Like a red lamp the sun swung above the smoky east, its round,
inflamed lens peering through the smother beneath which Boston lay,
blanketed by the thick vapours of the bay.
From my window I could distinguish the shadowy ship-yards close by.
Northeast, across Green Lane, lay the Mill Pond, sheeted in mist,
separated from the bay by an indented causeway.
On Corps Hill the paling signal-fires went out, one by one; a green
light twinkled aloft in the dusky tangle of a war-ship's rigging; the
smoky beacon in its iron basket flared, sank, glimmered, and went out.
Across the street, through the white mist lifting, spectral warehouses
loomed, every shutter locked, iron gates dripping rust.
Jack Mount came in, and sat down on the edge of the bed with a silent
nod of greeting, clasping his large hands between his knees.
"I have been thinking of that damned thief-taker," he said, yawning.
"If he's tracked me from Pitt he's a good dog, and his wife should
cast a prime dropper some day."
A servant brought us a bowl of stirabout and some rusks and salted
codfish, and we breakfasted there in my chamber, scarcely speaking.
Instead of exultation at my nearness to Silver Heels, a foreboding had
weighed on me since first I unclosed my eyes. The depression deepened
as I sat brooding by the window where the white sea-fog rolled against
the sweating panes. Mount ate in silence; I could scarcely swallow any
food. Presently I pushed away my plate, drew paper and ink before me,
and fell to composing a letter. From the tap-room below a boy came to
bring us our morning cups, and we washed the salty tang from our
throats. Mount lighted his yard of clay and lay back, puffing smoke
at the smeared window-panes. I wrote slowly, drinking at intervals.
The morning draught refreshed us; and when at length sunshine broke
out over the bay, something of our dormant spirits stirred to greet
it.
"How silent is the world outside," said I, listening to the sea-birds'
mewing, and mending my quill with my hunting-knife.
"Misery breeds silence," he said.
"Are men starving here around us?" I asked, trying to realize what I
had heard.
"Ay, and dying of it. The sun yonder no longer signals breakfast for
Boston. Better finish your fish while you may."
He pulled slowly at his pipe. "If I am right," he drawled, "it would
be close to mid-day now in England--the King's dinner-hour. His
Majesty should be greasing his chin with hot goose-gravy."
His blue eyes began to shine; the long pipe-stem snapped short between
forefinger and thumb; the smoking bowl dropped, and he set his
moccasined heel upon it, grinding clay and fire into the stone floor.
I watched him for a moment, and then resumed my writing.
"God save the King," he sneered, "and smear his maw thick with good
fat meat! Let the rebel babes o' Boston die snivelling at their rebel
mothers' dried-up breasts! It's a merry life, Cardigan. I dreamed last
night a naked skeleton rode through Boston streets a-beating a jolly
ringadoon on his bones:
"'Yankee doodle came to town
A-riding on a pony--'
But the pony was all bones, too, like the Pale Horse, and sat Death
astride, beating ever the same mad march:
"'Yankee doodle--doodle--do!
Yankee doodle--dandy!'
'Twas the bay wind shaking the weather-vane--nothing more, lad. Come,
shall we steer au large?"
"I must first send my letter," said I; and began to re-read it:
BOSTON, _October 29, 1774_.
"_To Mistress Felicity Warren_:
"DEAR, DEAR SILVER HEELS,--Being cured of my hurts and having
done with Johnson Hall and my dishonourable kinsman, Sir John
Johnson, Bart: I now take my pen in hand to acquaint you that
I know all, how that through the mercy of Providence you have
been reunited with your hon'rd parents, long supposed to
have been with God, their name and quality I know not nor
doubt that it is most honourable. I did think to receive a
letter from you ere I left the Hall, yet none came, so I
insulted Sir John and took Warlock who is mine of a right and
I am come to Boston to pay my respects to y'r hon'rd
parents and to acquaint them that I mean to wed you as I love
you my hon'rd cozzen but feel no happiness in as much as a
deathly fear hath possessed me for some hours that I am never
again to see you, this same haunting dread that all may not
be well with you does not subdue and chill those ardent
sentiments which of a truth burn as hotly now as they burned
that sweet noonday at Roanoke Plain.
"I further acquaint you that my solicitor, Mr. Peter Weaver
of Albany, hath news that my uncle, Sir Terence Cardigan,
Bart, is at a low ebb of life being close to his Maker
through much wine and excesses, and hath sent for me, but I
would not stir a peg till I have found you dear Silver Heels
to ask you if you do still love that foolish lad who will
soon be Sir Michael Cardigan to the world but ever the same
Micky to you, though if war comes to us I doubt not that my
title and estate will be confiscated in as much as I shall
embrace the cause of the colonies and do what harm I may to
the soldiers of our King.
"My sweet Silver Heels, this letter is to be delivered to y'r
solicitor Mr. Thomas Foxcroft and by him instantly into your
own hands, there being nothing in it not honourable and
proper. I strive in vain to shake off the depression which so
weighs down my heart that it is heavy with the dread that all
may not be well with you, for I do distrust Sir John his
word, and I do despise him heartily and deem it strange that
he did conduct you to Boston under pretence of a business
affair which he has since refused to discuss with me.
"Dear maid, if y'r honourable parents will permit, I shall
this day venture to present myself and formally demand your
hand in that sweet alliance which even death cannot end but
must perforce render immortal for all time.
"Your faithful and obedient
"servant and devoted lover
"MICHAEL CARDIGAN."
The writing of this letter comforted me. I directed it to "Miss
Warren, in care of Mr. Thomas Foxcroft, to be delivered immediately,"
and summoning a servant, charged him to bear it instantly to Mr.
Foxcroft.
"It is but a step to Queen Street," I said to the lank lad; "so if by
chance the young lady herself be living there, you shall wait her
pleasure and bring me my answer." And I gave him three bright
shillings fresh struck from the mint that year.
"You will go with me, Jack?" I asked, as the messenger vanished.
Mount, sprawling by the window, turned his massive head towards me
like a sombre-eyed mastiff.
"Daylight is no friend o' mine," he said, slowly. "In Boston here they
peddle ballads about me and Cade; and some puling quill-mender has
writ a book about me, the same bearing a gallows on the cover."
"Then you had best stay here," I said; "I can manage very well alone,
Jack."
"Once," continued Mount, thoughtfully, polishing his hatchet on his
buckskin breeches--"once I went strolling on the Neck, yonder, and no
thought o' the highway either, when a large, fat man came a-waddling
with two servants, and a pair o' saddle-bags as fat as the man, every
bit."
He licked his lips and slowly turned his eyes away from mine.
"The moon was knee-high over the salt-grass," he continued; "the
devil's in the moon when it's knee-high."
"So you robbed him," I added, disgusted. Mount glanced guiltily around
the room--anywhere but at me.
"I only asked him what his saddle-bags might weigh," he muttered, "and
the fat fool bawled, 'Thief! Help!' If he had not put it in my mind to
scotch him!--but the great booby must out with his small-sword and
call up his men. So, when he fell a-roaring that he was a King's
magistrate--why--why, I rubbed a pistol under his nose. And would you
believe it, lad, the next thing I knew, Cade and I could scarce walk
for the weight o' the half-crowns in our breeches-pockets! It amazes
me even yet--it does indeed!"
"You'd best look to your neck, then," I said, shortly. "Remember
Bishop's buxom daughter on the Philadelphia coach last night. Where
the kitten runs the catamount prowls."
"Oh, I'll take the air by night," observed Mount, with perfect
good-humour. "The night air o' Boston is famous medicine for troubles
like mine."
"You will do no more tricks on the highway?" I demanded, suspiciously.
He buried his nose in a pot of beer without replying. An hour passed
in silence, save for the continual trotting to and fro of the boy from
the tap-room, bearing deep, frothing tankards for Mount.
"Have a care," I said, at length; "if you drink like that you'll be
out and abroad and into every foolish mischief, as you were in
Pittsburg. Be a man, Jack!"
"I'm all salty inside like a split herring," he said, reaching for a
fresh pewter, and blowing the foam till it scattered over the floor
like flakes of snow.
Two hours had dragged on towards their finish, and already the clocks
in the tavern were tolling the death of another hour, when my lank
messenger came breathless to the door with a letter for me, and at the
first glance I saw that the writing was the hand of Silver Heels
herself.
Mount gaped at me, then one of his rare and delicate instincts moved
him to withdraw. I heard him leave the room, but did not heed his
going, for I was already deep in the pages of the letter:
"DEAR LAD, MY OLD COMRADE,--Mr. Foxcroft did summon me to
consider your letter of last evening, how it were best to
inform you of what you should know.
"Now comes your letter of this morning by your messenger, and
leaves me a-tremble to breathe its perfume of the love which
I had, days since, resigned.
"For I did write you constantly to Johnstown in care of Sir
John, and no answer came save one, from Sir John, saying you
cared not to answer me my letters. This cruel insult from Sir
John could not have been the truth in light of the letter now
folded in my bosom, and softly rustling nestled against my
breast.
"But it is plain to me, dear heart, that you as yet know
nothing of what great change has come to me. And so, before I
dare give you the answer which burns my mouth and thrills
this poor body o' mine which aches for you, I must, for
honour's sake, reveal to you what manner of maid you would
now court, and into what desperate conditions I am come; not
that I doubt you, Michael, dear soul of chivalry and tender
truth!
"Know then, my friend, that I am hopelessly poor in this
world's goods; know, too, that the new name I bear is a name
marked for pity or contempt by those few who have not long
since forgotten it. It is the death of my pride to say this.
Yet I say it.
"My father is old and broken. His faculties have failed; he
is like a child who forgets what his tongue utters, even
while voicing his harmless desires. His property is gone; he
does not know it. He sees around him the shadows of the past;
he talks with the dead as though they sat at his elbow.
"His house is an empty shell; his lands have grown into
thickets; his estate is lost to him through taxes long
unpaid. Yet everywhere the phantoms of dead scenes surround
him; ghosts walk with him through spectral domains, ride with
him to hounds, carry his colours to victory on the
race-course, sit with him at table, pour water for him which,
in his wrapped eyes, bubbles like wine.
"Believe me, dear friend, it is pitiful and sad--sad past all
I have ever known.
"For me, too, it is so strange, so hopeless, that, even after
these long days, it is still an untrue dream from which I
seem too weary and stunned to rouse and drive the gray vision
from me.
"Long ago, in a distant year of sunlight, I remember a child
called Silver Heels, whose mad desire for rank and power
crammed her silly head, till, of a sweet May day, love came
to her. Love drove her to folly; love reclaimed her; love
lies still in her heart, watching for you with tireless eyes.
"Dear heart, would you take me? Even after all you now know?
Do you want me, Michael?--me?--when all the world lies before
you?
"I once most wickedly said that if I had been humbly born, I
would not for my pride's sake wed with you. It is not true,
Michael; I will wed with you. But, if after what you have
learned, you care no longer to wed me, do not write me; do
not come to give me reasons.
"Mr. Foxcroft attends me. We will await you at his house, at
noon, and if you come--as, God help me I believe you
will--then I shall teach you what a maid's love can mean. Oh,
to have you again, as I held you those long days on the
trail; but you were too near death to know it!--too close to
death to hear all I promised you if only you would live!
"FELICITY."
"Mount!" I cried, all of a-tremble, "I shall wed this noon! Get me a
parson, man!" And I began tearing off my buckskins and flinging them
right and left, shouting for Jack the while, and dressing in my finest
linen and my silver-gray velvet.
Now choking with the tears that I could not crush back, now smiling at
the sunlight which yellowed the white walls of my chamber, I shouted
at intervals for Mount, until the tap-boy came to say that Mount had
gone out. So I bade the tap-boy hasten forth and buy me a large
nosegay with streamers, and fetch it to me instantly; and then
returned to my toilet with a feverish haste that defeated its own
purpose.
At last, however, I hung my sword, dusted the hair-powder from frill
and ruffle, buckled shoon and knees, and shook out the long soft lace
over my cuffs. Then I found the ring I had bought in Albany, and
placed it in my silver-webbed waistcoat with its flowered flaps of
orange silk.
The inn clocks chimed for ten as the lad brought me a huge nosegay all
fluttering with white silken streamers.
"Where is my companion?" I asked, red as a poppy under his grins.
"Below, sir," replied the lad, hesitating.
"Drunk?" I demanded, angrily.
"Tolerable," said the lad.
With that I seized my nosegay, set my small French hat on my head, and
went down the side stairway to the street.
Mount, swaggering on the tap-room porch, spied me and rubbed his
startled eyes. But I seized him by the painted cape of his fox-trimmed
hunting-shirt, and jerked him to and fro savagely.
"Idiot! Tippler! Pottle-pot!" I cried, in a rage. "I'm to be
married--d'ye hear? Married! Married! Get me a parson! Take my
nosegay! So! Now walk behind me as if you knew what decent folk are
accustomed to do at a sudden wedding!"
"How can I get you a parson if I'm to march here behind you, bearing
this nosegay?" he remonstrated, sidling away towards the tavern again.
"You stay where you are!" I said; then I called a servant and bade him
find a parson to go instantly to the house of Thomas Foxcroft in Queen
Street, and there await my coming.
Mount, almost sobered, through sheer astonishment, regarded me
wildly.
"Jack, old friend," I said, in a burst of happiness, "I've found her,
and she will be my wife by noon! Give me joy, Jack!--and mind that
nosegay, idiot! Hold it aloft, else the streamers will trail in the
dust! Now, then! Follow me! Gingerly, idiot, gingerly!"
And away I marched, scarce knowing what I did in my excitement, but
turning now and again to see that Mount followed, bearing the nosegay
with proper care.
"If you are to be wedded at noon," he said, timidly, as we were
hurrying through Cambridge Street, "what are we going to do until
then--walk the streets like this? Lord, what a fool I feel!"
I stopped short. It was quite true that I was not expected at Mr.
Foxcroft's before noon, and it was now but ten o'clock or a little
after.
"I can't sit still in that tavern," I said. "Let us walk, Jack. Two
hours are quickly past. Come, step beside me--and mind those ribbons!
Jack! I am mad with happiness!"
"Then let us drink to it," suggested Mount, but I jerked him to my
side, and scarcely knowing what to do or where to go, started on, with
the vague idea of circling the city in a triumphal march.
I shall never forget my first glimpse of the city by daylight: its
brick houses streaked with sea-fog, its bare wooden wharves glimmering
in the sunshine, as Mount and I passed through Lyna Street and out
along the water by Lee's ship-yard and Waldo's Wharf.
Northward across the misty water the roofs and steeples of Charlestown
reddened in the sun; to the west the cannon on Corps Hill glittered,
pointing seaward over the Northwest Water Mill. From somewhere in the
city came the beating of drums and the faint squealing of fifes; the
lion banner of England flapped from Beacon Hill; white tents crowned
the summit of Valley Acre; the ashes of the beacon smoked.
In the northwestern portion of the city the quiet of death reigned;
there was not a sign of life in the streets; the wooden houses were
closed and darkened; the ship-yards and wharves deserted; not a living
soul was to be seen abroad. Mount's noiseless moccasined tread awoke
no echoes, but my smart heels clattered as we turned southeast through
squalid Hawkins Street, through Sudbury, Hanover, Wings Lane, Dock
Square, by the Town Dock, and then south, past the Long Wharf and
Battery Marsh, above which, on Fort Hill, another British flag rippled
against the blue sky.
"The damned rag flies high to-day," muttered Mount.
"Are you not done with cursing it?" I said, impatiently. "This is no
day for bitterness."
"It's a slave's flag," retorted Mount--"parry that!"
"It flew for centuries above free men; let that plead for it!" I
answered.
There was an inn on Milk Street, near Bishop's Alley, and the first
open house we had encountered. Mount, before I could prevent him, had
nosed out the tap-room, and I followed perforce, although I knew well
enough that it was an ill-advised proceeding, the place being full of
British soldiery and Mount in a quarrelsome mood.
The soldiers eyed Mount and his nosegay askance, and Mount cocked his
fox-skin cap and ruffled it offensively, outstaring the most insolent
of them. But presently, to my relief, the soldiers left without
accepting the opportunity for a quarrel, and Mount, somewhat dejected,
refilled his glass and emptied it, with a disagreeable laugh. Then we
went out by way of Winter Street to the Mall, Jack bearing my nosegay
as though it had been a hostile ensign to flaunt before all England.
There seemed to be many people abroad on Common Street; the shops were
open all along Treamount and King streets, and the Boston citizens
went about their affairs as soberly and quietly as though the city
were not choking to death with England's heavy fist at its throat.
As for the Boston people, they resembled our good townsmen of Tryon
County somewhat, though their clothes were of a more elegant cut, and
even the snuffiest of them wore lace and buckles. Their limbs and
features, however, appeared long and thin, a characteristic I had
already noticed in New England folk.
Through the double rows of trees I could see the tents of the marines
pitched on the Mall, and beyond them a park of artillery and some low
redoubts. Soldiers were passing everywhere: here a company marching to
the drum across the Common, black gaiters twinkling; there a squadron
of Light Horse, in blue and silver, riding, two abreast, to their
barracks on George Street. Anon comes a company of red-necked
Highlanders, bagpipes squawling, and it made me think of Johnson Hall
to see their bare shins passing, sporrans a-swing, and the crawling
whine of their pipes in my ears.
I looked at my watch; it was eleven o'clock. Mount and I leaned back
against the railing of the south burying-ground, watching the busy
life of the camp on the Common. I had never before seen so many
soldiers together, nor such a brilliant variety of uniforms. The
towns-people, too, lingered to watch the soldiers, some sullenly, some
indifferently, some in open enjoyment. These latter were doubtless
Tories, for in their faces one could not mistake the expression of
sneering triumph. Also many of them talked to the soldiers, which
earned them unconcealed scowls from passing citizens.
"Well," said Mount, "have you seen enough of the lobster-backs? The
sight of them," he continued, raising his voice, "sours my stomach,
and I care not who knows it."
Several people near us looked at him.
"Keep quiet!" I said, sharply. "I have no desire to spend the day in
the provost cell yonder. Can you not remember what this day means to
me?"
Mount shrugged his broad shoulders, lighted his pipe, and sat down on
the grass under a tall elm.
"Sit beside me, lad," he said, "and I'll tell you all about these gay
birds, and how to know them by their plumage. Mark! Yonder comes an
officer in black and scarlet, wearing a single gold epaulette and a
gold gorget, with the royal arms in gold on his white baldric. That's
the royal artillery, Mr. Cardigan. That gay old buck beside him is a
colonel of foot. He's all scarlet trimmed up with yellow and white.
Most of them wear white breeches and black gaiters. There! That fellow
in blue and silver, with orange cuffs and top-boots, is a trooper of
Light Horse. See the steel head-piece with its roll of bear-skin and
the orange plume on the left side. Some of 'em wear red cuffs and
plumes, but you can tell them by their laced blue vests and
jack-boots, and the officers by white baldrics and two silver
epaulettes."
"What is that fellow there with the bear-skin cap and white plume and
tassels?" I asked, with a pretence of interest which in my anxiety and
excitement I could not feel. The splendid uniform which I pointed out
glittered in stripes of silver and pale blue embroidery over a scarlet
coat.
"That lad is a drummer of the Grenadiers," said Mount. "The soldier
beside him with the green facings and green-and-gold stock is one of
the Twenty-fourth Foot--a sergeant by his baldric and cross-spear. Oh,
they're gay and godless, as the Weasel would say--"
He paused and looked down. The slightest tremor twitched his underlip.
I laid my hand lightly on his shoulder.
"Ay, ay," he said, "I'm lost without him--I don't know what to do--I
don't know. I see him in my sleep; he comes in dreams o' the woods. I
wake laughing at his dry jests, and find my face twisted wi' tears.
There's never a leaf stirs on a bough but I listen for Cade's padded
footfall behind me; there's never a free wind blows but I hark for his
voice a-calling me back to the sweet green forest and the spice o' the
birch camp-fire. Lad! lad! He's dead and buried these long weeks, and
I am but a weird-hound on a spectre trail, dogging his wraith."
We sat there on the grass watching the marines drilling; the artillery
trotted clanking past for exercise at the Fox Hill redoubt, and
presently we heard the dull boom-booming of their cannon along the
west shore of the bay.
"They even shoot at the rebel fishes," sneered Mount, raising his
voice for the benefit of his neighbours.
I sprang to my feet impatiently, adjusted my sword, and dusted the
skirts of my coat.
"It's not half-past eleven yet," observed Mount.
"I don't care," I muttered; "I shall go to Queen Street now. Come,
Jack! I cannot endure this delay, I tell you."
He did not answer.
"Come, Jack," I repeated, turning around to summon him. "What are you
staring at, man?"
As I spoke a roughly clad man pushed in between me and Mount, swinging
a knobbed stick; another man followed, then another. Mount had leaped
to his feet and backed up to my side.
"It's Billy Bishop's gang!" he said, thickly. "Leave me, lad, or
they'll take us both!"
Before I could comprehend what was on foot, half a dozen men suddenly
surrounded Mount, and silently began to close in on him.
"Go!" muttered Mount, fiercely, pushing me violently from him.
"No, you don't!" said a cool voice at my elbow; "we want the Weasel,
too, for all his fine clothes!"
The next instant a man in a red neck-cloth had seized my hands in a
grip of iron, and, ere I knew what had happened, he clapped the gyves
on one of my wrists. With a cry of rage and amazement I tore at my
manacled hand, and, partly helpless as I was, I sprang at the fellow.
He struck me a fierce blow with his cudgel, and ran around the edge of
the swaying knot of human figures which was slowly bearing Mount to
the ground.
Then Mount rose, hurling the pack from him, and striking right and
left with his huge arms. I saw the nosegay fly into a shower of
blossoms, and the silken ribbons flutter down under the trampling
feet.
For a moment I caught Mount's eye, as he stood like a deeply breathing
bull at bay, then swinging the steel manacle which was locked on my
right wrist, I beat my way to Mount's side, and faced the thief-taker
and his bailiffs.
They rushed us against the fence of the burying-ground, bruising us
with their heavy cudgels, and knocking the war-hatchet from Mount's
fist. I had my sword out, but could not use it, the manacles on my
wrist clogging the guard and confusing me. In the uproar around us I
heard cries of: "Death to the highwaymen!" "Kill the rogues!" A vast
crowd was surging up on all sides; soldiers drew their hangers and
pushed their way to the side of the baffled bailiffs.
"Give up, Jack Mount!" cried the stout man with the red
neck-cloth--"give up, in the King's name! It's all over with you now!
I've run you from Johnstown on a broad trail, God wot! and I want your
brush and pads, old fox!"
Mount displayed his broad knife coolly. The sunlight played over the
blade of the murderous weapon; the crowd around us broke into a
swelling roar.
Suddenly a soldier struck heavily at Mount with his hanger, but Mount
sent the sword whirling with the broad, short blade in his hand.
"If you'll let this gentleman go, I'll give up," said Mount, sullenly.
"Answer me, Billy Bishop!"
"Come, come," said Bishop, in a bantering voice, "we know all about
this gentleman, Jack. Don't you worry; we'll take care he has a view
of the Roxbury Cross-road as well as you!"
The taunt of the cross-roads gallows transformed Mount into a demon.
He hurled his huge bulk at the solid mass of people; I followed,
making what play I could with my small-sword, but in a moment I was
down in the dust, blood pouring from my face, groping blindly for the
enemies who were already clapping the irons on my other wrist.
Through the roar and tumult of frantic voices I was dragged into a
stony street, crushed into the pit of a crowd, which hurried me on
resistlessly. White, excited faces looked into mine; hundreds of
clinched fists tossed above the dense masses on either side. Again and
again I plunged at those who drove me, but they thrust me onward. Far
ahead in the throng I saw the head and shoulders of Jack Mount
overtopping them all.
The mob halted at a cross-street to allow a cavalcade of horsemen to
pass. Above the heads of the people I could see the cavalry riding,
sabres bared, the riders glancing curiously down at the rabble and its
prisoners. A coach passed, escorted by dragoons; a gentleman looked
out to seek the reason of the uproar. From his coach window his head
leaned so close to me that I could have touched it. The gentleman was
Walter Butler.
"A thief, sir," cried a bailiff; "taken by Bishop on the Mall. Would
your lordship be pleased to see his comrade, the notorious Jack
Mount?"
"Drive on," said Butler, impassively. Then the crowd began to hoot and
jeer as the bailiffs pushed me forward once more through the dust of
Cornhill up Queen Street.
And so, crushed by the awful disgrace which had fallen on me,
writhing, resisting, dishevelled, I was forced into the Court-house on
Queen Street, across the yard, and into the gates of the prison, which
crashed behind me, drowning the roars of the people in my stunned
ears.