THE SHAPE IN WHITE
We breakfasted on soupaan, new milk, johnnycake, and troutlings caught
by Colas, who had gone by canoe to the outlet of Hans' Creek by
daylight, after I had awakened him. Which showed me how easily one could
escape from the Summer House, in spite of guards patrolling the neck and
mainland road.
We were four at table; Lady Johnson, Claudia, Penelope, and I; and all
seemed to be in better humour, for Claudia's bright eyes were ever
roaming toward the Continental camp, where smart officers passed and
repassed in the bright sunlight; and Lady Johnson did not conceal her
increasing conviction that Sir John had got clean away; which,
naturally, pleased the poor child mightily;--and Penelope, who had
offered very simply to serve us at table, sat silent and contented by
the civil usage she received from Polly Johnson, who told her very
sweetly that her place was in a chair and not behind it.
"For," said my lady, "a parson's daughter may serve where her heart
directs, but is nowise or otherwise to be unclassed."
"Were I obliged by circumstances to labour for my bread," said Claudia,
"would you still entertain honourable though ardent sentiments toward
me, Jack?"
Which saucy question I smiled aside, though it irritated me, and oddly,
too, because Penelope Grant had heard--though why I should care a
farthing for that I myself could not understand.
Lady Johnson laid a hand on Penelope's, who looked up at her with that
shy, engaging smile I had already noticed. And,
"Penelope," said she, "if rumour does not lie, and if all our young
gallants do truly gather 'round when you take your knitting to the porch
of Cayadutta Lodge, then you should make it very plain to all that you
are a parson's daughter as well as servant to Douw Fonda."
"How should I conduct, my lady?"
"Firmly, child. And send any light o' love a-packing at the first
apropos!"
"Oh, lud!" says Claudia, "would you make a nun of her, Polly? Sure the
child must learn----"
"Learn to take care of herself," quoth Polly Johnson tartly. "You have
been schooled from childhood, Claudia, and heaven knows you have had
opportunities enough to study that beast called man!"
"I love him, too," said Claudia. "Do you, Penelope?"
"Men please me," said the Scotch girl shyly. "I do not think them
beasts."
"They bite," snapped Lady Johnson.
"Slap them," said Claudia,--"and that is all there is to it."
"You think any man ever has been tamed and the beast cast out of him,
even after marriage?" demanded Lady Johnson. She smiled, but I caught
the undertone of bitterness in her gaiety, poor girl!
"Before marriage," said Claudia coolly, "man is exactly as treacherous
as he is afterward;--no more so, no less. What about it? You take the
creature as he is fashioned by his Maker, or you drive him away and live
life like a cloistered nun. What is your choice, Penelope?"
"I have no passion for a cloister," replied the girl, so candidly that
all laughed, and she blushed prettily.
"That is best," nodded Claudia; "accept the creature as he is. We're
fools if we're bitten before we're married, and fortunate if we're not
nipped afterward. Anyway, I love men, and so God bless them, for they
can't help being what they are and it's our own fault if they play too
roughly and hurt us."
Lady Johnson laughed and laid her hand lightly on my shoulder.
"Dear Jack," said she, "we do not mean you, of course."
"Oho!" cried Claudia, "it's in 'em all and crops out one day. Jack
Drogue is no tamer than the next man. Nay, I know the sort--meek as a
mouse among petticoats----"
"Claudia!" protested Lady Johnson.
"I hear you, Polly. But when I solemnly swear to you that I have been
afraid of this young man----"
"Afraid of what?" said I, smiling at her audacity, but vexed, too.
"Afraid you might undo me, Jack----"
"What!"
"--And then refuse me an honest name----"
"What mad nonsense do you chatter!" exclaimed Lady Johnson, out of
countenance, yet laughing at Claudia's effrontery. And Penelope,
abashed, laughed a little, too. But Claudia's nonsense madded me, though
her speech had been no broader than was fashionable among a gentry so
closely in touch with London, where speech, and manners, too, were
broader still.
Vexed to be made her silly butt, I sat gazing out of the window, over
the great Vlaie, where, in the reeds, tall herons stood as stiff as
driven stakes, and the painted wood-ducks, gorgeous as tropic birds,
breasted Mayfield Creek, or whirred along the waterways to and fro
between the Stacking Ridge and the western bogs, where they nested among
trees that sloped low over the water.
Beyond, painted blue mountains ringed the vast wilderness of bog and
woods and water; and presently I was interested to see, on the blunt
nose of Maxon, a stain of smoke.
I watched it furtively, paying only a civil heed to the women's chatter
around me--watched it with sideway glance as I dipped my spoon into the
smoking soupaan and crumbled my johnnycake.
At first, on Maxon's nose there was only a slight blue tint of vapour,
like a spot of bloom on a blue plum. But now, above the mountain, a thin
streak of smoke mounted straight up; and presently I saw that it became
jetted, rising in rings for a few moments.
Suddenly it vanished.
Claudia was saying that one must assume all officers of either party to
be gentlemen; but Lady Johnson entertained the proposition coldly, and
seemed unwilling to invite Continental officers to a dish of tea.
"Not because they are my captors and have driven my husband out of his
own home," she said haughtily; "I could overlook that, because it is the
fortune of war. But it is said that the Continental officers are a
parcel of Yankee shop-keepers, and I have no desire to receive such
people on equal footing."
"But," said Claudia, "Jack is a rebel officer, and so is Billy
Alexander."
"I think Lord Stirling must be crazy," retorted Lady Johnson. Then she
looked at me, bit her lip and laughed, adding:
"You, too, Jack--and every gentleman among you must be mad to flout our
King!"
"Mad, indeed--and therefore to be pitied, not punished," says Claudia.
"Therefore, let us drink tea with our rebel officers, Polly--out of
sheer compassion for their common infirmity."
"We rebels don't drink tea, you know," said I, smiling.
"Oh, la! Wait till we invite your Continentals yonder. For, if Polly and
I are to be imprisoned here, I vow I mean to amuse myself with the
likeliest of these young men in blue and buff, whom I can see yonder,
stalking to and fro along the Johnstown Road. May I not send them a
civil invitation, Polly?"
"If you insist. I, however, decline to meet them," pouted Lady Johnson.
"I shall write a little letter to their commanding officer," quoth
Claudia. "Do as you like, Polly, but, as for me, I do not desire to
perish of dullness with only women to talk to, and only a swamp to gaze
upon!"
She sprang to her feet; Lady Johnson and Penelope also rose, as did I.
"Is it true, Jack, that you are under promise to take this young girl to
Douw Fonda's house in Caughnawaga?" asked Lady Johnson.
"Yes, madam."
She turned to Penelope: "When do you desire to set out?"
"As soon as may be, my lady."
"I like you. I wish you would remain and share my loneliness."
"I would, my lady, only I feel in honour bound to go to Mr. Fonda."
Claudia passed her arm around the Scottish girl's slim waist.
"Come," she coaxed, "be my companion! Be more friend than servant, more
sister than friend. For I, also, begin to love you, with your dark eyes
and yellow hair, and your fine hands and sweet, fresh skin, like a child
from a bath."
They both laughed, looking at each other with a gaze shy but friendly,
like two who seem to think they are, perhaps, destined to love each
other.
"I wish I might remain," said the Scottish girl, reluctantly turning
toward me.
"Are you for Caughnawaga?" I asked bluntly.
"Yes, sir."
"Very well," said I. "Polly Johnson, may I take your carriage?"
"It is always at your command, Jack. But I am sorry that our little
Scottish lass must go."
However, she gave the order to black Colas, who must drive us, also,
because, excepting for Colas and poor Flora, and one slave left in
Johnstown, all servants, slaves, tenants, and officers of Sir John's
household had fled with the treacherous Baronet and were now God knows
where in the terrific wilderness and making, without doubt, for the
Canadas.
For personal reasons I was glad that the dishonoured man was gone. I
should have been ashamed to take him prisoner. But I was deeply troubled
on other accounts; for this man had gone northward with hundreds of my
old neighbors, for the purpose of forming an army of white men and
Indians, with which he promised to return and cut our throats and lay
our beautiful countryside in ashes.
We had scarce any force to oppose Sir John; no good forts except Stanwix
and a few block-houses; our newly-organized civil government was
chaotic; our militia untried, unreliable, poorly armed, and still rotten
with toryism.
To defend all this immense Tryon County frontier, including the river as
far as Albany, only one regular regiment had been sent to help us; for
what remained of the State Line was needed below, where His Excellency
was busy massing an army to face the impending thunder-clap from
England.
* * * * *
As I stood by the window, looking out across the Vlaie at Maxon Ridge,
where I felt very sure that hostile eyes were watching the Sacandaga and
this very house, a hand touched my arm, and, turning, I saw Penelope
Grant beside me.
"May I have a word alone with you, Mr. Drogue?" she asked in her serious
and graver way--a way as winning as her lighter mood, I thought.
So we went out to the veranda and walked a little way among the apple
trees, slowly, I waiting to hear what she had for my ear alone.
Beyond, by the well, I saw my Rangers squatting cross-legged on the
grass in a little circle, playing at stick-knife. Beyond them a
Continental soldier paced his beat in front of the gate which closed the
mainland road.
Birds sang, sunshine glimmered on the water, the sky was softly blue.
The girl had paused under a fruit tree. Now, she pulled down an apple
branch and set her nose to the blossoms, breathing their fresh scent.
"Well," said I, quietly.
Her level eyes met mine across the flowering branch.
"I am sorry to disturb you," said she.
"How disturb me?"
"By obliging you to take me to Caughnawaga. It inconveniences you."
"I promised to see you safely there, and that is all about it," said I
drily.
"Yes, sir. But I ask your pardon for exacting your promise.... And--I
ask pardon for--for stealing your horse."
There seemed to ensue a longer silence than I intended, and I realized
that I had been looking at her without other thought than of her dark,
young eyes under her yellow hair.
"What did you say?" I asked absently.
She hesitated, then: "You do not like me, Mr. Drogue."
"Did I say so?" said I, startled.
"No.... I feel that you do not like me. Is it because I used you without
decency when I stole your horse?"
"Perhaps some trifling chagrin remains. But it is now over--because you
say you are sorry."
"I am so."
"Then--I am friendly--if you so desire, Penelope Grant."
"Yes, sir, I do desire your countenance."
I smiled at her gravity, and saw, dawning in return, that lovely,
child's smile I already knew and waited for.
"I wish to whisper to you," said she, bending the flowering bough lower.
So I inclined my ear across it, and felt her delicate breath against my
cheek.
"I wish to make known to you that I am of your party, Mr. Drogue," she
whispered.
I nodded approval.
"I wished you to know that I am a friend to liberty," she continued. "My
sentiment is very ardent, Mr. Drogue: I burn with desire to serve this
land, to which my father's wish has committed me. I am young, strong,
not afraid. I can load and shoot a pistol----"
"Good Lord!" I exclaimed, laughing, "do you wish to enlist and go for a
soldier?"
"Yes, sir."
I drew back in amazement and looked at her, and she blushed but made me
a firm countenance. And so sweetly solemn a face did this maid pull at
me that I could not forbear to laugh again.
"But how about Mr. Fonda?" I demanded, "if you don jack-boots and hanger
and go for a dragoon?"
"I shall ask his permission to serve my country."
"A-horse, Penelope? Or do you march with fire-lock and knapsack and a
well-floured queue?" I had meant to turn it lightly but not to ridicule;
but her lip quivered, though she still found courage to sustain my
laughing gaze.
"Come," said I, "we Tryon County men have as yet no need to call upon
our loyal women to shoulder rifle and fill out our ranks."
"No need of me, sir?"
"Surely, surely, but not yet to such a pass that we strap a bayonet on
your thigh. Sew for us. Knit for us----"
"Sir, for three years I have done so, foreseeing this hour. I have
knitted many, many score o' stockings; sewed many a shirt against this
day that is now arrived. I have them in Mr. Fonda's house, against my
country's needs. All, or a part, are at your requisition, Mr. Drogue."
But I remained mute, astonished that this girl had seen so clearly what
so few saw at all--that war must one day come between us and our King.
This foreseeing of hers amazed me even more than her practical provision
for the day of wrath--now breaking red on our horizon--that she had seen
so clearly what must happen--a poor refugee--a child.
"Sir," says she, "have you any use for the stockings and shirts among
your men?"
She stood resting both arms on the bent bough, her face among the
flowers. And I don't know how I thought of it, or remembered that in
Scotland there are some who have the gift of clear vision and who see
events before they arrive--nay, even foretell and forewarn.
And, looking at her, I asked her if that were true of her. And saw the
tint of pink apple bloom stain her face; and her dark eyes grow shy and
troubled.
"Is it that way with you?" I repeated. "Do you see more clearly than
ordinary folk?"
"Yes, sir--sometimes."
"Not always?"
"No, sir."
"But if you desire to penetrate the future and strive to do so----"
"No, sir, I can not if I try. Visions come unsought--even undesired."
"Is effort useless?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then this strange knowledge of the future comes of itself unbidden?"
"Unbidden--when it comes at all. It is like a flash--then darkness. But
the glimpse has convinced me, and I am forewarned."
I pondered this for a space, then:
"Could you tell me anything concerning how this war is to end?"
"I do not know, Mr. Drogue."
I considered. Then, again: "Have you any knowledge of what Fate intends
concerning yourself?"
"No, sir."
"Nothing regarding your own future? That is strange."
She shook her head, watching me. And then I laughed lightly:
"Nothing, by any chance, concerning me, Penelope?"
"Yes."
I was so startled that I found no word to question her.
"There is to be a battle," she said in a low voice. "Men will fight in
the North. I do not know when. But there will be strange uniforms in the
woods--not British red-coats.... And I know you, also, are to be there."
Her voice sank to a whisper.... "And there," she breathed, "you shall
meet Death ... or Love."
When presently my composure returned to me, and I saw her still
regarding me across the apple-bough, I felt inclined to laugh.
"When did this strange knowledge come to you?" I asked, smiling my
unbelief.
"The day I first heard your voice at my cousin Bowman's--waking me in my
bed--and I came out and saw you in the eye of the rising sun. _And you
were not alone._ And instantly I saw a strange battle that is not yet
fought--and I saw you--the way you stood--there--dark and straight in a
blinding sheet of yellow light made by cannon!... The world was aflame,
and I saw you, tall and dark, shadowed against the blaze--but you did
not fall.
"Then I came to my senses, and heard the bell ringing, and asked you
what it meant. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
She released the apple-bough and came under it toward me, through a snow
of falling blossoms.
"It will surely happen--this battle," she said. "I knew it when I saw
you, and that other figure near you, where I sat your stolen horse and
heard you shout at me in anger, and turned to look at you--then, also, I
caught a glimpse of that _other_ figure near you."
"What other figure?"
"The one which was wrapped in white--like a winding sheet--and
veiled.... Like Death.... Or a bride, perhaps."
A slight chill went over me, even in the warmth of the sun. But I
laughed and said I knew not which would be the less welcome, having no
stomach for Master Death, and even less, perhaps, for Mistress Bride.
"Doubtless," said I, "you saw some ghost of the morning mist afloat from
the wet earth where I stood."
She made no answer.
Now, as the carriage still tarried, though I had seen Colas taking out
the horses, I asked her indulgence for a few moments, and walked over to
the well, where my men still sat at stick-knife. And here I called Nick
aside and laid one hand on his shoulder:
"There was Indian smoke on Maxon an hour ago," said I. "Take Johnny
Silver and travel the war trail north, but do not cross the creek to the
east. I go as armed escort for a traveller to Caughnawaga, and shall
return as soon as may be. Learn what you can and meet me here by sunrise
tomorrow."
Nick grinned and cast a sidelong glance at Penelope Grant, where she
stood in the orchard, watching us.
"Scotched by the Scotch," said he. "Adam fell; and so I knew you'd fall
one day, John--in an apple orchard! Lord Harry! but she's a pretty
baggage, too! Only take care, John! for she's soft and young and likes
to be courted, and there's plenty to oblige her when you're away!"
"Let them oblige her then," said I, vexed, though I knew not why. "She
stole my horse and would not surrender him until I pledged my word to
give her escort back to Caughnawaga. And that is all my story--if it
interests you."
"It does so," said he, his tongue in his cheek. At which I turned away
in a temper, and encountered an officer, in militia regimentals of the
Caughnawaga Regiment, coming through the orchard toward me.
"Hallo, Jack!" he called out to me, and I saw he was a friend of mine,
Major Jelles Fonda, and hastened to offer him his officer's salute.
When he had rendered it, he gave me his honest hand, and we linked arms
and walked together toward the house, exchanging gossip concerning how
it went with our cause in Johnstown and Caughnawaga. For the Fonda clan
was respectable and strong among the landed gentry of Tryon, and it
meant much to the cause of liberty that all the Fondas, I think without
exception, had stood sturdily for their own people at a time when the
vast majority of the influential and well-to-do had stood for their
King.
When we drew near the house, Major Fonda perceived Penelope and went at
once to her.
She dropped him a curtsey, but he took her hands and kissed her on both
cheeks.
"I heard you were here," said he. "We sent old Douw Fonda to Albany for
safety, not knowing what is like to come upon us out o' that damned
Canada. And, knowing you had gone to your cousin Bowman's, I rode over
to my Bush, got news of you through a Mayfield militia man, and trailed
you here. And now, my girl, you may take your choice; go to Albany and
sit snug with the Patroon until this tempest breaks and blows over, or
go to Johnstown Fort with me."
"Does not Douw Fonda need me?" she asked.
"Only your pretty face and sweet presence to amuse him. But, until we
are certain that Sir John and Guy Johnson do not mean to return and
murder us in our beds, Douw Fonda will not live in Caughnawaga, and so
needs no housekeeper."
"Why not remain here with Lady Johnson and Mistress Swift," said I,
"until we learn what to expect from Sir John and his friends in Canada?
These ladies are alone and in great anxiety and sorrow. And you could be
of aid and service and comfort."
What made me say this I do not know. But, somehow, I did not seem to
wish this girl to go to Albany, where there were many gay young men and
much profligacy.
To sit on Douw Fonda's porch with her knitting was one thing, and the
sap-pan gallants had little opportunity to turn the head of this
inexperienced girl; but Albany was a very different matter; and this
maid, who said that she liked men, alone there with only an aged man to
stand between her and idle, fashionable youth, might very easily be led
into indiscretions. The mere thought of which caused me so lively a
vexation that I was surprised at myself.
And now I perceived the carriage, with horses harnessed, and Colas in a
red waistcoat and a red and green cockade on his beaver.
We walked together to the Summer House. Lady Johnson came out on the
veranda, and Claudia followed her.
When they saw Major Fonda, they bowed to him very coolly, and he made
them both a stately salute, shrugged his epaulettes, and took snuff.
Lady Johnson said to Penelope: "Are you decided on abandoning two lonely
women to their own devices, Penelope?"
"Do you really mean to leave me, who could love you very dearly?"
demanded Claudia, coming down and taking the girl by both hands.
"If you wish it, I am now at liberty to remain with you till Mr. Fonda
sends for me," replied Penelope. "But I have no clothes."
Claudia embraced her with rapture. "Come to my room, darling!" she
cried, "and you shall divide with me every stitch I own! And then we
shall dress each other's hair! Shall we not? And we shall be very fine
to drink a dish of tea with our friends, the enemy, yonder!"
She flung her arm around Penelope. Going, the girl looked around at me.
"Thank you for great kindness, my lord," she called back softly.
Lady Johnson said in a cold voice to Major Fonda: "If our misfortunes
have not made us contemptible to you, sir, we are at home to receive any
enemy officer who, like yourself, Major, chances to be also a
gentleman."
"Damnation, Polly!" says he with a short laugh, "don't treat an old beau
to such stiff-neck language! You know cursed well I'd go down on both
knees and kiss your shoes, though I'd kick the King's shins if I met
him!"
He passed his arm through mine; we both bowed very low, then went away
together, arm in arm, the Major fuming under his breath.
"Silly baggage," he muttered, "to treat an old friend so high and
mighty. Dash it, what's come over these Johnstown gentlemen and ladies.
Can't we fight one another politely but they must affect to treat us as
dirt beneath their feet, who once were welcome at their tables?"
At the well I called to my men, who got up from the grass and greeted
Major Fonda with unmilitary familiarity.
"Major," said I, "we're off to scout the Sacandaga trail and learn what
we can. It's cold sniffing, now, on Sir John's heels, but there was
Iroquois smoke on old Maxon this morning, and I should like at least to
poke the dead ashes of that same fire before moonrise."
"Certainly," said the Major, gravely; and we shook hands.
"Now, Nick," said I briskly.
"Ready," said he; and "Ready!" repeated every man.
So, rifle a-trail, I led the way out into the Fish House road.