PILLARS OF THE HOUSE.
The moonlight fell softly upon a clearing where a small fire
smouldered, where the lord of the isles and his son sat in silence, and
between them the great hound full-stretched in sleep. They were
resting before returning home to their island among the lost waters.
Only the cracking of the fiery wood, the overhead boughs chafing
fitfully, and the snapping of twigs too brittle to survive disturbed
the silence of the night.
The little group made a stern picture in the light of the moon. The
hound bitten and blemished by many a conquering fight; the lean man
scarred by sword wounds; the boy scarce out of childhood, hungry to
learn--even the boy wore his scars. He was developing in a hard
school. He could not know that the work which his father pointed out
would receive, if accomplished, neither thanks nor reward. The
pioneers of empire might be compared with the insects of the coral
reef, insignificant atoms who have planted a foundation for the sea to
build upon.
"Father," said the boy at length, "shall we not be returning to our
home?"
There was another interval before the stern man looked up.
"Methinks when you spoke that word I saw another home," he said,
raising a hand to his eyes as though he would dispel the vision. "I
saw methinks a grey house, its chimneys wreathed with ivy. Lawns
spread far, divided by paths, bound with close-cropped hedges of yew
and lined with flowers, where peacocks lift their feathers to the sun.
Down a green slope to the little river I see orchards of cherry, snowy
with blossom. A road ends at a church where I may read your name and
mine upon many a stone slab. There lies your grandfather, there my
mother. It is peaceful in that garden of Kent, our home at the other
side of the world."
Young Richard leaned forward over his knees. His father was speaking
in parables. He had seen only the primaeval forest, the river torrents,
the lakes with their land-locked fish, the icefields. He had supposed
the world to be made of such. He had heard the clash of swords, the
shouts of war. He had supposed it was so the world over. A place of
peace had never entered into the scheme of his boyish calculation.
"It is a dream of which you speak, father?"
"Ay, my lad, for me a dream. You perchance shall see England with your
own eyes, for when I am gone you shall be the head of a family which
has for its motto, 'Let traitors beware.' Son, have you never wished
to learn your name?"
"My name is Sir Richard," answered the proud boy.
"I, your father, was called once Sir Thomas Iden. Formerly we were a
famous family, but now we wane, wielding an influence only over the
Kentish village which has been ours for centuries. Two hundred years
past the then head of our family, holding the office of sheriff of his
county at the time, slew a traitor named John Cade, who had openly
rebelled against the crown, and for this King Henry the Sixth conferred
upon him the honour of knighthood, presenting him also with a
coat-of-arms. In return for other services his Majesty bestowed upon
our house an unique privilege: right was granted to the head of the
family in each generation to confer knighthood upon his eldest son, if
that son should be deserving of the distinction. My father knighted
me, when I returned from an exploit against the Irish; and I handed the
honour on to you, when I found in you the hereditary longing for the
sword."
The boy looked steadily across the fire, with wonder in his eyes.
"This then is not our home," he said, weighing his words with strange
gravity. "Should we not be in England, fighting for the king?"
"God knows he needs the pillars of our house to help support his
throne," said Sir Thomas. "But no man can serve in two countries. I
have made myself a colonist, have married a daughter of the land, here
I can serve England if not my king, and here shall I die like a man of
Kent, with my face to the foe. I was the first Englishman to make a
home upon this bitter land. I resolved to build about me a colony, to
do for the north what John Winthrop and the papist Lord Baltimore are
doing in the south. I have appealed. I have sent for help. But
England will not hear."
He paced through the wet grass, his hands clenched behind.
"Is the cry of the colonies nothing to them? A handful of good men may
only sell their lives dearly in the trust that their example may fire
better men to deeds of conquest. Here we shall die in exile, and be
sent to haunt the great oblivion of these forests. Two such
ships-of-war as sailed from Devon in the golden days of Elizabeth, two
such ships as the merchant traders of Cheapside could send us without
loss, with another Hawkins to command, manned by our brave sailors of
the east country, would sweep the French out of their forts and clear
the land of them for ever. The Dutch hold the seas. France extends
her arms. England is again divided, the bloody rivalry between the
houses of York and Lancaster having taught her no wisdom. The
Parliament is against the king, and the country must bleed for it. We
are abandoned."
The boy knew nothing of the politics of Europe, neither could he enter
into his father's dream of empire. He hated the French merely because
they were enemies, and because they had betrayed the Iroquois. To go
out and fight against them was more exciting, because more dangerous,
than to engage with the beasts of the forest; but the struggle between
the Powers of Europe for the ownership of North America had injected no
venom into his soul.
"Shall I not live here always?" he asked. "Am I not to choose a maid
from the Cayugas, and settle upon the isles beside you, my father?"
"Talk not of the future, son. Life is to-day, not hereafter. That
lies in the hand of God to give or to withhold. You shall return when
I am gone--return, did I say? You shall go to England with letters to
a notary in Maidstone, and he shall see that you come into your own.
You are dark of face, but English in heart, my Richard."
The boy lifted his head with a sudden sharp movement. "Perchance that
day shall never come."
The hound also lifted his head, and as his eyes sought the haunt of
shadows his jaw dropped in a wild howl.
"Spirits sweep across my burying-place," whispered the youth.
The hound lowered his head and howled again.
"Frenchmen," muttered the boy.
The brute slouched a few feet, broke into a trot, and disappeared.
"He goes in the direction of New Windsor," said the knight. "Hast
heard any sound in the forest?"
"There is no stir," replied the boy, holding his well-trained ear to
the ground. "The smoke from our fire carries. Let us go aside into
the shadow of the bush and watch."
They retreated, flashing glances to right and left. The snap of a
twig, the very crushing of pine needles, sufficed to disturb that calm.
There was no premonitory shiver of the moon-rays, no suggestion of any
human presence upon the chilled air. Their feet sank audibly into the
white moss. Their breath made the semblance of a whisper between
father and son, the lion ready, the cub longing. The rim of the deep
shadow ran behind as they turned to face the clearing they had
abandoned.
"The wind blows from New Windsor," said the knight. "The wind off
Couchicing."
"If Blood takes hold of a man he shall die," went on the boy. "He will
hold at the back of the neck, and there hang until his fangs meet. Ha!
Didst hear that?"
A branch had broken with a dry report. The trees moaned, and a few
distended cones struck the ground like spent bullets.
"The breeze freshens. Methinks I hear the waves breaking upon the
beach."
A raven passed before the moon, knelling violently.
"He smells carrion," whispered the boy. "Already he smells blood upon
my sword."
"Peace, boy," said his father; adding, compassionately, "He is but a
child."
"Nay, father," said Richard, his blood rising. "I am no child. See
the mark of my wounds! Remember that glorious day when we captured the
Dutch privateer. I have prayed for such another day. Did I there
acquit myself as a child? Or did you call, 'Richard, come back! You
are too bold.' Hast forgotten, Sir Thomas?"
His father passed the sword into his left hand, and threw his right arm
about his son's shoulder, drawing him upon his own thin body, and
kissed his cheek. Silence came between them. It was the first time
that the man had kissed the boy, and both for a moment were ashamed;
then young Richard's heart swelled with the pride of having won his
father's love.
As they stood they moved, and their swords clashed. They remembered
their other bond of relationship, the brotherhood of the sword, and
each drew back.
The raven had gone, but his note came upon the wind.
The boy stood leaning forward, his ears drinking in the shuddering
noises of the bush, his face sharp with cold. The smoke stood upright
in the clearing like a swathed mummy. Now and again a spark drifted,
or a flurry of white wood-ash circled. There was yet no voice from the
lungs of the forest.
"Blood smelt no animal," said the resolute Richard. "He does but
tongue softly when he follows a bear. That howl he gives when he runs
on the track of a man."
"A wanderer lost in the forest. A spy from the fortress. One of
Roussilac's creatures," his father muttered.
"They would take possession of the forest," the boy said passionately.
"Along the river I have come upon trees marked by the robbers
with--what is the name of that sign which they bear upon their flag?"
"The fleur-de-lys. They brand the pines with that mark to signify that
the trees have been chosen for ship-masts and are the property of
France. Our hut upon the island is faced with logs which bear their
brand."
"The Cayugas fell such trees and burn them, or cut them in half as they
lie. The Iroquois are yet masters, despite the decrees of King Louis.
How cold is this wind! Let me but warm my hands in the embers of our
fire."
The boy crossed into the moonlight, and knelt within the smoke, rubbing
the palms of his hands upon the warm ground. His father stood in the
shadow, and watched every moving line of his son's body, muttering as
he listened to the outside:
"At his age I was learning how to figure and spell in Tonbridge school.
Quarterstaff and tennis were my sports, with mumming and chess at home.
His sport is to hunt the wild beast, to track the deer, to lie in wait
for men. The sword is his pastime. His pleasure the dream. God
pardon me for bringing him into the world."
The breeze bore along in a gust, bringing the muffled bayings of a
hound.
"He calls me!" exclaimed the boy. "That is Blood's war-cry. Come!" he
shouted.
"Patience, boy. Let the dog guide us. By advancing recklessly we may
fall into a trap."
Each throb of the night brought the wild sounds nearer. Blood was in
full cry, the foam blowing from his jaws, the hackles stiff upon his
back. He was coming down the wind full-stretched. The bush gave, the
dew scattered from the high grass in frosty showers as he leapt the
moss-beds, his foot-tracks far apart. But no sound followed, except
the play of the branches and the murmur of the rising lake.
"Remember how I brought him from the encampment as a puppy," said
Richard appealingly, "how I have trained him from the time that his
eyes opened. Whatever he discovers is mine. Say now that I may go
with him. He and I can cover the ground together. You shall follow in
your own time."
"Perchance they shall be too many for you," said the father.
"Nay, we shall advance with care, and hide if there be danger. The
whole army of France could not follow me in this forest."
"There comes no noise of fighting."
"It is but a spy who has discovered New Windsor. He must not carry
that secret back to the fortress."
The hound broke forth, clouding the cold air with his breath, his eyes
like lamps. He leapt at his master, and snatched his sleeve with a
frothing muzzle, pulling him away.
"Say now that I may go," the boy cried. "The enemy may already have
taken fear, and be retreating as fast as his cowardly feet may carry
him."
The long awaited shout drifted down the wind, and the pale moon
shivered when she heard.
"Go!" granted the stern man.
"St. George!" yelled the maddened child, clutching at the hound's thick
collar of fur. The cry had no meaning. It was but a shout of war, a
valve to his passion. "On, Blood! St. George!"
At full cry they were gone from the moonlight into gloom.