I had learned from our host of the "Virginia Arms" that the so-called
"Governor's Hall," which stood within the limits of the
fortifications, had been built by the French in 1755. Poor Braddock's
brief debut before Fort Duquesne in that same year interrupted the
building of "Governor's Hall," which was called by the French "La
Fortresse de la Reine," and which, with the exception of our stone
fort at Johnstown, was the only formidable and solidly fortified
edifice of stone west of the Hudson.
When in '58 our troops seized Fort Duquesne and razed it, they not
only spared La Fortresse de la Reine, but completed it--in exceeding
poor taste--set the arms of Virginia over the portal, ran up their
red, powder-stained flag, and saluted "Governor's Hall" with hurrahs
of satisfaction, drums and fifes playing "The White Cockade."
Now the hall served sometimes as a court-house, sometimes as a
temporary jail, often as a ballroom, occasionally as the Governor's
residence when he came to Fort Pitt from Williamsburg.
In it he gave audiences to all plaintiffs, white or Indian; in it he
received deputies from other colonies or from England.
The Governor of Virginia lived on the second floor while sojourning at
Pittsburg; under his white and gold apartments stretched a long,
blank, stone hall, around the walls of which ran a wooden balcony half
way between the stone flagging and the ceiling of massive buckeye
beams.
It was in this naked and gloomy hall, damp and rank with the
penetrating odour of mortar and dropping, mouldy plaster, that my Lord
Dunmore consented to receive the old Cayuga chief, Logan, of the clan
of the Wolf, and by right of birth--which counts not with chiefs
unless they be sachems, too--the chief also of the Oquacho of the
Oneida nation.
Towards dusk a company of red-coated British infantry, with drummers
leading, left the barracks opposite our inn, the "Virginia Arms," and
marched away towards "Governor's Hall," drummers beating "The Huron."
A crowd of men and boys trailed along on either flank of the column,
drawn by curiosity to catch a glimpse of Logan, "The White Man's
Friend," who was to ask justice this night of the most noble Governor
of Virginia, the great Earl of Dunmore.
When the distant batter of the drums, echo and beat, had died away
down the dark vista of the King's Road, I left my window in the
"Virginia Arms" and descended the stairway into the street below,
where Jack Mount and the Weasel ruffled it bravely and swaggered to
and fro, awaiting my coming.
Mulled wine and sundry cups of cider, mixed rashly with long libations
of James Rolfe's humming ale, had set their heads and tongues
a-buzzing. They were glorious in their dingy buckskins, coon-skin caps
cocked over their left ears, thumbs hooked jauntily under their
arm-pits. They now occupied the middle of the street and patrolled it
gayly, singing and shouting and interrupting traffic, returning a jest
for a gibe, a laugh for a smile, or a terrible threat for any wayfarer
who dared complain of being hustled or trodden on.
Men instinctively accorded them the room they seemed to desire; women
understood them better, and took right of way, smiling the reproof
which always brought the swaggerers up, cap-tails sweeping the street
in extravagant salute. For there appeared, in those two graceless
bibbers of wines, that gravity and politeness of intoxication which so
grotesquely parodies the dignity of gallantry, and with which it is
almost hopeless for sober people to contend.
However, I spoke to them so cuttingly that they relapsed into injured
silence and ambled along on either side of me without serious offence
to passing citizens.
We soon found ourselves in a crowd, the current of which swept down
the King's Road towards the fortress; and we followed in the wake,
while past us rode companies of officers, gentlemen, and sometimes
squads of the Governor's horse--those same gay, flame-coloured
Virginians whom I had so admired at Johnstown a month ago.
Coaches passed us, too, rolling towards the fortress, and through the
glass windows we caught glimpses of ladies in cloaks of swan's-down,
with their plumes and jewels shining in the rays of the coach-lamps.
Gilded sedan-chairs began to appear, gayer and more painted and
polished than our chairs in Johnstown, and the bearers often in
handsome liveries, with a major-domo leading the way and footmen to
heel, and my lady peeping out at us shabby foot-farers plodding along
in the street beside her.
Cresap's men were plentiful among the crowd, some of them sullen and
muttering, others loud in their demands for Cresap's release,
threatening trouble for those who had jailed their leader, and
careless who heard them. There were a few forest-runners dressed as we
were, numbers of riflemen in green capes and gray wool shirts, and
rangers in brown and yellow deer-skins, with thrums dyed scarlet or
purple.
A short, thick-set fellow, wearing a baldrick fringed with scalps, was
pointed out by people as one of Boone's and Harrod's dare-devils; and
truly he looked his part, though the scalp-belt pleased me not.
I heard him boasting that the trophies were Wyandotte scalps, which
news, if true, meant one more ally for the Cayuga and one more enemy
for the colonies when the breach with England came. It sickened me to
hear the great fool boast.
The bulk of the throng, however, was made up of sober, peaceful
citizens, men of the quiet classes, in homespun and snuffy hats,
guiltless of the silver buckle on knee or shoe, silent, reserved,
thoughtful men of moderate gesture and earnest eyes, whose rare voices
disturbed no one and whose inoffensive conduct rebuked the rufflers as
no words could do.
Jack Mount, who at first appeared inclined to play the role of a
marching orator and distribute morsels of his wit and learning to all
who would pay him the fee of their attention, subsided of his own
accord among the quiet company wherein we now found ourselves and
contented himself and the Weasel with a series of prodigious yawns,
at which they both never seemed to tire of laughing.
They also sang in a subdued chorus:
"Quak'ress, Quak'ress, whither away?
Pray thee stay thee, Quak'ress gray.
I thy Quaker fain would be,
Yet dare not swear I care for thee!"
However, the few Quakers in the throng took no offence, and I
presently nudged my mannerless comrades into a snickering silence.
The people ahead of us had now stopped, and, looking over their heads,
I saw the dark shape of the "Governor's Hall," partly illuminated by
two great lanthorns set in iron sockets flanking the portal. Shining
in the feeble light moved the bayonets of the guards above the darkly
massed crowd, while coach after coach rolled up and chair after chair
deposited its burden of bejewelled beauty at the gateway. And all
these people, all these dainty dames and gallants, had come to see the
famous Logan--to hear the great Cayuga orator, "The Friend of the
White Man," ask why his little children had been slain by the white
men, whose faithful friend he had been so long. Truly, there might be
here something newer than the stale play at the Theatre Royal. It was
not every day that my lady might hear and see an old man asking why
his children had been murdered.
The crowd in front of us was compact, yet when Mount set his broad
chest against it, the people hastily made a lane for him. The Weasel
and I followed our big companion, elbowing our way to the portal,
where Mr. Patrick Henry awaited us and passed us through the sentries
and guards and pompous big-bellied tip-staves who turned up their
vinous noses at the three shabby men from the forest.
Candle-light softened the bare walls and benches; candle-light set
silks and jewels in a blaze where the ladies, banked up like beds of
rustling roses, choked the wooden balcony above our heads, murmuring,
whispering, fluttering fans and scarfs till the perfumed breeze from
their stirrings fanned my cheeks. And more of them were arriving every
moment; the wooden stairway leading to the gallery was ablaze with
starred sashes and petticoats, and twinkling satin shoon, with now and
then the sparkle of a hilt as some scented gallant ascended with his
fluttering and gorgeous convoy.
The scarlet coats of colonial and British officers spotted the
galleries; here and there a silver gorget caught the light, blinding
the eyes with brilliancy, only to turn and sink to a cinder as the
wearer moved.
I looked for Silver Heels, but, from the floor below, all faces were
vague and delicate as massed blossoms in a garden, and eyes sparkled
as faintly as dew on velvet petals all unfolded.
At the end of the hall two carpeted steps led to a stone platform hung
with a flag and the arms of Virginia. This was the Governor's
audience-seat; the gilded chair in the centre was for him; the tables
that flanked it for his secretaries.
For envoys, deputies, and for all plaintiffs, red benches faced the
platform; behind these stretched rank on rank of plain, unpainted
seats for the public, or as much of it as the soldiers and tip-staves
thought proper to admit.
This same public was now clamouring at the gate for right of entrance
without favour or discrimination, and I could hear them protesting and
shuffling at the portal behind us, while the soldiers disputed and the
tip-staves tapped furiously on the stones with their long, tasselled
wands.
"Why should not the public enter freely a public place?" I asked of
Patrick Henry.
"They will, one day," he said, with his grave smile.
"Drums beating," added Mount, loudly, but withered at once under the
sharp stare of displeasure with which Mr. Henry favoured him.
We now took seats on the last of the red benches, which stood near the
centre of the hall, and in one corner of which I perceived Logan
sitting bolt upright, eyes fixed on space, brooding, unconscious of
the thronged beauty in the galleries above him or of the restless
public now pouring into the hall behind his back.
Mr. Henry took his seat beside the stricken chief; next followed Jack
Mount, lumbering to his place; and I heard a stir pass around the
gallery with whispers of wonder and admiration for the giant,
followed by a titter as the little Weasel trotted to his seat next to
Mount. I sat down beside the Weasel, closing the row on our bench, and
turned around to watch the people filling up the hall behind me. They
were serious, sober-eyed people, and, unlike the gay world in the
galleries, had apparently not come to seek amusement in the clothes of
three shabby rangers or in the dumb grief of a savage.
"They are mostly patriots," whispered the Weasel, "peppered with
Tories and sprinkled with Dunmore's spies. But they don't blab what
they know--trust them for that, Mr. Cardigan."
"I can see Paul Cloud and Timothy Boyd sitting together, and our host
of the 'Virginia Arms,' Rolfe," I said, leaning to search the
audience. Then I caught a glimpse of a face I knew better, the
scarred, patched-up visage of the man whom I had made to taste his own
hatchet. Startled, and realizing for the first time the proximity of
Walter Butler, I hunted the hall for him with hopeful eyes, for I
meant to seek him and kill him without ceremony when the first chance
came. I could not find him, however, but in a corner near the door,
whispering together and peeping about, I discovered his other two
creatures, Wraxall, the Johnstown barber, and Toby Tice, the
treacherous tenant of Sir William. Where the cubs were the old wolf
was not far away, that was certain. But search as I might I could find
nothing but the wolf's stale trail.
One circumstance impressed me: behind Wraxall and Tice sat Saul
Shemuel, hands folded on his stomach, apparently dozing while waiting
for the spectacle to begin. But he was not asleep, for now and again,
between his lids, I caught a sparkle of open eyes, and I knew that his
large, soft ears were listening hard.
While I was still watching Shemuel, the Weasel nudged me, and I turned
to see the platform before me alive with gentlemen, moving about and
chatting, seating themselves in groups, while behind them half a dozen
British officers in full uniform lounged or stared curiously up at the
packed balconies.
Some of the gentlemen on the platform exchanged salutes with ladies
in the balconies, some smiled or waved their hands to friends. But
that soon ceased, and the commotion on the platform was stilled as a
gorgeous tip-staff advanced, banging his great stave on the stones and
announcing the coming of his Lordship the Earl of Dunmore, Royal
Governor of his Majesty's colony of Virginia. God save the King!
Swish! swish! went the silken petticoats as the gallery rose; the
people on the floor rose too, with clatter and shuffle and scrape of
benches shoved over the stones.
Ah! There he was!--painted cheeks, pale eyes, smirk, laces, bird-claws
and all--with a splendid order blazing on his flame-coloured sash and
his fleshless legs mincing towards the gilded chair under the canopy
which bore the arms of Virginia and the British flag.
Before he was pleased to seat himself, he peered up into the balcony
and kissed his finger-tips; and I, following his eyes by instinct, saw
Silver Heels sitting in the candle-flare, scarlet and silent, with her
sad eyes fixed, not on my Lord Dunmore, but on me.
Before I met her eyes I had been sullenly frightened, dreading to
speak aloud in such a company, scarcely hoping to find my tongue when
the time came to voice my demands so that the whole town could hear.
Now, with her deep, steady eyes meeting mine, fear fell from me like a
cloak, and the blood began to race through every limb and my heart
beat "To arms!" so fearlessly and so gayly that I smiled up at her;
and she smiled at me in turn.
Again the Weasel began twitching at my sleeve, and I bent beside him,
listening and watching the gentlemen on the platform.
"That's John Gibson, Dunmore's secretary--the man in black on the
Governor's left! That loud, bustling fellow on his right is Doctor
Connolly, Dunmore's deputy for Indian affairs. He arrested Cresap to
clear his own skirts of blame for the war. Behind him sits Connolly's
agent, Captain Murdy. Murdy's agent was Greathouse. You see the links
in the chain?"
"Perfectly," I replied, calmly; "and I mean to shatter them if my
voice is not scared out of my body."
"Scourge me that ramshackle Dunmore!" whispered Mount, thickly,
leaning across the Weasel. "Give him hell-fire and a--hic!--black
eye--"
Mr. Henry jerked the giant's arm and he relapsed into a wise silence,
nodding his thanks as though Mr. Henry had imparted to him an
acceptable secret instead of a reproof.
We were near enough to the platform to hear the Governor chattering
with Gibson and Doctor Connolly, and sniffing his snuff as he peeped
about with his lack-lustre eyes.
"Que dieu me damne!" he said, spitefully. "But you have a mauvais
quart d'heure ahead, Connolly!--curse me if you have not! Faith, I
wash my hands of you, and you had best make your sulky savage yonder
some good excuse for the war."
Connolly's deep voice replied evasively, but Dunmore clipped him
short:
"Oh no! Oh no! The people won't have that, Connolly!--skewer me if
they will! Body o' Judas, Connolly, you can't make them believe Cresap
started this war!"
Connolly whispered something.
"Eh? What? I say I wash my hands o' ye! Didn't you hear me say I
washed my hands? And mind you clear me when you answer your filthy
savage. I'll none of it, d'ye hear?"
Connolly flushed darkly and leaned back. Gibson appeared nervous and
dispirited, but Captain Murdy smiled cheerfully on everybody and took
snuff with a zest.
"And, Connolly," observed Dunmore, settling himself in his gilded
chair, "you had best announce the restoration to rank and command of
Cresap. Ged!--that ought to put the clodhoppers yonder in good humour,
to keep them from snivelling while your dirty savage speaks."
Presently Connolly arose, and, making a motion for silence, briefly
announced the restoration of Cresap to command. There was no sound, no
demonstration. Those in the balconies cared nothing for Cresap, those
on the floor cared too much to compromise him with applause.
I heard Dunmore complaining to Gibson that the first part of
Connolly's programme had fallen flat and that he, Dunmore, wanted to
know what Gibson thought of refusing Logan the right of speech.
Gibson nervously shook his head and signalled to the interpreter, a
grizzled sergeant of the Virginia militia, to take his station; and
when the interpreter advanced, announcing in English and in the Cayuga
language that the Governor of Virginia welcomed his brother, Logan,
chief of the Cayugas, warrior of the clan of the Wolf, and "The White
Man's Friend," I saw Patrick Henry touch Logan on the shoulder.
Slowly the Indian looked up, then rose like a spectre from his sombre
blanket and fixed his sad eyes on Dunmore.
There was a faint movement, a rustle from the throng on floor and
gallery, then dead silence, as from the old warrior's throat burst the
first hollow, heart-sick word:
"_Brother!_"
Oh, the grim sadness of that word!--the mockery of its
bitterness!--the desolate irony of despair ringing through it!
_Brother!_ That single word cursed the silence with an accusation so
merciless that I saw Connolly's heavy visage grow purple, and Gibson
turn his eyes away. Only my Lord Dunmore sat immovable, with the
shadow of a sneer freezing on his painted face.
Logan slowly raised his arm:--
"Through that thick night which darkens the history of our
subjugation, through all the degradation and reproach which has been
heaped upon us, there runs one thread of light revealing our former
greatness, pleading the causes of our decay, illuminating the pit of
our downfall, promising that our dead shall live again! Not in the
endless darkness whither priests and men consign us is that thread of
light to be lost; but from the shadowy past it shall break out in
brilliancy, redeeming a people's downfall, and wringing from you, our
subjugators, the greeting--_Brothers!_
"_Fathers_: For Logan, that light comes too late. Death darkens my
lodge; my door is closed to sun and moon and stars. Death darkens my
lodge. All within lie dead. Logan is alone. He, too, is blind and
sightless; like the quiet dead his ears are stopped, he hears not; nor
can he see darkness or light.
"For Logan, light or darkness comes too late."
The old man paused; the silence was dreadful.
Suddenly he turned and looked straight at Dunmore.
"I appeal to any white man if he ever entered Logan's lodge hungry and
he gave him not meat; if he ever came cold and naked and he clothed
him not!"
The visage of the Earl of Dunmore seemed to be growing smaller and
more corpse-like. Not a feature on his ghastly mask moved, yet the
face was dwindling.
Logan's voice grew gentler.
"Such was my love," he said, slowly. "Such was my great love for the
white men! My brothers pointed at me as they passed, and said, 'He is
the friend of white men.' And I had even thought to live with you, but
for the injuries of my brothers, the white men.
"Unprovoked, in cold blood, they have slain my kin--all!--all!--not
sparing woman or child. There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins
of any living creature!
"Hearken, _Brothers_! I have withstood the storms of many winters.
Leaves and branches have been stripped from me. My eyes are dim, my
limbs totter, I must soon fall. I, who could make the dry leaf turn
green again; I, who could take the rattlesnake in my palm; I, who had
communion with the dead, dreaming and waking; I am powerless. The wind
blows hard! The old tree trembles! Its branches are gone! Its sap is
frozen! It bends! It falls! Peace! Peace!
"Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one!"
The old man bent his withered head and covered his face with his
blanket. Through the frightful stillness the painful breathing of the
people swept like a smothered cry; women in the balcony were sobbing;
somewhere a child wept uncomforted.
Patrick Henry leaned across to me; his eyes were dim, his voice choked
in his throat.
"The great orator!" he whispered. "Oh, the great man!--greatest of
all! The last word has been said for Logan! I shall not speak, Mr.
Cardigan--it were sacrilege--now."
He rose and laid one arm about the motionless chief, then very gently
he drew him out into the aisle. There was not a sound in the hall as
they passed slowly out together, those great men who had both struck
to the hilt for the honour of their kindred and of their native land.
* * * * *
Now, when at last he had disappeared, a living spectre of reproach,
which the guilt of men had raised to confound the lords of the New
World, those gathered there to listen breathed again, and hastened to
forget that glimpse which they had caught of the raw heart of all
tragedy--man's inhumanity to man.
Dunmore came slowly from his trance, mechanically preening his silken
plumage and ruffling like a meagre bird; Connolly rose from his seat
and shook himself, and, finding nothing better to do, went about the
platform, snuffing the candles, a duty pertaining to servants, but
which he was doubtless thankful to perform as it brought his back to
the spectators and gave his heavy, burning face a respite from the
pillory of eyes. Gibson leaned heavily on his writing-table, wan,
loose-jawed, and vacant-eyed. As for Captain Murdy, he sat serenely in
his chair, shapely legs crossed, examining the lid of his snuff-box
with ever-freshening interest.
Above us in the galleries some people had risen and were about to
leave. The rustle of silks and satins seemed to break the heavy quiet;
people breathed deeply, shifted in their seats, and turned around.
Some stood up to go; chairs and benches grated on the stones; shoes
shuffled and tapped sharply.
I had already determined to defer my interview with Lord Dunmore,
because, after the great chief's speech, my poor words must fall stale
on ears attuned to the majestic music of a mighty soul. So, in the
stir and noise around us, I rose and touched Jack Mount, motioning him
to follow. But before he could find his feet and summon his wits to
set them in motion, and ere I myself had edged half-way to the aisle,
I heard Doctor Connolly speaking in that loud, hectoring tone, and I
caught the name of Sir William Johnson shouted from the platform.
"If the messenger from Johnstown be present," continued Doctor
Connolly, "let him be assured of a warm welcome from his Lordship, the
Earl of Dunmore, Governor of Virginia."
So the infatuated Dunmore, grasping at a straw to dam the current of
public sentiment, thought to fill empty minds with the news of his
betrothal, trusting that as all the world loves a lover, this same
planet might find an opportunity to take him to its sentimental bosom.
His purpose was plain to me and perfectly loathsome; and as I stood
there, watching him, I could see the rouge crack when he simpered. But
I would not speak now.
Presently, looking around, I found that all those who had risen had
again seated themselves, and that I, fascinated by the repulsive
visage of Dunmore, stood there all alone.
My first impulse was to sit down hastily; my next to keep my feet, for
it was too late to seek cover now, and Connolly was smiling at me, and
Gibson nodded like a dazed mandarin. Dunmore, too, was peering at me
and tapping his snuff-box complacently, and the sight of him brought
the blood to my head and opened my mouth. But no sound issued. A woman
in the gallery laughed outright.
"Are you not a messenger from Sir William Johnson?" prompted Connolly,
with his domineering smile of patronage.
"Yes, Doctor Connolly," I replied, slowly. As I spoke, fright
vanished.
There was a pause. Dunmore tapped on his box and moistened his slitted
mouth with a tongue which looked perfectly blue to me, and he fell
a-smirking and bridling, with sly, rheumy glances at the gallery.
"Lord Dunmore," I said, steadily, "ere I inform you why I am here, you
shall know me better than you think you do.
"I am not here to tell you of that chain which links the Governor of
Virginia with the corpse of Logan's youngest child!--nor to count the
links of that chain backward, from Greathouse to Murdy, to Gibson, to
Connolly, to--"
"Stop!" burst out Connolly, springing to his feet. "Who are you? What
are you? How dare you address such language to the Earl of Dunmore?"
Astonished, furious, eyes injected with blood, he stood shaking his
mottled red fists at me; Dunmore sat in a heap, horrified, with the
simper on his face stamped into a grin of terror. The interruption
stirred up my blood to the boiling; I clutched the back of the bench
in front of me, and fixed my eyes on Connolly.
"I do not reply to servants," I said; "my business here is not with
Lord Dunmore's lackeys. If the Earl of Dunmore knows not my name and
title, he shall know it now! I am Michael Cardigan, cornet in the
Border Horse, and deputy of Sir William Johnson, Baronet, his
Majesty's Superintendent of Indian Affairs for North America!
"Who dares deny me right of speech?"
Dunmore lay in his chair, a shrunken mess of lace and ribbon; Connolly
appeared paralyzed; Gibson stared at me over his table.
"I am not here," I said, coolly, "to ask your Lordship why this war,
falsely called Cresap's war, should be known to honest men as
'Dunmore's war.' Nor do I come to ask you why England should seek the
savage allies of the Six Nations, which this war, so cunningly
devised, has given her--"
"Treason! Treason!" bawled a voice behind me. It was Wraxall; I
recognized his whine.
"But," I resumed, pointing my finger straight at the staring Governor,
"I am here to demand an account of your stewardship! Where are those
Cayugas whom you have sworn to protect from the greed of white men?
Where are they? Answer, sir! Where are Sir William Johnson's wards of
the Long House? Where are the Shawanese, the Wyandottes, the Lenape,
the Senecas, who keep the western portals of the Long House? Answer,
sir! for this is my mission from Sir William Johnson. Answer! lest the
King say to him, 'O thou unfaithful steward!"
Hubbub and outcry and tumult rose around me. Dunmore was getting on
his feet; Connolly flew to his aid, but the Governor snarled at him
and pushed him, and went shambling out of the door behind the
platform, while, in the hall, the uproar swelled into an angry shout:
"Shame on Dunmore! God save Virginia!"
An officer in the gallery leaned over the edge, waving his gold-laced
hat.
"God save the King!" he roared, and many answered, "God save the
King!" but that shout was drowned by a thundering outburst of cheers:
"God save our country! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!"
"Three cheers for Boston!" bawled Jack Mount, jumping up on his bench;
and the rolling cheers echoed from balcony to pavement till the throng
went wild and even the sober Quakers flung up their broad-brimmed
hats. In the gallery ladies were cheering, waving scarfs and mantles;
the British soldiers at the door looked in at the astounding scene,
some with sheepish grins, some gaping, some scowling under their
mitred head-gear.
Mount had caught me up in his arms and was shouldering his way towards
the door, yelping like a Mohawk at a corn feast; and presently others
crowded around, patting my legs and cheering, bearing me onward and
out past the sentinels, where, for a moment, I thought soldiers and
people would come to blows.
But Mount waved his cap and shouted an ear-splitting watchword: "The
ladies! Honour the ladies!" and the crowd fell back as the excited
dames and maidens from the balcony issued in silken procession from
the hall, filing between the soldiers and the crowd, to enter coaches
and chairs and disappear into the depths of the starlight.
I could not find Silver Heels, and presently I gave up that hope, for
the throng, hustled by the soldiers, began shoving and scuffling and
pressing, now forward, now backward, until the breath was near
squeezed from my body and I made out to slip back with Mount and
Renard to the open air.
Mount was enthusiastic. "Look sharp!" he said eagerly. "There will be
heads to break anon. Ha! See them running yonder! Hark! Do you not
hear that, Cade? Clink--whack! Bayonet against cudgel! They're at it,
lad! Come on! Come on! Give it to the damned Tories!"
The next instant we were enveloped in the crowd, buffeted, pushed,
trodden, hurled about like shuttle-cocks, yet ever retreating before
the line of gun-stocks which rose and fell along the outer edge of the
mob.
The fight was desperate and silent, save for the whipping swish of
ramrods whistling, the dull shocks of blows, or the ringing crack of a
cudgel on some luckless pate. Under foot our moccasins moved and
trampled among fallen hats and wigs, and sometimes we stumbled over an
insensible form, victim of gun-stock or club or a buffet from some
swinging fist.
Once, forced to the front where the soldiers were jabbing and lashing
the mob with gun-butt, ramrod, and leather belt, a drummer boy ran at
me and fell to thumping me with his drum, while a soldier cuffed my
ears till I reeled. Astonished and enraged by such scurvy treatment I
made out to wrest the drum from the boy and jam it violently upon the
head of the soldier, so that his head and mitre-cap stuck out through
the bursted parchment.
A roar of laughter greeted the unfortunate man, who backed away,
distracted, clawing at the drum like a cat with its head in a bag.
Then the battle was renewed with fury afresh; a citizen wrested a
firelock from a soldier, drove the butt into the pit of his stomach,
and struck out sturdily in all directions, shouting, "Long live our
country!" Another knocked a soldier senseless and tore off his white
leggings for trophies--an operation that savoured of barbarism.
"Scalp their legs! Skin 'em!" bawled the man, waving the leggings in
triumph; and I saw he was that same ranger of Boone and Harrod who
wore a baldrick of Wyandotte scalps.
It began to go hard with the King's soldiers, but they stuck to the
mob like bulldogs, giving blow for blow so stanchly and so heartily
that my blood tingled with pleasure and pride, and I called out to
Jack Mount: "Look at them, Jack! What very gluttons for punishment!
Nobody but British could stand up to us like that!"
A crack on the sconce from a belt transformed my admiration into fury,
and I drove my right fist into the eye of one of these same British
soldiers, and followed it with a swinging blow which sent him
spinning, receiving at the same moment such a jolt in the body that I,
too, went sprawling and gasping about until Mount pulled me out of the
crush.
When I had found my breath again, and had mastered that sick faintness
which comes from a blow in the stomach, I prepared to return to the
fray, which had now taken on a more sinister aspect. Bayonets had
already been used, not as clubs but as daggers; a man was leaning
against a tree near me, bleeding from a wound in the neck, and another
reeled past, tugging at a bayonet which had transfixed his shoulder.
But the end came suddenly now; horsemen were galloping up behind the
jaded soldiers; I saw Shemuel dart out of the swaying throng and take
to his heels, not even stopping to gather up hats, handkerchiefs, and
wigs, of which the sack on his back was full to the top.
When Shemuel left a stricken field it was time for others to think of
flight; this I perceived at once when the Weasel came scurrying past
and called out to me. Mount followed, lumbering on at full speed; the
throng melted and scattered in every direction, and I with them. Trust
me, there was fine running done that night in Pittsburg streets, and
many a tall fellow worked his legs as legs are seldom worked, for the
gentlemen of the Governor's horse-guards were riding us hard, and we
legged it for cover, each fox to his own spinny, each rabbit to the
first unstopped earth. Tally-ho! Stole away! Faith, it was merry
hunting that night in Pittsburg town, with the towns-people at every
window and the town-watch bawling at our heels, and the gentlemen
riders pelting down the King's Road till those who could double back
doubled, and walked panting to cover, with as innocent mien as they
could muster.
Mount, Renard, Shemuel, and I had crossed the Boundary at respectable
speed, and were now headed for the dirty alley which conducted to the
rear door of Shemuel's den, the "Bear and Cubs." We were about to
enter this lane, no longer fearing pursuit--and I remember that Mount
was laughing, poking the Weasel in his short-ribs--when, without
warning, five men rushed at us in a body, overturning us all save Jack
Mount. The next moment we were locked in a struggle; there was not a
cry, not an oath, not a sound but the strained gasp and heavy
breathing, at first; but presently a piercing yell echoed through the
alley, and Shemuel ran squattering into the inn. He had stuck a
handful of needles into his assailant's leg, and the man bounded madly
about, while the alley re-echoed with his howls of dismay.
As for me, I found myself clutched by that villain, Wraxall, and I
would have shouted with joy had he not held me by the windpipe until I
was nigh past all shouting. The creature was powerful; he held me
while Toby Tice tried to tie my wrists; but the Weasel fell upon them
both and kicked them so heartily that they left me and took to their
heels perdu.
And now came the host of the "Bear and Cubs," lanthorn in one hand, a
meat-knife in the other, and after him a tap-boy, an hostler, a frowzy
maid, and finally Shemuel, white with fear. But reinforcements had
arrived too late--too late to help us take the impudent band, which
had fled--too late to bring to life that dark mass lying at the foot
of the wall in the filth of the alley.
Mount seized the lanthorn and lowered it beside the shape on the
ground.
"His neck is broken," he said, briefly. It was his quarry; he ought to
know.
One by one we took the lanthorn and looked in turn on the dead.
"Greathouse," whispered Mount, moving the body with his foot.
"Greathouse, eh?" grumbled the host of the "Bear and Cubs." "Well, he
can't lie here behind _my_ house." And he caught him by the heels and
dragged him to a black spot under a rotten shed. There was a cistern
there. I moved away, feeling strangely faint. Mount linked his arm in
mine.
Presently there sounded a dull noise under the ground, a shock and
thick splashing.
"Greathouse, eh?" muttered the shaggy innkeeper, winking at us. "Well,
Greathouse is in a small house behind a pot-house now, and the devil,
no doubt, will see that he lands in a hot-house!"
Mount shrugged his shoulders and turned away indifferently. He had
done his part; he had no slur for the dead. The Weasel and I followed,
and together we traversed the market-square unmolested, and headed for
the "Virginia Arms," discussing the utterly unprovoked attack on us by
Butler's band.
There had been five of them; I had recognized Wraxall and Tice, the
Weasel identified Murdy, Shemuel had thrust half his stock of needles
into one fellow's leg, whom I knew to be the man who had supped on his
own hatchet, and Mount had sternly accounted for his assailant.
"So Greathouse is dead," muttered the Weasel.
"One thing is clear: they were after you," observed Mount, turning on
me.
"It is strange," I said, "that Butler was not there. He must know
what it means for him unless he can strike me from behind, because I
shall never miss him, face to face."
I spoke not in boast, nor in angry heat; I meant what I said, and
devoutly believed that nothing on earth could shield such a man from
the man he had so foully misused.
Coming into Pitt Street we found all empty and dark save for the
lanthorn hanging on its pole from every seventh house, and a lone
watchman who lifted his light to scan us, but durst not question or
stop us, though we bore marks enough of the fray to satisfy any
friendly jury of our guilt.
As for Mount, his shirt and leggings were in rags, for he had played
Orlando Furioso to his simple heart's satisfaction, and now one naked
arm peeped coyly from a flapping sleeve, and his great legs twinkled
white under the tattered nether-garments. The Weasel, who had a genius
for keeping himself neat under distressing circumstances, appeared to
be none the worse for wear, but guiltless he could not be, for he
carried a soldier's mitre-cap in his hand and obstinately refused to
part with the proof of his valour. As for me, there were some seams
which needed a thread, and somebody's blood on my shirt which water
would wash away.
"I went this noon to a tailor-woman on the Buckeye Road, and did
command me new deer-skins," said Mount. "I will borrow their cost of
you," he added, naively.
I felt for my money-belt and luckily found it safe. Mount accepted the
money cheerfully, promising to show me on the morrow how fine he could
be in new clothes, and mourning the fact that his greasy garments had
cost him a cruel epithet that day from a maid he had attempted to kiss
behind a barn on three minutes' acquaintance.
"Faith, she mocked me for a tankard-tip and called me pottle-pot," he
said, sadly. "God knows I drink little for my height, and so I told
her, too!"
We were already at the "Virginia Arms," and I took him by the elbow
and drew him firmly past the tap-room.
"Are we not to sniff a posset?" he demanded, in injured surprise. But
he surrendered without a scene, for the late fighting had cleared his
head of alcohol, and we mounted to my chamber, bidding a servant to
fetch ink-horn, wax, sand, quill, and three sheets of good, clean
paper.
When I had lighted my candle, and the materials for writing had been
brought, I sat down on the bed and drew the table up before me.
"What are we to do while you write?" asked Mount, sulkily.
"Keep out o' mischief and the tap-room," said I, mending the quill
with my hunting-knife.
They stood around rather blankly for a spell while I was composing the
first letter, but presently I noticed they had squatted on the floor
and were playing at jack-straws with pine splinters from the boards.
My three letters cost me great labour; writing and composition do ever
rack me, mind and body, for I know that I spell not as others spell,
nor write as I ought to write in the Boston style, and, moreover,
those little dots which warn the wise reader that a phrase is ended
mean little to me; so I pepper my sheet well with them and trust to
God that they fall not on barren soil.
Thus armed with my quill, and doubly armed in the innocence of my
ignorance, I made out to accomplish my three letters. The first was
this:
"_Sir William Johnson, Bart._
"HONOURED AND BELOVED SIR,--My mission I have discharged and
It hath come to naut. i return to johnsonhall Tomorrow,
setting out with Felicity. i, will explane all. War is
brocken out, ye Senecas, Lenape, Wyandot, and Showanese dugg
up ye hatchett Cresap is fled ye fort and camp burnt Logans
famly foully murderd with my duties and respects to Ant Molly
and my duties and respectfull affections for you. I have the
honnour to subscribe myself your dutyfull deputy and kinsman
"MICHAEL CARDIGAN
"Cornet, Border Horse."
My second letter read thus:
"_My deer Kinswoman Mistress Warren._
"DEER COZZEN,--I write to say that I write to acquaint you
that it Is my determination to set out for johnsonhall
tomorrow morning therefore Pray be prepared to accompanie me
with Black Betty and Your boxes i will command a post-chaise,
escort, and horses for such is my right as deputy of Sir
William. if I ketch enny fools who seek to mate you I will
harm them. i will find a suitable husband for you never fear
cozzen i sign myself your affectnate cozzen
"MICHAEL CARDIGAN
"Cornet of Border Horse."
My third letter was brief:
"_To the Hon: the Earl of Dunmore,
Royal Governor of Virginia, etc._
"MY LORD,--My kinswoman Misstress Felicity Warren is my
betrothed and She will leave Pitt tomorrow with me and under
the escort which it is my right to demand and your lordship's
dutie to furnish, with post-chaise, forage, and provisions.
Escort and conveyance should be at the Virginia Arms by noon.
"I have, sir, the honour
to subscribe myself y'r
ob't servant
"MICHAEL CARDIGAN
"Special deputy of Sir Wm. Johnson, Bart.,
and cornet in the Royal American Legion of
Border Horse."