Day after day I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling till night
blotted it out. Then, stunned and exhausted, I would lie in the dark,
crying in my weakness, whimpering for those I loved who had left me
here alone. There was no strength left in me, body or mind; and,
perhaps for that reason, my suffering was too feeble to waste what was
left of me, for I had not even the strength of the fretful who do
damage themselves with every grimace.
Certain it was that my thinned blood was growing gradually warmer, and
its currents flowed with slightly increasing vigour day by day. The
fever, which had come only partly from my wounds, had doubtless been
long in me, and had fermented my blood as the opportunity offered when
Wraxall nigh drained my every vein with his butcher's blade.
The emaciation of my body was extreme, my limbs were pithless reeds,
my skull grinned through the tensely stretched skin, and my eyes were
enormous.
Yet, such sturdy fibre have I inherited from my soldier father that
grief itself could not retard the mending of me, and in the little
French mirror I could almost see my sunken muscles harden and grow
slowly fuller. Like a pear in a hot-frame, I was plump long before my
strength could aid me or my shocked senses gather to take counsel for
the future.
The dreadful anguish of my bereavement came only at intervals,
succeeded by an apathy which served as a merciful relief. But most I
thought of Silver Heels, and why she had left me here, and when she
might return. Keen fear lurked near to stab me when, rousing from
blank slumber, my first thought was of her. Then I would lie and
wonder why she had gone, and tell myself I loved her above all else,
or whimper and deem her cruel to leave me.
One late afternoon the doctor came with a dish of China oranges,
which I found relief in sucking, my gums being as yet somewhat hot and
painful. He made a hole in an orange and I sucked it awhile, watching
him meditatively. He wore crape on his arm--the arm that Quider had
broken, and which now he could not bend as formerly.
"Why does not my Aunt Molly come to see me?" I asked, quietly.
"Dear lad," said the doctor, raising his eyebrows, "did you not know
she had gone to Montreal?"
"How should I know it," I asked, "when you tell me nothing?"
"I will tell you what I am permitted," he answered, gently.
"Then tell me when my cousin Felicity is coming back? Have you not
heard from Sir John Johnson?"
"Yes--I have heard," replied the doctor, cautiously.
I waited, my eyes searching his face.
"Sir John returns to-morrow," he said.
A thrill set my blood leaping. I felt the warm colour staining my
pinched face.
"To-morrow!" I repeated.
The doctor regarded me very gravely.
"Miss Warren will remain in Boston," he said.
The light died out before my eyes; presently I closed them.
"How long?" I asked.
"I do not know."
The orange, scarcely tasted, rolled over the bed and fell on the
floor. I heard him rise to pick it up.
I opened my eyes and looked at the distant pines through the window.
"Doctor," I muttered, "I am heartsick for a familiar face. Where are
the people who have lived in this house? It is scarce four months that
I have been away, yet all is changed and strange--new servants
everywhere, no old, friendly faces--nay, even Peter has grown so gross
and sullen that I scarce knew him. Where is Esk? Is there not one soul
unchanged?"
"Have I changed?" he asked.
"Yes--you are gray! gray!--and smaller; and you stoop when you sit."
After a moment he said: "These are times to age all men. Have you
yourself not aged in these five months? You went away a fresh-faced
lad, scarce weaned from your alley-taws and the chalky ring! You
return a man, singed already by the first breath of a fire which will
scorch this land to the bedded rock!"
Presently I asked, "Is war certain?"
He nodded, looking at the floor.
"And--and the Six Nations?" I asked again.
"On our side surely," he said, in a low voice.
"On our side?" I repeated.
He looked at me suddenly, stern mouth tightly shut. A cold light
touched his gray eyes and seemed to harden every feature.
"When I say 'our side' I assume you to be loyal, Mr. Cardigan," he
said, curtly.
The change in his shrewd, kindly face amazed me. Was it possible for
old friends to turn so quickly? Was this coming strife to poison the
world with its impending passions?
"If you have become tainted with rebel heresy since you left us, thank
God you have returned in time to purge your mind," he said, sternly.
"Sir William has gone--Heaven rest his brave soul!--but Sir John is
alive to take no uncertain stand in the face of this wicked rebellion
which all true loyal hearts must face."
I looked at him serenely. Who but I should know what Sir William had
thought about the coming strife. Those sacred confidences of the past
had cleared my mind, and made it up long since. Had I not, in Sir
William's service, braved death for the sake of these same rebels? I
understood my mission better now. I had gone in the cause of
humanity--a cause which was not embraced by the loyal subjects of our
King. I had failed, but failure had brought wisdom. Never could I set
my back against the firm rock of loyalty to fight for a name that now
meant nothing to me. I had quenched my thirst at bitter waters; I had
learned that men could beggar themselves for principle and die for a
tuppenny tax with pockets full.
"Lad," said the doctor, kindly, "the two rough woodsmen who brought
you home did what their rude skill permitted to save your life. They
washed your wounds and bound them with balsam and linen; they bore you
faithfully for miles and miles through the valley of death itself.
But, lad, they could not have saved you had not something intervened
between you and that keen blade which searched your life to slay it!"
He rose and took something from the chest of drawers in the corner. It
was a British flag, all torn and hacked and covered with black stains.
"It was found rolled up beneath your hunting-shirt," he said,
solemnly. "Look on it, lad! For this torn flag, which your father died
defending, held back that deadly knife, shielding the vital spark
beneath its folds. A hair's-breadth more and you had died at the first
stab. The flag was your strength and shield: let it become your
salvation! It was your father's flag: exalt it!"
He spread the flag reverently upon the bed. I touched its folds, stiff
with my own blood. It was the flag of Cresap's fort which I had taken,
seeing it abandoned by all.
"I shall always honour it," I said, half unconsciously.
"And the men who bear it!" he added.
"That is very different," I said, wearily, and turned my head on the
pillow.
When I looked again he was folding the flag and placing it in the
chest of drawers, smiling quietly to himself. Doubtless he thought me
loyal to the King whose armies bore the flag my father died for. But I
was too tired to argue further.
"There is one man I would like to see," I said, "and that is Mr.
Duncan. Will you send to the guard-house and beg him to come to me,
doctor?"
"Ay, that I will, lad," he said, cheerily, picking up his hat and case
of drugs. "And, by-the-way, your regiment of Border Horse will be here
in a month. You will doubtless be content to see the gallant troopers
in whose ranks you will one day serve, please God."
"Perhaps," I said, closing my eyes.
I must have fallen into a light sleep, for when I unclosed my eyes I
saw Mr. Duncan beside me, looking down into my face. I smiled and
raised one hand, and he took it gently in both of his strong,
sun-browned hands.
"Well, well, well," he muttered, smiling, while the tears stood in his
pleasant eyes; "here is our soldier home again--that same soldier whom
I last saw in the guard-house, having his poll clipped by honest
Wraxall, a la coureur-de-bois--eh?"
I motioned feebly for him to find a chair beside my bed, and he sat
down, still holding my hand in his.
"Now," I said, "explain to me all that has happened. The doctor tells
me what I ask, but I have had little inclination to hear much. I like
you, Mr. Duncan. Tell me everything."
"You mean--about Sir William?" he asked, gently.
"Yes--but that last of all," I muttered, choking.
After a silence he straightened up, unhooked his sword, and laid it
against the wall. Then, settling comfortably back in his chair, he
clasped his hands over his white gaiters and looked at me.
"You must know," he said, "that Colonel Guy Johnson is now
superintendent of Indian affairs in North America for his Majesty. He
has appointed as deputies Colonel Claus and Colonel John Butler--"
"Who?" I exclaimed.
"Colonel Butler," repeated Mr. Duncan; "you remember him, don't you?"
"Yes, I remember him," I replied; "where is he?"
"He and Joseph Brant are organizing the loyalists and Indians north of
us," said Mr. Duncan, innocently. "This border war in Virginia has set
the Six Nations afire. Many of our Mohawks have slipped away to join
Logan and Sowanowane against this fellow Cresap who murdered Logan's
children; the others are restless and sullen. There was but one man in
the world who could have controlled them--"
He paused.
"I know it," said I. "You mean Sir William."
"Ay, Mr. Cardigan, I mean Sir William. Well, well, there is no help
now. It is Sir John Johnson's policy to win over the savages to our
side; but I often think Sir William knew best how to manage them. It
will be dreadful, dreadful! I for one wish no such allies as are
gathering north of us under Joseph Brant and Colonel Butler."
"Why do you not say as much to Sir John?" I asked.
"I? What weight would my opinion carry? I have said often to those who
ask me that I would give all I possess to see the savages remain
neutral in this coming strife."
"Do you also believe it is coming?"
"Surely, surely," he said, lifting his hand solemnly. "Mr. Cardigan,
you have been away, and have also been too ill to know what passes at
our very doors. You are ignorant of the passion which has divided
every town, village, and hamlet in Tryon County--ay, the passion which
has turned neighbours to bitterest foes--the passion which has turned
kinship to hatred--which sets brother against brother, son against
father!
"Our village of Johnstown yonder seethes and simmers with Tory against
Whig, loyalist against rebel. Houses are barricaded; arms stored,
stolen, and smuggled; seditious words uttered, traitorous songs sung,
insults flung in the faces of the King's soldiers. We of the Royal
Americans receive the grossest epithets; curses and threats are flung
in our teeth; sentries on guard are mocked and reviled; officers
jeered at in tavern and street.
"I do not believe such fierceness would betray itself if the question
here were but the old Boston grievance--the ancient protest against
taxing people without the people's consent. No, it is not the wrangle
between Parliament and colonies that has brought the devil's own
confusion into Tryon County; it is the terrible possibility that one
or the other side may let loose the savages. We of Tryon County know
what that means. Small wonder then, I say, that the rebels curse us
for swine and dogs and devils incarnate because we are slowly gaining
the good-will of the Six Nations."
He wiped his face with a laced hanker and pressed his temples,
frowning.
"Yet," he said, "the rebels, too, would doubtless use the savages
against us if they could win them over. Sir John says so. That is why
he sent Thayendanegea and Colonel Butler to recruit in the north. They
say that Captain Walter Butler is with Cresap. I don't know; I have
not seen him in months."
"I know," said I, quietly.
"Doubtless you met him then at Cresap's camp?"
"Doubtless."
Mr. Duncan waited a moment, then laughed.
"You were ever a man to keep your own counsel," he said.
"What have you heard from Cresap's men?" I asked.
"Nothing save that the war is a fierce one. An express came in
yesterday with news that the Cayugas had been terribly whipped by the
backwoodsmen under Andy Lewis, somewhere near the Great Kanawha. The
express rider got it from some of Cresap's men, but it may not be
true."
After a silence I asked him what month of the year it now was. I had
noticed yellow leaves outside.
"October," he said, pityingly; "did you not know it?"
I tried to realize the space of time which had been wiped out from my
memory.
"When did Sir William--die?" I muttered, painfully.
Mr. Duncan looked at me with tears in his eyes.
"On Monday, the 11th of July."
"Tell me--all," I motioned, with quivering lips.
"It is history," he said, simply. "I will tell you what I heard and
what I witnessed.
"On the 1st of July we received news of the murder of Bald Eagle, a
friendly Delaware chief. Rumour had it that one of my Lord Dunmore's
agents had slain the old man, but that, of course, is preposterous. It
is hard to sift truth out of rumours. Why, the wildest statements were
openly made in some taverns that young Walter Butler had murdered the
old man. What reason could Walter Butler have to slay a friendly chief
in Pennsylvania?"
"Go on," I said, grimly.
"Well, then, this murder was committed while the poor old man was
sitting in his canoe on one of the streams near Fort Pitt. After
tearing the scalp from the old man the murderer set him afloat in his
canoe. The ghastly progress of the dead was seen by Indians and
whites, and the news, following the report of the outrage on Logan by
that creature Daniel Greathouse, roused the Six Nations to fury.
"You know that even after the Logan outrage Sir William had held back
the warriors of the Long House; but this fresh crime drove them
frantic. They might still have held off had not Bald Eagle been
scalped, but you know, Mr. Cardigan, that the Six Nations _always_
regard the scalping of a murdered person as a _national_ act, not an
individual one, and _always_ accept it as a declaration of war."
"I know," I said.
"The sachems of the Long House," continued Mr. Duncan, "immediately
notified Sir William that they desired to see him without delay. When
you think, Mr. Cardigan, that the murders of Logan's children and of
Bald Eagle touched every clan tie in the Six Nations, nothing could
prove more clearly the marvellous influence of Sir William over the
savages than the fact that their first impulse was not to seize
hatchet and knife and begin an indiscriminate butchery of our people,
but to solicit a conference with Sir William, so that they might state
their wrongs calmly and ask his advice. Lord! Lord! A great man died
in last July; and who can take his place?"
Again he wiped his brow and clasped his gaitered knees with his hands.
"In two days," he resumed, "two hundred Onondagas came here, with
intelligence that four hundred more were on their way. Then they came
in hordes--Mohawks, Senecas, Cayugas, and Oneidas. From morning till
night Sir William was engaged in talking with them, persuading and
promising and exerting himself tirelessly to hold the gathering
tempest in check.
"He was even then far from well; his old trouble had returned; he
could scarcely drag himself up here to this room when night came. Yet
he said to me, after an exhausting conference with the Oneidas, 'Mr.
Duncan, I have daily to combat with thousands of white men who, by
their avarice, cruelty, or indiscretions, are constantly counteracting
all my judicious measures with the Indians. It is not the Indians I
blame. I shall persevere: the occasion requires it; and I shall never
be without hope till I find myself without that influence which has
never yet forsaken me.'
"'That influence is built up on your personal honour,' I said; 'it can
never forsake you.'
"He smiled--you know his rare smile, Mr. Cardigan--"
Mr. Duncan almost broke down; my eyes were dry and throbbing.
"On the 7th of July," he resumed, "we had a thousand Indians assembled
here at the Hall. The sachems and chiefs were earnestly pleading for
the congress. Sir William was sick abed and suffering pitifully, but
he rose and refused to listen to Doctor Pierson, saying that the
congress should never be delayed by anything but his own death.
"The weather was frightfully hot; nearly the whole of the first day
was occupied by the speech of Senhowane, a Seneca chief, who made out
a bitter case against the white people of Cresap's command. A Cayuga
war-chief followed the Seneca, speaking until the moon rose.
"The next day was the Sabbath. Sir William lay abed all day, unable to
see for the frightful pains in his head. Yet the next day, at
half-past nine in the morning, Sir William was at the fire, belts in
hand.
"Never, never, Mr. Cardigan, had any one heard him speak with such
eloquence. Sick unto death as he was, he stood there in the burning
July sun, hour after hour, in the cause of peace. He spoke with all
the fire and vivacity of youth; his words held the savages' grave and
strained attention until the end."
Mr. Duncan paused, staring at space as though to fix that last scene
in his mind forever.
"I was commanding the escort," he said. "My men saluted as the Indians
left the congress. When the last chief had disappeared, I saw that Sir
William was in distress, and ran to him. He lurched forward into my
arms. I held him a moment. He tried to speak, but all he could say
was, 'Tell Michael I am proud--of--him,' and then fell back full
weight. We got him to the Hall and laid him on the library couch. A
gillie rode breakneck for Sir John, who was at the old fort nine miles
away. Mistress Molly had gone to Schenectady; there remained no one of
his own kin here."
Mr. Duncan leaned forward, with his face in his hands.
"Sir John came too late," he said; "Sir William died utterly alone."
As I lay there I could hear the robins chirping outside, just as I had
so often heard them from the school-room. Could this still be the same
summer? Years and years seemed to have slipped away in these brief
months between May and October.
"Where is he buried?" I asked.
"In the vault under the stone church he built in the village. When you
can walk--we will go."
"I shall walk very soon now," said I.
After a moment I asked who had succeeded Sir William.
"In title and estate Sir John succeeds him," said Mr. Duncan, "but the
King has conferred the intendancy of Indian affairs on Colonel Guy
Johnson."
"Is he as close a friend as ever of Colonel Butler and Joseph?"
"Quite. Joseph Brant is a special deputy, too."
"Then God save our country," I replied, calmly, and closed my eyes.
Lying there, thinking, I saw for a moment into that red horror called
the future--which now, thank God, is already the past.
"When Sir John returns from Boston you will hear the will read," said
Mr. Duncan.
"When does he return?" I asked, opening my eyes.
"To-morrow, we hope."
"Why did he go?"
"I do not know," said Mr. Duncan, frankly.
"Why did he take Miss Warren?"
"I'm sure I do not know," he answered.
"Will she return with him?"
"I cannot say--but I suppose she will," replied Mr. Duncan, looking
curiously at me.
"The doctor says she will not return with Sir John."
"Ah!"
"Why?"
"Lord, lad, I don't know!" he exclaimed, amused.
"Did Miss Warren see me while I was ill?"
"Ay, that she did," he cried. "She never left you; they could not drag
her away to eat enough to keep a bird alive. She hung over you, she
followed the doctor, holding to his sleeve and asking questions till
the good man nigh lost his senses. And all the time Sir John was
fuming and impatient to be off to Boston, but Miss Warren would not
go until the doctor was able to promise on his sacred honour that you
were not only out of danger, but that you would recover completely in
mind and body."
"And then?" I muttered.
"Why, then Sir John would no longer be denied, and she must needs
journey with him to Boston. I know that she herself did not understand
why she was going, except that some legal affairs required her
presence."
"And she left no word for me?"
"None with me. I heard her ask Sir John how soon you would be able to
read if she wrote you, but Sir John shook his head without reply. Then
she asked the doctor, and I think he told Miss Warren she might write
in October if she remained in Boston as long as that. So, doubtless,
the express is already galloping up the old post-road with your
letter, Mr. Cardigan."
Presently--for I was becoming very tired--I asked about the two
forest-runners who had brought me hither, not mentioning their names
for prudence sake.
"I don't know where they are," said Mr. Duncan, rising to buckle on
his sword. "The little, mild-spoken man disappeared the day that Sir
John and Miss Warren left for Boston. The other, the big, swaggering
fellow, abandoned by his running-mate, seemed astonished, and hunted
about the village for a week, swearing that there was foul play
somewhere, and that his comrade would never willingly have deserted
him. Then our magistrate, Squire Bullock, was stopped and robbed on
the King's highway--ay, and roundly cursed for a Tory thief--by this
same graceless giant in buckskin who brought you here. They sought for
him, but you know how those fellows travel. He may be in Quebec now,
for aught I know--the impudent rascal."
After a moment I said, "Miss Warren, you say, cared for me while I lay
ill?"
"Like a mother--or fond sister."
I closed my eyes partly.
He looked down at me and pressed my hand.
"I have tired you," he said, gently.
"No, you have given me life," I answered, smiling.