He hesitated, poised on the threshold, his yellow eyes contracting,
dazzled by the candle; then, like lightning, his sword glittered in
his hand, but Mount, behind him, tore the limber blade from his grip
and flung it ringing at my feet. Now, weaponless and alone, Butler
stood confronting us, his blank eyes travelling from one to another,
his thin lips twitching in an ever-deepening sneer. Nor did the sneer
leave his face when Mount slammed and locked the door behind him, and
unsheathed his broad hunting-knife.
"Something is dreadfully wrong, gentlemen," quavered poor Cade Renard;
"this is Captain Butler, my daughter's affianced. I pray you follow no
ancient quarrel under my roof, gentlemen. I cannot suffer this
affront--I cannot permit this difference between gentlemen in my
daughter's presence--"
Mount quietly drew the little man aside to the door and led him out,
saying tenderly: "All is well, old friend; you have forgotten much in
these long days. You will remember soon. Go, dream in the moonlight,
Cade. She was ever a friend to us, the moon."
Suddenly Butler turned on Silver Heels, his darkening face distorted.
"You have played the game well!" he whispered, between his teeth.
"What game?" I asked, with deadly calmness. "Pray say what you have to
say at once, Mr. Butler."
Again his evil gaze shifted from face to face; there was no mercy in
the eyes that met his; his visage grew loose and pallid.
"That she-devil swore to wed me!" he broke out, hoarsely, pointing a
shaking finger full at Silver Heels. "She--swore it!" His voice sank
to a hiss.
"To save my father from a highwayman's death!" said Silver Heels,
deathly white.
She turned to me, quivering. "Michael, I am a thief's daughter. This
is what I am come to!--to buy my father's life with my own body--and
fling my soul at that man's feet! _Now will you wed me?_"
A cold fury blinded me so I could scarcely see him. I cocked my rifle
and drew my hand across my eyes to clear them.
"This is not your quarrel!" he said, desperately; "this woman is the
daughter of Cade Renard, a notorious highwayman known as the Weasel! I
doubt that Sir Michael Cardigan--for your uncle is dead, whether you
know it or not!--would care to claim kinship in this house!"
He turned like a snake and measured Mount from head to foot.
"Give me my sword!" he said, harshly, "and I will answer for myself
against this other thief!" His glaring eyes fell on Foxcroft.
"What the devil are you doing here?" he snarled. "Are you knave or
fool, that you stand there listening to this threat on my life? You
know that this woman is Renard's child! You have Sir John's papers to
prove it! Are you not his attorney, man? Then tell these gentlemen
that I speak the truth, and that I will meet them both, singly, and
carve it on their bodies lest they forget it!"
"It is too late," I said; "a gentleman's sword can never again be
soiled by those hands."
"Ay!" cried Foxcroft, suddenly, "it is too late! You say I have papers
to prove the truth? I have; and you shall hear the truth, you cursed
scoundrel!"
"She is the Weasel's child!" cried Butler, hoarsely.
"If she were the child of Tom o' Bedlam, she is still betrothed to me!
God knows," I said, "whether you be human or demon, and so perhaps you
may not burn in hell, but I shall send you thither, with God's help!"
And I laid my hand on his arm, and asked him if he was minded to die
quietly in the garden; while Mount, knife at his throat, pushed him
towards the door.
"Do you mean it?" he burst out, shuddering. "Am I not to have a
chance for life? This is murder, Mr. Cardigan!"
"So dealt you by me at the Cayuga stake," I said.
"Yet--it is murder you do. If my hands are not clean, would you foul
your own?"
"So dealt you by me in Queen Street prison," I said, slowly.
"Yet, nevertheless, it is murder. And you know it. This is no court of
law, to sit in judgment. Are the Cardigans the public hangmen?"
"Give him his sword!" I cried, passionately. "I cannot breathe while
he draws breath! Give him his sword, or I will slay him with naked
hands!"
"No!" roared Foxcroft, hurling me back.
Butler scowled at the lawyer; Foxcroft scowled at him, and placed his
heavy shoe on the fallen sword. Then he suddenly stooped, seized the
gilded hilt, and snapped the blade in two, casting the fragments from
him in contempt.
"The sword of a scoundrel," he said; "the sword of a petty
malefactor--a pitiful forger--"
"Liar!" shrieked Butler, springing at him. Mount flung the maddened
man into a chair, where he lay, white and panting, staring at
Foxcroft, who now stood by the table, coolly examining a packet of
documents.
"It is all here," he said--"the story of two cheap dabblers in petty
crime--Sir John Johnson and Mr. Walter Butler--how they did conspire
to steal from Miss Warren her wealth, her fair fame, and the very name
God gave her. A shameful story, gentlemen, but true on the word of an
honourable man."
"Lies!" muttered Butler, between ashen lips. His cheeks became loose
and horrible; his lips shrivelled up above his teeth. Foxcroft turned
to me, purple with passion.
"Sir William Johnson, your honourable kinsman, left Miss Warren
property in his will. Sir John found, in the same box which held the
will, a packet of documents and letters addressed to Sir William,
apparently proving that Miss Warren was the child of a certain lady
who had left her husband to follow the fortunes of Captain Warren--her
child by her own husband, Cade Renard, a gentleman of Cambridge."
"The Weasel!" burst out Jack Mount.
"But she is not, sir!" cried Foxcroft, turning on Mount. "She is
Captain Warren's own child; I journeyed to England and proved it; I
have papers here in my pocket to prove it!" he said, slapping the
flaps of his brass-buttoned coat. "It was a lie from beginning to end;
the letters supposed to have been written to Sir William by Sir Peter
Warren were forged; the documents supposed to have been unearthed from
the flooring in the captain's cabin of his Majesty's ship _Leda_ were
forged. I can prove it! I can prove that Walter Butler was the forger!
I can prove that Sir John Johnson knew it! And to that end Sir John
and Captain Butler conspired to make her believe herself to be the
child of a half-crazed forest-runner who had been besetting Sir John
with his mad importunities, calling himself Cade Renard, and vowing
that Miss Warren was his own child!"
He glared at Butler; the wretched man's lips moved to form the word,
"Lies!" but no sound came. Then Foxcroft turned to me.
"In my presence these three men broke the news to her; they hoodwinked
me, too. By God, sir, I had never suspected villany had not that
contemptible fool, Sir John, attempted to bribe silence, should
anything ever occur to cast doubt on the relationship betwixt this
fellow Renard and Miss Warren!"
The lawyer paused, grinding his teeth in rage.
"I accepted the bribe! I did, gentlemen! I did it to quiet suspicion.
Sir John believes me to be his creature. But I set out to follow the
matter to the bitter end, and I have done it! It's a falsehood from A
to Zed! I shall have the pleasure of flinging Sir John's bribe into
his face!"
He laid his hand on my arm, speaking very gently and gravely.
"Mr. Cardigan, Miss Warren is the truest, bravest, sweetest woman I
have ever known. She received the news of her dreadful position as a
gallant soldier receives the fire of the enemy. When it was made
hopelessly clear to her that this lunatic Renard was her father, and
that she was not a Warren, not an heiress, that she must now give up
all thought of the family on which she had so long imposed--and give
up all pretensions to _you_, sir--she acquiesced with a dignity that
might have become a princess of the blood, sir! No whining there, Mr.
Cardigan! Not a whimper, sir; not a reproach, not a tear. Her first
thought was of pity for her father--this little, withered lunatic, who
sat there devouring her with his eyes of a sick hound. She went to him
before us all; she took his hand--his hard, little claw--and kissed
it. By God, gentlemen, blood tells!"
After a long silence I repeated, "Blood tells."
Mount, head in his hands, was weeping.
"Then came Butler, the forger," said Foxcroft, pointing at him. "And
when he found that, after all, Miss Warren honoured herself too highly
to seek a rehabilitation through his name, he came here and threatened
this poor old man's life--threatened to denounce him as a thief, and
have him hung at a cross-roads, unless she gave herself to him!
Then--then she consented."
Butler was sitting forward in his chair, his bloodless face supported
between his slim fingers, his eyes on vacancy. He did not seem to hear
the words that branded him; he did not appear to see us as we drew
closer around him.
"In the orchard," muttered Mount; "we can hang him with his own
bridle."
We paused for an instant, gazing silently at the doomed man. Then
Mount touched him on the shoulder.
At the voiceless summons he looked up at us as though stunned.
"You must hang," said Mount, gravely.
"Not that! No!" I stammered; "I can't do it! Give him a sword--give
him something to fight with! Jack--I can't do it. I am not made that
way!"
There was a touch on my arm; Silver Heels stood beside me.
"Let them deal with him," she murmured, "you cannot fight with him;
there is no honour in him."
"No!--no honour in him!" I repeated.
He had risen, and now stood, staring vacantly at me.
"Damnation!" cried Mount, "are you going to let him loose on the world
again?"
"I cannot slay him," I said.
"But a rope can!" said Mount.
"Do you then draw it," I replied, "and never rail more at the
hangman!"
After a moment I unlocked and opened the door. As in a trance, Butler
passed out into the moonlight; Mount stole close behind him, and I saw
his broad knife glimmer as he followed.
"Let him go," I said, wearily. "I choke with all this foul intrigue.
Is there no work to do, Jack, save the sheriff's? Faugh! Let him go!"
Butler slowly set foot to stirrup; Mount snatched the pistol from the
saddle-holster with a savage sneer.
"No, no," he said. "Trust a scoundrel if you will, lad, but draw his
fangs first. Oh, Lord above!--but I hate to let him go! Shall I? I'll
give him a hundred yards before I fire! And I'll not aim at that!
Shall I?"
If Butler heard him he made no sign. He turned in his saddle and
looked at Silver Heels.
Should I let him loose on the world once more? God knows I am no
prophet, nor pretend to see behind the veil; yet, as I stood there,
looking on Walter Butler, I thought the haze that the moon spun in the
garden grew red like that fearsome light which tinges the smoke of
burning houses, and I remembered that dream I had of him, so long ago,
when I saw him in the forest, with blood on him, and fresh scalps at
his belt--and the scalps were not of the red men.
Should I, who had him in my power, and could now forever render the
demon in him powerless--should I let him go free into the world, or
send him forever to the dreadful abode of lost souls?
War was at hand. War would come at dawn when the Grenadiers marched
into Concord town. To slay him, then, would be no murder. But now?
Mount, watching me steadily, raised his rifle.
"No," I said.
What was I to do? There was no prison to hale him to; the jails o'
Boston lodged no Tories. Justice? There was no justice save that
mockery at Province House. Law? Gage was the law--Gage, the friend of
this man. What was I to do? Once again Mount raised his rifle.
"No," I said.
So passed Walter Butler from among us, riding slowly out into the
shadowy world, under the calm moon. God witness that I conducted as my
honour urged, not as my hot blood desired--and He shall deal with me
one day, face to face, that I let loose this man on the world, yet did
not dream of the hell he should make of Tryon County ere his red soul
was fled again to the hell that hatched it!
So rode forth mine enemy, Walter Butler, invulnerable for me in his
armour of dishonour, unpunished for the woe that he had wrought,
unmarked by justice which the dawn had not yet roused from her long
sleep in chains.
Again Mount raised his rifle.
"No," I said.
* * * * *
A little breeze began stirring in the moonlit orchard; our horses
tossed their heads and stamped; then silence fell.
After a long while the voice of Mount recalled me to myself; he had
drawn poor Renard to a seat on the rotting steps of the porch.
"Now do you know me, Cade?" asked Mount, again and again.
The Weasel folded his withered hands in his lap and looked up,
solemnly.
"Cade? Cade, old friend?" persisted Mount, piteously, drawing his
great arm about the Weasel's stooping shoulders.
The Weasel's solemn eyes met his in silence.
Mount forced a cheerful laugh that rang false in the darkness.
"What! Forget the highway, Cade? The King's highway, old friend? The
moon at the cross-roads? Eh? You remember? Say you remember, Cade."
The blank eyes of the Weasel were fixed on Mount.
"The forest? Eh, Cade? Ho!--lad! The rank smell o' the moss, and the
stench of rotting logs? The quiet in the woods, the hermit-bird piping
in the pines? Say you remember, old friend!" he begged; "tell me you
remember! Ho! lad, have you forgot the tune the war-arrow sings?"
And he made a long-drawn, whispering whimper with his lips.
In pantomime he crouched and pointed; the Weasel's mild eyes turned.
"The Iroquois!" whispered Mount, anxiously. "They wear
O-Kwen-cha!--red paint! Hark to the war-drums! Do you not hear them
chanting:
"Ha-wa-sa-say!
Ha-wa-sa-say!"
The Weasel's eyes grew troubled; he looked up at Mount trustfully,
like a child who refuses to be frightened.
"I hear Che-ten-ha, the mouse; he gnaws, gnaws, gnaws."
"No, it is the Iroquois!" urged Mount. "You have fought them, Cade;
you remember? Say that you remember!"
"I--I have fought the Iroquois," repeated the Weasel, passing his hand
over his brow; "but it was years ago--years ago--too long ago to
remember--"
"No, no!" cried Mount, "it was but yesterday, old friend--yesterday!
And who went with you on the burnt trail, Cade? Who went with you by
night and by day, by starlight and by sun, eating when you ate,
starving when you starved, drinking deep when you drank, thirsting
when you thirsted? It was I, Cade!" cried Mount, eagerly; "I!"
"It was Tah-hoon-to-whe, the night-hawk," murmured the little man.
"It was I, Jack Mount!" repeated the forest-runner, in a loud voice.
"Hark! The Iroquois drums! The game's afoot, Cade! Rouse up, old
friend! The trail is free!"
But the Weasel only stared at him with his solemn, aged eyes, and
clasped his trembling hands in his lap.
Mount stood still for a long while. Slowly his eager head sank, his
arms fell, hopelessly. Then, with a gulping sob, he sank down beside
his ancient comrade, and hid his head in his huge hands.
The Weasel looked at him with sorrowful eyes; then rose, and came
slowly towards Silver Heels.
"They say you are not my daughter," he said, taking Silver Heels's
hands from mine. "They tell me I have forgotten many things--that you
are not my little girl. But--we know better, my child."
He bent and kissed her hands. His hair was white as frost.
"We know better, child," he murmured. "You shall tell me all they
say--for I cannot understand--and we will smile to remember it all, in
the long summer evenings--will we not, my child?"
"Yes," said Silver Heels, faintly.
"There is much, sir, that I forget in these days," he said, turning
gravely towards me--"much that I cannot recall. Age comes to us all
with God's mercy, sir. Pray you forgive if I lack in aught of courtesy
to my guests. There are many people who stay with us--and I cannot
remember all names of new and welcome guests--believe me, most
welcome. I think your name is Captain Butler?"
"Sir Michael Cardigan," whispered Silver Heels.
"And welcome, always welcome to us here in Cambridge Hall," murmured
the old man, staring vacantly about him.
Foxcroft, who had gone to the shabby barn, came back and whispered
that there were no horses there, and no vehicle of any description;
that we had best make ready for a journey to Albany immediately, and
abandon the house and its scant furnishings to the mercy of chance.
I left it to him and to Jack Mount to persuade poor Renard that a
journey was necessary that very night; and to them also I left the
care of providing for us as best they might, saying that I had no
money until I could reach Albany, and that my horse Warlock was to
carry Miss Warren.
When Mount had drawn poor Cade away, and when Foxcroft began rummaging
the great house for what necessaries and provisions it might contain,
Silver Heels took me by the hand and led me up the creaking old stairs
and across the gallery to her own chamber. The moonlight flooded the
room as we entered, making its every corner sparkle.
Save for the great four-posted bed with its heavy canopy, there was in
the room nothing but a pine table and a jug and basin.
"So poor am I," she whispered, close beside my face.
"Is this all?" I asked.
"All save the clothes on my body, Michael."
"Silver Heels! Silver Heels!" I said, sorrowfully, holding her by the
hands and never moving my eyes from her tender eyes. And we looked
and looked, nor gazed our fill, and the light of her sweet presence
was like moonlight which swam in the silvery room, bathing me to the
soul of me with deep content.
"All these piteous days!" she said, slowly.
"Ay--all of them! And each hour a year, and each nightfall a closing
century. Silver Heels! Silver Heels! You are unchanged, dear heart!"
"Thin to my bones, and very, very old--like you, Michael."
"We have young souls."
"Yes, Michael. We are young in all save sorrow."
"And you are so tall, Silver Heels--"
"Span my waist!"
"My hand would span it. Ah! Your head comes not above my chin for all
your willow growth!"
"Your hands are rough, Sir Michael."
"Your hands are satin, sweet."
"Yet I wash my kerchief and my shifts in suds."
How the moon glowed and glowed on her.
"You grow in beauty, Silver Heels," I said.
"When you are with me I do truly feel beauty growing in me, Michael."
We sat down together on the great bed's edge, her face against mine,
and looked out at the faint stars which the glory of the moon had not
yet drowned in light.
Far in the night a cock crowed in the false dawn.
"You have suffered, sweet?" I whispered.
"Ay. And you?"
"Much," I replied.
After a long while she spoke.
"You have never wavered--not once--not for one moment?"
"Once."
In a faint whisper, "When?"
"On the road from Albany, dear heart."
"You rode in company?"
"Not of my choice."
"Who?"
"Do not ask."
"Who?"
"I cannot tell--"
"Who?"
"In honour."
"You wavered?"
"There was no danger when I thought of you."
She raised her face; her mouth touched mine, then clung to it, and I
breathed the sweetest breath a maid e'er drew, and all my soul grew
dim and warm and faint, with her arms now around my neck, now clinging
to my shoulders, and her face like a blossom crushed to mine.
Trembling in limb and body she stood up, brushing her gray eyes awake
with slender fingers.
"Ah, what happiness, what happiness!" she whispered. "I am all
a-quiver, and I burn to the soul of me. What strange, sweet mischief
is there in your lips, Michael? Nay--do not touch me--dear, dear lad;
not now--not yet."
She leaned from the open casement; in the intense stillness a voice
broke out from below:
"Ready, Cardigan! The horses wait at the barn!"
As she had no cloak I wrapped her in mine, and, passing my arm around
her, led her down to the porch and out across the orchard to the barn
where Renard sat, mounted on his old comrade's horse.
Warlock came to my call; he nosed the little hand that Silver Heels
held out, and laid his head close to hers.
"Bear her safely, Warlock!" I muttered, huskily, and lifted her to the
saddle, bidding Foxcroft mount his own horse, as I would walk beside
Miss Warren.
So we started, Foxcroft in the van, then the Weasel, with Mount afoot,
leading the horse, then Silver Heels in her saddle, with one hand on
my shoulder as I walked at her side, rifle trailed.
"There is a road which swings north," said Foxcroft. "We must circle
Lexington."
"There is a road yonder," called out Mount.
Foxcroft hesitated.
"I think it leads to Roxbury," he said; "I cannot tell if it be the
road."
"Is it the Roxbury Road, Cade?" asked Mount, cheerfully.
"Doubtless, doubtless," replied the Weasel, vacantly, staring at
Silver Heels.
"He does not remember," whispered Silver Heels.
"Try it," said Mount; "I doubt not but that it swings far north o'
Lexington. If this were the forest 'twixt Saint Sacrement and Pitt I'd
vouch for us all, but the smell o' the town has dulled and blunted my
nose, and I see no longer like a tabby in a dark pantry."
He moved into the road, following Foxcroft, and leading the horse on
which Cade Renard was mounted. I came last with Silver Heels.
The moon was well on her journey towards the dark world's edge ere we
came to a cross-roads; but the four finger-posts were missing, and we
found ourselves no wiser than before. Foxcroft voiced his misgivings
that we were on the Lexington Road after all, and not on the road to
Roxbury, as we should surely have crossed the Concord Road ere this.
And he was right, for in a few moments we came in full view of the
Lexington Meeting-house, with the Concord Road running into our road
on the left and "Buckman's Tavern" on the right, all ablaze with
candles set in every window, and a great stable lanthorn shining in
the centre of the road.
"It is past three in the morning," said Foxcroft, looking at his
watch. "The British should have been here ere this if they were coming
at all."
Mount threw his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, and, tossing
his horse's bridle to Foxcroft, walked towards "Buckman's Tavern"
where, in the lanthorn light, a throng of men were standing.
I heard him greet them with a hearty "God save our country"; then he
disappeared in the crowd.
The night had turned chilly; I buttoned my riding-coat across Silver
Heels's throat and covered her head with the cape, tying it under her
chin like a hood.
Presently Mount came striding back, rifle on shoulder, followed by an
hostler with a stable light.
"The militia have been yonder under arms since midnight," he said. "A
messenger rode in ten minutes since with news that the road was clear
and no British coming. We can get a post-chaise here"--he nodded
towards the hostler who stood swinging his lamp in one hand and his
firelock in t'other.
"I guess the redcoats ain't a-coming, gentlemen," said the hostler,
with a grin.
"Then we had best bait at the tavern," said Foxcroft, quickly; and he
led the way, riding beside the Weasel, who seemed utterly indifferent
to his surroundings.
As we threaded our path through the crowd of men and boys I noticed
that all were armed with rifles or old-time firelocks, and some even
with ancient blunderbusses and bell-muzzled matchlocks. They appeared
to be a respectable company, mostly honest yokels from the village,
clad in plain homespun. A few wore the militia uniform; one or two
officers were dressed in the full uniform of the Third Suffolk
Regiment. They eyed us curiously as we passed through their straggling
ranks; one called out: "The forest-runners are with us! Hurrah!" But,
for the most part, they regarded us quietly, readily making way for me
as I came up, leading Warlock with Silver Heels in the saddle, cloaked
to the eyes.
A servant, wearing a pistol in his belt, brought us bread and hot
stirabout in a great blue bowl. This dry fare we washed with ale,
Silver Heels tasting a glass of Madeira to warm her chilled body.
It was a silent, thoughtful repast. Mount, sitting close beside the
Weasel, urged the old man to eat, and he did, mechanically, with dazed
eyes fixed on space.
One thing I began to notice: he no longer watched Silver Heels with
that humble, devoted, hungering mien of a guardian hound; he scarcely
appeared to be aware of her presence at all. Once only he spoke,
asking what had become of his rifle; and Mount, eager and hopeful,
brought his own rifle to the stricken man. But the Weasel had already
forgotten what he had asked for, and he glanced at the weapon
listlessly, his hands folded before him on the cloth.
Though her life had nigh been wrecked forever by this poor madman,
Silver Heels, sitting at his elbow, watched over him with a serious
tenderness and pity, doing for him those little offices which do
become the children of the aged and infirm, and which, God grant, our
children shall fulfil towards us. And so I saw her with the salt-box,
savouring his stirabout so that it should be seasoned to his liking,
and, with the cone of sugar, chip such morsels with her knife as he
might mumble when he chose.
Presently Foxcroft went to the stables to see that our post-chaise was
well provisioned for the journey, and Mount led Renard away to watch
the feed-bags filled for our horses' provender.
Silver Heels, still wrapped in my riding-cloak, laid her slim hand on
my arm, and we walked together to the tavern porch.
The road from Boston divides in front of the Meeting-house, forming
two sides of a grassy triangle, on the base of which stands the
Meeting-house, facing down the Boston Road. Near this village green a
few armed men still lingered in the faint light of dawn, conversing in
low voices, and glancing often down the deserted Boston Road.
A score of men sat around us on the damp tavern steps, listlessly
balancing their rifles between their knees, some smoking wooden pipes,
some dozing, some drinking early milk from a bucket brought by a
small, freckled lad who wore neither hat nor shoes.
"Do you desire some fresh milk, lady?" he asked, gazing solemnly up at
Silver Heels.
She smiled faintly, took the proffered dipper, and drank a little.
"No pay, lady," he said, as I drew out some coins which Foxcroft had
loaned me; "the redcoats are comin', and we need to for-ti-fy the
in-ner man--and the in-ner lady," he added, politely.
A soldier looked up and laughed.
"That's what the little rascal heard Captain Parker say," he drawled,
much amused, while the barefoot Ganymede withdrew, blushing and
embarrassed, to act as cup-bearer to others who had beckoned him.
"We've got a hundred an' thirty militia here already," volunteered a
drummer-boy who lolled on the porch, fondling his wet drum; "but
Captain Parker, he let 'em go into the houses around the green because
he guesses the redcoats ain't a-comin', but I'm to stay here an' drum
like the devil if the redcoats come."
"An' I'm to fife if they come!" added another boy, stoutly.
I glanced down at the big, painted drum, all beaded with dew, and I
read "Louisburg" written in white letters on the hoops.
"We have some old Louisburg soldiers here," said the urchin, proudly.
"The redcoats say that we be all cowards, but I guess we have fit
battles for 'em long enough."
"You are over-young to fight in war," said Silver Heels, gently.
"No, ma'am, we ain't!" they retorted, in a breath. "We'll give 'em
'Yankee Doodle' this time, my lady!"
"'Yankee Doodle,'" repeated Silver Heels, mystified.
"A foolish song the British play in Boston to plague us," I explained.
Presently Silver Heels touched my arm. "See yonder--look at that man,
down there in the road! See him running now, Michael!"
I turned and looked down the Boston Road; the little barelegged
drummer stood up.
Faintly came the far cry through the misty chill: "The British are
coming! The British are coming!"
The next instant the wet, stringy drum banged and buzzed on the tavern
porch, drowning all other sounds in our ears; a score of men stumbled
to their feet, rifles in hand; the little fifer blew a whistling call,
then ran out into the road.
At that same moment our post-chaise lumbered around the corner of the
tavern yard and drew up before us, Mount acting as post-boy, and
Foxcroft and the Weasel riding together in the rear.
Mount apprehended the situation at a glance; he motioned me to place
Silver Heels in the chaise, which I did, with my eyes still fixed on
the foggy Boston Road.
"Is it a false alarm?" inquired Foxcroft, anxiously, as a few of the
militia came running past our chaise. "Ho! Harrington! Hey! Bob
Monroe! Is it true they are coming, lads?"
Harrington and Monroe, whom I had met in Boston at the "Wild Goose,"
waved their arms to us, and called out that it was doubtless true.
"Which way?" cried Foxcroft, standing up in his stirrups.
But the militia and Minute Men ran out without answering, and joined
the line which was slowly forming on the green, while the old
Louisburg drum rolled, vibrating sonorously, and the fife's shrill
treble pierced the air.
There was a uniformed officer in front of the ragged line, shouting
orders, gesticulating, pushing men into place; some sidled nearer to
their comrades as though for shelter, many craned their necks like
alarmed turkeys, a few huddled into groups, charging and priming their
pieces--some threescore yokels in all, though others were running from
the houses and joining the single rank, adding to the disorder and
confusion. And all the while the old Louisburg drum thundered the
assembly.
"Cardigan, which way are they coming?" cried Foxcroft, still standing
up in his stirrups. "They say there are redcoats behind us and more in
front of us!"
"Do those ragged rascals mean to face a British army?" exclaimed
Mount, reining in his horse, which had begun to rear at the noise of
the drum.
"Turn your horses, Jack!" I said, holding Warlock by the head; "turn
back towards Concord!"
"There's redcoats on the Concord Road!" cried a woman, running out of
a house close by. I saw her hurry across to the village green,
carrying a sack of home-moulded bullets.
Jonathan Harrington caught her arm, took the bullet-pouch, kissed her;
then she hastened back to the little house and stood at the window,
peering out with white face pressed to the dark glass.
I flung myself astride Warlock, wheeled the restless horse, and ranged
up alongside Mount.
"Can we not take the Bedford Road?" I asked, anxiously.
"They say the British are betwixt us and the west," replied Mount. His
eyes had begun to burn with a steady, fierce light; he sat astride the
off horse, cocking and uncocking his rifle.
"Then we should make for the Boston Road!" I said, impatiently; "we
can't stay here--"
"Look yonder!" broke in Foxcroft, excitedly.
Out into the Boston Road, in the gray haze of dawn, trotted a British
officer, superbly mounted. The pale light glimmered on his silver
gorget; the gold on his sleeves and hat sparkled.
Straight on his heels marched the British infantry, moving walls of
scarlet topped with shining steel, rank after rank, in magnificent
alignment, pouring steadily into the square, with never a drum-beat to
time the perfect precision of their black-gaitered legs.
"Halt!" cried a far voice; the red ranks stood as one man. An officer
galloped alongside of the motionless lines, and, leaning forward in
his saddle, shouted to the disordered group of farmers, "Stop that
drum!"
"Fall in! Fall in!" roared the captain of the militia; the old
Louisburg drum thundered louder yet.
"Prime! Load!" cried the British officers, and the steady call was
repeated from company to company, and yet to companies unseen, far
down the Boston Road.
Twoscore of spectators had now so hemmed in our post-chaise that we
could not move without crushing them, yet I struggled ceaselessly to
back the vehicle into the stable-yard, and Foxcroft begged the crowd
to move and let the chaise pass.
We had scarcely succeeded in reaching the corner of the yard, and the
body of the chaise was now safe from bullets, when a British major
galloped into the green, motioning violently to the militia with his
drawn sword.
"Disperse! Disperse!" he called out, angrily.
"Stand your ground!" roared the militia captain. "Don't fire unless
fired upon! But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here!"
"Disperse!" shouted the British major. "Lay down your arms! Why don't
you lay down your arms and disperse--"
A shot cut him short; his horse gave a great bound, backed, lashed out
with both hind feet, then reared in agony.
"My God! they've shot his horse!" cried Foxcroft.
"'Tis his own men, then," broke in Mount; "I marked the smoke."
"Disperse!" bellowed the maddened officer, dragging his horse to a
stand-still--"disperse, ye rebels!"
Behind a stone wall a farmer rose and presented his firelock, but the
piece flashed in the pan. A shot rang out, but I could not see who
fired.
Far down the Boston Road the solid front of a second British column
appeared.
Already some of the Minute Men were quitting the single, disordered
rank on the green which still wavered, facing the regulars; but their
captain continued in front of his men, and the drummer still drummed
his hoarse challenge.
Then a British officer fired his pistol from the saddle, and, before
any one could move or lift a finger, a bright sheet of flame girdled
the British front, and the deafening roar of musketry shook the earth.
Through the low rushing billows of smoke that gushed out over the
ground like foam, I saw the British major rise in his stirrups, and,
reversing his sword, drive it downward as signal to cease firing.
Other officers rode up through the smoke, shouting orders which were
lost in the dropping shots from the militia, now retreating on a run
past us up the Bedford Road.
"Look at Harrington," cried Mount; "he's down under that smoke!"
But Harrington rose, and reeled away towards his own house. I saw his
wife at the door; the wounded man also saw her, and feebly stretched
out his hands as though calling for aid, then he pitched forward on
his face and lay still, one hand clutching his own door-step.
"Halt!" shouted the British major, plunging about on his wounded horse
through the smoke. "Stop that firing! D'ye hear what I say? Stop it!
Stop it!" And again and again he reversed his sword in frantic signals
which no one heeded.
An officer cantered up, calling out: "Major Pitcairn! Major Pitcairn!
Are you hit, sir?"
A volley from the British Tenth Foot drowned his voice, and the
red-coated soldiers came bursting through the smoke on a double-quick,
shouting and hoisting their mitre-caps on the points of their
bayonets. Behind them the grenadiers rushed forward, cheering.
A soldier of the light infantry in front of the Meeting-house flung up
his musket and fired at an old man who was hobbling across the
street; shots came quicker and quicker; I saw my acquaintance, Monroe,
attempt to traverse the road towards the tavern; he was rolling in the
mud ere he had taken two steps. A grenadier ran after a lank farmer
and caught him by the collar; the farmer tripped up the redcoat and
started to run, but they brought him to his knees in the road, and
then shot him to death under their very feet.
I galloped to the chaise and jerked the horses back, then wheeled them
westward towards Bedford, where the remnants of the militia were
sullenly falling back, firing across at the British, now marching on
past the Meeting-house up the Concord Road.
"No! No!" cried Foxcroft, "we cannot risk it! Stay where you are!"
"We cannot risk being butchered here!" I replied. Silver Heels was
standing straight up in the chaise, one hand holding to the leather
curtain. Her face had grown very white.
"They've killed a poor young man behind that barn!" she whispered, as
I leaned from my saddle and motioned her to crouch low. "They shot him
twice, and struck him with their muskets!"
I glanced hastily towards the barn and saw a dark heap lying in the
grass behind it. Three red-coated soldiers stood near, loading their
muskets and laughing.
"Look at the Weasel!" muttered Mount, jerking my arm as my horse
ranged up beside his.
The Weasel was hastily climbing out of his saddle, rifle in hand. His
face, which a few moments before had been haggard and vacant, had
grown flushed and eager, his eyes snapped with intelligence, his head
was erect, and his movements quick as a forest-cat's.
"Cade!" quavered Mount. "Cade, old friend, what are you doing?"
"Come!" cried the Weasel, briskly; "can't you see the redskins?"
"Redcoats! Redcoats!" cried Mount, anxiously. "Where are you going,
Cade? Come back! Come back! They can't hit us here! Redcoats, Cade,
not redskins!"
"They be all one to me!" replied the Weasel, briskly, scuttling away
to cover under a tuft of hazel.
"Don't shoot, Cade!" bawled Mount. "Wait till we can gather our
people! Wait! Hell and damnation! don't fire!"
"Bang!" went the Weasel's long brown rifle; a red-coated soldier on
the Concord Road dropped.
"He's done it! God help us!" groaned Foxcroft.
"Hold those horses!" said Mount, desperately. I seized the leaders,
Mount slipped from his saddle to the ground, and ran out to the long,
dead grass behind the Meeting-house. I could see him catch the Weasel
by the arm and attempt to drag him back by force, but the mad little
creature clung obstinately to his patch of hazel.
"He won't come!" shouted Mount, turning towards me.
As he turned, I saw the entire British column marching swiftly up the
Concord Road, a small flanking party thrown out on the right. The
Weasel also saw the troops and made haste to level his rifle again,
but Mount fell upon him and dragged him down into the marsh-grass.
From the Bedford Road our militia fired slowly across at the fast
vanishing troops on the Concord Road; the British flanking party
returned the fire, but the main column paid no heed to the shots, and
pressed on in silence, without music, without banners, without a
drum-tap to mark their rapid march. No British soldiers came our way;
they appeared to disdain the groups of militia retreating along the
Bedford Road; their rear-guard fired a few scattering shots into
"Buckman's Tavern" at long range, then ran on to keep in touch with
the main body.
Both the Weasel and Mount were now deliberately firing at the British
flanking party, which had halted on a bit of ploughed ground, and
seemed to be undecided whether to continue their march or return and
punish the two foolhardy riflemen whose bullets had already knocked
one big soldier flat on his back across the fresh furrows.
All at once six red-coated soldiers started running towards Jack Mount
and the Weasel. I shouted to warn the infatuated men. Silver Heels
caught my arm.
"I cannot leave them there!" I stammered; "I must go to them!"
"Foxcroft will guard me!" she murmured. "Go to them, dearest!"
"Foxcroft! Hold these horses!" I cried, flinging Warlock's bridle to
him, and slipping out of my saddle.
Rifle a-trail, I ran across the road, leaped the fence, and plunged
into the low bushes. Jack Mount turned a cool, amused eye on me as I
came up.
"The Weasel is right," he said, triumphantly; "we'll catch a
half-dozen red-birds now. Be ready when I draw their fire, lad; then
drop and run forward through the swamp! You know how the Senecas
fight. We'll catch them alive!"
Over the tops of the low bushes I could see the soldiers coming
towards us, muskets half raised, scanning the cover for the game they
meant to bag, thrusting their bayonets into bushes, beating the long
grass with their gunstocks to flush the skulking quarry for a
snap-shot.
Without warning, Mount rose, then sank to the ground as a volley
rattled out; and instantly we three ran forward, bent double. In a
moment more I sprang up from the swamp-grass beside a soldier and
knocked him flat with a blow from my rifle-stock. Mount shot at
another and missed him, but the fellow promptly threw down his musket,
yelling lustily for quarter.
The four remaining soldiers attempted to load, but the Weasel tripped
up one, with a cartridge half bitten in his mouth, and the other three
were chased and caught by some Acton militia, who came leaping across
the swampy covert from the Bedford Road.
When the Acton men returned with their prisoners, the soldier whom I
had struck was sitting up in the swamp-grass, rubbing his powdered
head and staring wildly at his sweating and anxious comrades.
"That's the fellow who murdered Harrington!" said one of the militia,
and drew up his rifle with a jerk.
"Use these prisoners well, or I'll knock your head off!" roared Mount,
striking up the rifle.
An officer of Minute Men came up; his eyes were red as though he had
been weeping.
"They butchered his brother behind the red barn yonder," whispered a
lean yokel beside me. "He'll hang 'em, that's what he'll do."
"That's it! Hang 'em!" bawled out a red-headed lout, flourishing a
pitchfork. "Hang the damn--!"
"Put that fool under arrest," said the officer, sharply. Some Acton
Minute Men seized the lout and hustled him off; others formed a guard
and conducted the big, perspiring, red-coated soldiers towards
"Buckman's Tavern."
"You will treat them humanely?" I asked, as the officer passed me.
He gave me a blank glance; the tears again had filled his eyes.
"Certainly," he said, shortly; "I am not a butcher."
I gave him the officer's salute; he returned it absently, and walked
on, with drawn sword and head sunk on his tarnished brass gorget.
A restless, silent crowd had gathered at "Buckman's Tavern," where two
dead Minute Men lay on the porch, stiffening in their blood.
The sun had not yet risen, but all the east was turning yellow; great
clouds of red-winged blackbirds rose and settled in the swampy
meadows, and filled the air with their dry chirking; robins sang
ecstatically.
Back along the muddy Bedford Road trudged the remnants of the
scattered Lexington company of militia; the little barelegged drummer
posted himself in front of the Meeting-house once more, and drummed
the assembly. Men seemed to spring from the soil; every bramble-patch
was swarming now; they came hurrying across the distant fields singly,
in twos and threes, in scores.
Far away in the vague dawn bells rang out in distant villages, and I
heard the faint sound of guns and the throbbing of drums. I passed the
Lexington company re-forming on the trodden village green. Their
captain, Parker, called out to me: "Forest-runner! We need your rifle!
Will you fight with us?"
"I cannot," I said, and ran towards the post-chaise, rifle on
shoulder.
The women and children of Lexington were gathered around it. I saw at
a glance that Silver Heels had given her seat to a frightened old
woman, and that other women were thrusting their children into the
vehicle, imploring Mount and Foxcroft to save them from the British.
"Michael," said Silver Heels, looking up with cool gray eyes, "the
British are firing at women in the farm-houses on the Concord Road
above here. We must get the children away."
"And you?" I asked, sharply. She lifted a barefooted urchin into the
chaise without answering.
A yoke of dusty, anxious oxen, drawing a hay-cart, came clattering up,
the poor beasts running heavily, while their driver followed on a trot
beside them, using his cruel goad without mercy.
"Haw! Haw! Gee! Gee! Haw!" he bellowed, guiding his bumping wagon into
the Bedford Road.
"The children here!" called out Silver Heels, in her clear voice, and
caught up another wailing infant, to soothe it and lift it into the
broad ox-wagon.
In a moment the wagon was full of old women and frantic children; a
young girl, carrying a baby, ran alongside, begging piteously for a
place, but already other vehicles were rattling up behind gaunt, rusty
horses, and places were found for the frightened little ones in the
confusion.
Some boys drove a flock of sheep into the Bedford Road; a herd of
young cattle broke and ran, scattering the sheep. Mount and I sprang
in front of Silver Heels, driving the cattle aside with clubbed
rifles. Then there came a heavy pounding of horses' hoofs in the mud,
a rush, a cry, and a hatless, coatless rider drew up in a cloud of
scattering gravel.
"More troops coming from Boston!" he shouted in his saddle. "Lord
Percy is at Roxbury with three regiments, marines, and cannon! Paul
Revere was taken at one o'clock this morning!" And away he galloped,
head bent low, reeking spurs clinging to his horse's gaunt flanks.
Silver Heels, standing beside me in the hanging morning mist, laid her
hand on my arm.
"If the British are at Roxbury," she said, "we are quite cut off, are
we not?"
I did not answer. Mount turned a grave, intelligent eye on me;
Foxcroft came up, wiping the mud and sweat from his eyes.
At that moment the drum and fife sounded from the green; the Lexington
company, arms trailing, came marching into the Bedford Road, Indian
file, Captain Parker leading.
Beside him, joyous, alert, transfigured, trotted the Weasel. "We've
got them now!" he called out to Mount. "We'll catch the redskins with
our hands at Charlestown Neck!"
The little barelegged drummer nodded seriously; the old Louisburg drum
rumbled out the route-march.
Into "Buckman's Tavern" filed the Lexington men and fell to slamming
and bolting the wooden shutters, piercing the doors and walls for
rifle-fire, piling tables and chairs and bedding along the veranda for
a rough breastwork.
"You must come with the convoy," I said, taking Silver Heels by the
hand.
Her grave, gray eyes met mine in perfect composure.
"We must stay," she said.
"They are bringing cannon--can you not understand?" I repeated,
harshly.
"I will not go," she said. "Every rifle is required here. I cannot
take you from these men in their dire need. Dear heart, can you not
understand me?"
"Am I to sacrifice you?" I asked, angrily. "No!" I cried. "We have
suffered enough--"
Tears sprang to her eyes; she laid her hand on my rifle.
"Other women have sent their dearest ones. Am I less brave than that
woman whose husband died yonder on his own door-sill? Am I a useless,
passionless clod, that my blood stirs at naught but pleasure? Look at
those dead men on the tavern steps! Look at our people's blood on the
grass yonder! Would you wed with a pink-and-white thing whose veins
run water? I saw them kill that poor boy behind his own barn!--these
redcoat ruffians who come across an ocean to slay us in our own land.
Do you forget I am a soldier's child?"
A loud voice bellowing from the tavern: "Women here for the
bullet-moulds! Get your women to the tavern!"
She caught my hand. "You see a maid may not stand idle in Lexington!"
she said, with a breathless smile.