CHAPTER XVI._Salute to Adventurers

THE FORD OF THE RAPIDAN.

'Twas the same high summer weather through which I had ridden a

fortnight ago with a dull heart on my way to the duel. Now Grey rode by

my side, and my spirits were as light as a bird's. I had forgotten the

grim part of the enterprise, the fate that might await me, the horrors

we should certainly witness. I thought only of the joys of movement

into new lands with tried companions. These last months I had borne a

pretty heavy weight of cares. Now that was past. My dispositions

completed, the thing was in the hands of God, and I was free to go my

own road. Mocking-birds and thrushes cried in the thickets, squirrels

flirted across the path, and now and then a shy deer fled before us.

There come moments to every man when he is thankful to be alive, and

every breath drawn is a delight; so at that hour I praised my Maker for

His good earth, and for sparing me to rejoice in it.

Grey had met me with a certain shyness; but as the sun rose and the

land grew bright he, too, lost his constraint, and fell into the same

happy mood. Soon we were smiling at each other in the frankest

comradeship, we two who but the other day had carried ourselves like

game-cocks. He had forgotten his fine manners and his mincing London

voice, and we spoke of the outland country of which he knew nothing,

and of the hunting of game of which he knew much, exchanging our

different knowledges, and willing to learn from each other. Long ere we

had reached York Ferry I had found that there was much in common

between the Scots trader and the Virginian cavalier, and the chief

thing we shared was youth.

Mine, to be sure, was more in the heart, while Grey wore his open and

fearless. He plucked the summer flowers and set them in his hat. He was

full of catches and glees, so that he waked the echoes in the forest

glades. Soon I, too, fell to singing in my tuneless voice, and I

answered his "My lodging is on the cold ground" with some Scots ballad

or a song of Davie Lindsay. I remember how sweetly he sang Colonel

Lovelace's ode to Lucasta, writ when going to the wars:--

"True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield."

"Yet this inconstancy is such

As thou too shalt adore:

I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not Honour more."

I wondered if that were my case--if I rode out for honour, and not for

the pure pleasure of the riding. And I marvelled more to see the two of

us, both lovers of one lady and eager rivals, burying for the nonce our

feuds, and with the same hope serving the same cause.

We slept the night at Aird's store, and early the next morning found

Ringan. A new Ringan indeed, as unlike the buccaneer I knew as he was

unlike the Quaker. He was now the gentleman of Breadalbane, dressed for

the part with all the care of an exquisite. He rode a noble roan, in

his Spanish belt were stuck silver-hafted pistols, and a long sword

swung at his side. When I presented Grey to him, he became at once the

cavalier, as precise in his speech and polite in his deportment as any

Whitehall courtier. They talked high and disposedly of genteel matters,

and you would have thought that that red-haired pirate had lived his

life among proud lords and high-heeled ladies. That is ever the way of

the Highlander. He alters like a clear pool to every mood of the sky,

so that the shallow observer might forget how deep the waters are.

Presently, when we had ridden into the chestnut forests of the

Mattaponey, he began to forget his part. Grey, it appeared, was a

student of campaigns, and he and Ringan were deep in a discussion of

Conde's battles, in which both showed surprising knowledge. But the

glory of the weather and of the woodlands, new as they were to a

seafarer, set his thoughts wandering, and he fell to tales of his past

which consorted ill with his former decorum. There was a madcap zest in

his speech, something so merry and wild, that Grey, who had fallen back

into his Tidewater manners, became once more the careless boy. We

stopped to eat in a glade by a slow stream, and from his saddle-bags

Ringan brought out strange delicacies. There were sugared fruits from

the Main, and orange sirop from Jamaica, and a kind of sweet punch made

by the Hispaniola Indians. As we ate and drank he would gossip about

the ways of the world; and though he never mentioned his own doings,

there was such an air of mastery about him as made him seem the centre

figure of his tales, I could see that Grey was mightily captivated, and

all afternoon he plied him with questions, and laughed joyously at his

answers. As we camped that night, while Grey was minding his horse

Ringan spoke of him to me.

"I like the lad, Andrew. He has the makings of a very proper gentleman,

and he has the sense to be young. What I complain of in you is that

you're desperate old. I wonder whiles if you ever were a laddie. For

me, though I'm ten years the elder of the pair of you, I've no more

years than your friend, and I'm a century younger than you. That's the

Highland way. There's that in our blood that keeps our eyes young

though we may be bent double. With us the heart is aye leaping till

Death grips us. To my mind it's a lovable character that I fain would

cherish. If I couldn't sing on a spring morning or say a hearty grace

over a good dinner I'd be content to be put away in a graveyard."

And that, I think, is the truth. But at the time I was feeling pretty

youthful, too, though my dour face and hard voice were a bad clue to my

sentiments.

Next day on the Rappahannock we found Shalah, who had gone on to warn

the two men I proposed to enlist. One of them, Donaldson, was a big,

slow-spoken, middle-aged farmer, the same who had been with Bacon in

the fight at Occaneechee Island. He just cried to his wife to expect

him back when she saw him, slung on his back an old musket, cast a long

leg over his little horse, and was ready to follow. The other, the

Frenchman Bertrand, was a quiet, slim gentleman, who was some kin to

the murdered D'Aubignys. I had long had my eye on him, for he was very

wise in woodcraft, and had learned campaigning under old Turenne. He

kissed his two children again and again, and his wife clung to his

arms. There were tears in the honest fellow's eyes as he left, and I

thought all the more of him, for he is the bravest man who has most to

risk. I mind that Ringan consoled the lady in the French tongue, which

I did not comprehend, and would not be hindered from getting out his

saddle-bags and comforting the children with candied plums. He had near

as grave a face as Bertrand when we rode off, and was always looking

back to the homestead. He spoke long to the Frenchman in his own

speech, and the sad face of the latter began to lighten.

I asked him what he said.

"Just that he was the happy man to have kind hearts to weep for him. A

fine thing for a landless, childless fellow like me to say! But it's

gospel truth, Andrew. I told him that his bairns would be great folks

some day, and that their proudest boast would be that their father had

ridden on this errand. Oh, and all the rest of the easy consolations.

If it had been me, I would not have been muckle cheered. It's well I

never married, for I would not have had the courage to leave my

fireside."

We were now getting into a new and far lovelier country. The heavy

forests and swamps which line the James and the York had gone, and

instead we had rolling spaces of green meadowland, and little hills

which stood out like sentinels of the great blue chain of mountains

that hung in the west. Instead of the rich summer scents of the

Tidewater, we had the clean, sharp smell of uplands, and cool winds

relieved the noontide heat. By and by we struck the Rapidan, a water

more like our Scots rivers, flowing in pools and currents, very

different from the stagnant reaches of the Pamunkey. We were joined for

a little bit by two men from Stafford county, who showed us the paths

that horses could travel.

It was late in the afternoon that we reached a broad meadow hemmed in

by noble cedars. I knew without telling that we were come to the scene

of the tragedy, and with one accord we fell silent. The place had been

well looked after, for a road had been made through the woods, and had

been carried over marshy places on a platform of cedar piles. Presently

we came to a log fence with a gate, which hung idly open. Within was a

paddock, and beyond another fence, and beyond that a great pile of

blackened timber. The place was so smiling and homelike under the

westering sun that one looked to see a trim steading with the smoke of

hearth fires ascending, and to hear the cheerful sounds of labour and

of children's voices. Instead there was this grim, charred heap, with

the light winds swirling the ashes.

Every man of us uncovered his head as he rode towards the melancholy

place. I noticed a little rosary, which had been carefully tended, but

horses had ridden through it, and the blossoms were trailing crushed on

the ground. There was a flower garden too, much trampled, and in one

corner a little stream of water had been led into a pool fringed with

forget-me-nots. A tiny water-wheel was turning in the fall, a

children's toy, and the wheel still turned, though its owners had gone.

The sight of that simple thing fairly brought my heart to my mouth.

That inspection was a gruesome business. One of the doorposts of the

house still stood, and it was splashed with blood. On the edge of the

ashes were some charred human bones. No one could tell whose they were,

perhaps a negro's, perhaps the little mistress of the water-wheel. I

looked at Ringan, and he was smiling, but his eyes were terrible. The

Frenchman Bertrand was sobbing like a child.

We took the bones, and made a shallow grave for them in the rosary. We

had no spades, but a stake did well enough to dig a resting-place for

those few poor remains. I said over them the Twenty-third Psalm: "_Yea,

though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no

evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff shall comfort me_."

Then suddenly our mood changed. Nothing that we could do could help the

poor souls whose bones lay among the ashes. But we could bring their

murderers to book, and save others from a like fate.

We moved away from the shattered place to the ford in the river where

the road ran north. There we looked back. A kind of fury seized me as I

saw that cruel defacement. In a few hours we ourselves should be beyond

the pale, among those human wolves who were so much more relentless

than any beasts of the field. As I looked round our little company, I

noted how deep the thing had bitten into our souls. Ringan's eyes still

danced with that unholy blue light. Grey was very pale, and his jaw was

set grimly. Bertrand had ceased from sobbing, and his face had the

far-away wildness of the fanatic, such a look as his forbears may have

worn at the news of St. Bartholomew. The big man Donaldson looked

puzzled and sombre. Only Shalah stood impassive and aloof, with no

trace of feeling on the bronze of his countenance.

"This is the place for an oath," I said. "We are six men against an

army, but we fight for a holy cause. Let us swear to wipe out this deed

of blood in the blood of its perpetrators. God has made us the

executors of His judgments against horrid cruelty."

We swore, holding our hands high, that, when our duty to the dominion

was done, we should hunt down the Cherokees who had done this deed till

no one of them was left breathing. At that moment of tense nerves, no