“You intended a benefit, doubtless, young sir. You urged me first
with every argument in your power, I admit. You found it hard and
not without danger to yourself to persist so long, till indeed the
very moment of departure. You shall incur no rebuke nor ignominy on
my account. Your methods of ‘persuasion,’ it is true, are somewhat
arbitrary,” he added with a wintry smile. “But, Captain Howard, I call
you to witness--and soldiers, bear witness, too--I accompany this
expedition of my own free will, for doubtless the commandant, after
what he has said, would put me ashore if I so desired. I am going to
Fort Prince George on the invitation of the commandant very thankfully,
and I am grateful to this kind young man for ‘persuading’ me.”
He held out his hand to Raymond, who was still standing. The ensign
was startled by this sudden change, and touched by the look in the
old man’s face. He made haste to offer his hand in response, and sank
down on one knee beside the seat to obviate the distance between them.
Suddenly Raymond became aware of that which in the stress of the
embarkation and the unusual excitement of their progress down the river
had escaped the notice both of officers and soldiers--the fact that
in the rapid progress across the “beloved square” some heavy missile
unnoticed in the mêlée had inflicted a severe bruise and cut on the
face of the old man; a livid line, ghastly and lacerated, extended
almost from brow to chin. It had bled freely, and wisps of the thin
gray hair were matted upon the wrinkled brow, even more pallid than its
wont, for the shock had been severe, inducing for some little time a
state of semi-insensibility.
At the sight of this Raymond cried out sharply, as if he, himself, had
been struck; the blood surged swiftly into his face; his heart beat
almost to suffocation; he looked piteously into the faded, gentle eyes,
full of that sanctity which hallows a stainless old age. The sense of
sacrilege and horror overcame him.
“Those fiends have wounded you!” he exclaimed, in the low, appalled,
staccato tones of intense excitement. Suddenly his eyes filled, and
hiding his face against the worn sleeve of the old clergyman’s coat, he
burst into a flood of tears, his shoulders shaking with his sobs.
Captain Howard stared in blunt and absolute amaze, but Mr. Morton,
better accustomed to ebullitions of emotion, only gently patted the
soldier’s scarlet coat as if he were a child.
“I hope you will be more careful how you persuade people after this,”
said the commandant, with the manner of improving a moral lesson. Now,
however, that Captain Howard had recovered somewhat from the shock of
the interference with the liberty of a British subject, he was disposed
to congratulate himself on the fact that he had the missionary hard and
fast in the boat, and to think that Raymond had conducted himself in a
dilemma almost insoluble with extraordinary promptitude, resource, and
nerve, and to be rather proud of the subaltern’s ready aplomb.
As to the tears--they were incomprehensible to Captain Howard, and
by the rank and file they were deemed a disgrace to the service. The
soldiers could not enter into Raymond’s complex emotions, and they
were at once the source of wonder and disparagement.
When the discipline which had prevailed at the outset was somewhat
relaxed, and the men at the rowlocks, still pulling steadily down the
river, were free to talk in subdued voices, the events of the day
were canvassed with much spirit. The personality of various Indians
was discussed, certain parties from the upper towns were recognized
by soldiers who had seen more than one campaign in this region, the
jeopardy of the occasion was argued, individual experiences narrated,
threats that had been overheard were repeated, and it was agreed that
the ensign’s little party had been in great danger during the progress
of the “persuasion”--they all grinned at the word. Then one of the
young giants who had performed the feat of abduction, remarked--“But I
always feel safe with the ensign. Somehow he allus gits the short cuts.”
“I did too--_thin_; more fool, me! Begorra, I niver dhramed he was such
a blasted babby!”
They giggled at the word, and when their rations were served, it was
pleasant to old Mr. Morton and the officers to see such hilarity among
the honest fellows. They could not divine the men were badgering the
quarter-master-sergeant from time to time to know why no “sago-gruel”
or “sugar-sops” had been provided for the nourishment of the “babby”
they had in command, and threatening to report the deficiency to
Captain Howard.
Raymond had recovered his serenity. He had snatched up the hat of the
old missionary, when the mimicking Indian had tossed it on the ground,
and now he tenderly helped him to adjust it. As the boat glided on into
the sunset waters, enriched with the largess of the sunset sky, and the
tranquil evening came on apace, and the shadows leaned far across the
western bank, the subjects that allured the old man’s mind reasserted
their fascination, and he talked on with placid pleasure of the Hebraic
origin of the Indians, their possible identity with the “Lost Tribes,”
the curious similarity of certain of their religious observances with
the rites of the Mosaic dispensation, and cognate themes, while Raymond
punctiliously listened, and Captain Howard dozed and nodded with no
more compunction than if he were in church.