The one-time cavalry leader caught up the challenge of the question.
"Upon what do I base my opinion, sir? I base it upon all the experience
of my life and all my conceptions of personal honour. For such a man as
Dinwiddie had proven himself to be under a score of reliable tests, the
thing was a sheer impossibility. It was a contradiction in the terms of
nature. His was the soul of a Knight, sir! Such a man could not cheat
and steal and delight in low vices."
"Yet," came the somewhat dubious observation, "even Arthur's table had
its caitiff knights, if you remember."
The Kentuckian's exclamation was almost a snort. "Dinwiddie was no such
renegade," he protested. "At least I can't believe it. Glance at his
record, man! The son of an Edinburgh tradesman, who forced his way up
from the ranks to pre-eminence. He did it, too, in an army where caste
and birth defend their messes against invasion, and, as he came from the
ranks to a commission, so he went on to the head. There must have been a
greatness of soul there that could hardly care to wallow in
viciousness." As Prince paused, a spasm of emotion twitched the lips of
his host, and McCalloway's pipe died in fingers that clutched hard upon
its stem.
But because McCalloway sat unmoving, making no comment of any sort, the
Kentuckian continued. It was as though he must have his argument
acknowledged.
"I can see the tradesman's son, Sir Hector Dinwiddie, D.S.O., K.C.B.,
Major General, Aide de Camp to the Queen, promising Britain another
glorious name--but as God in heaven is my judge, I cannot see him
soiling his character, or degrading the uniform he wore!"
A moment of dead silence hung heavily between the walls of the room.
Boone Wellver saw Victor McCalloway pass an uncertain hand across his
eyes, and move his lips without speech, and then he heard Prince demand
almost impatiently,
"But you say you have served in the British Army. Surely you do not
believe that he was guilty?"
McCalloway, called out of his detached quiet by a direct question,
raised his head and nodded it in a fashion of heavy inertia.
"General Prince," he replied with an effort, "there are two reasons why
I should be the last man alive to add a syllable of corroboration to the
evil things that were said of Dinwiddie. I myself have been a soldier
and am a civilian. You may guess that a man whose career has been active
would not be living the petty life of a hermit if fortune had dealt
kindly with him. The officer who has suffered from a warrantless
disgrace--which he cannot disprove--is hardly the judge to condemn
another similarly charged.
"That, sir, is one reason why I should not contradict your view."
McCalloway rose slowly from his chair and, after standing for a moment
with shoulders that drooped from their military erectness, went with an
inelastic step to the corner of the room and came back, carrying a
sword.
"There is also another reason based on personal partiality," he added.
"I knew him so well that after the world heard of his suicide--and after
my own misfortunes forced me into retirement, I might often have hired
my sword because of my familiarity with his military thought."
Boone Wellver saw the throat work spasmodically, and wondered what it
all meant as the carefully schooled words went on again, with a gauged
steadiness.
"I have admired your own record, General Prince. I owe you frankness,
but I have chapters in my life which I cannot confide to you.
Nevertheless, I am glad we have met. Look at that blade." He held out
the sword. In the leap and flicker of the firelight Boone could catch
the glint of a hilt that sent out the sparkle of jewelry and inlaid
enamel. Slowly General Prince slid the sabre from the scabbard, and bent
forward, studying an inscription upon the damascened steel itself. For a
moment he held it reverently before him, then straightened up and his
voice trembled with a note of mystified wonderment.
"But this--" he said incredulously, "this is Dinwiddie's
sabre--presented by--"
McCalloway smiled stiffly, but he held up a hand as if entreating
silence.
"It _is_ his sword," he answered, but dully and without ardour, "and, if
it means anything to you--he knew the facts of my own life, both the
open and the hidden--and he trusted me enough to leave that blade in my
keeping."
"To me, you required no recommendation, sir," said Basil Prince slowly.
"If you _had_ needed it, this would be sufficient. You had the
confidence, even the love it seems, of the greatest military genius of
our age."
On the following morning, Boone made his farewells, reluctantly as one
who has glimpsed magic and who sets his face again to dull realities.
The Southerner, who had laid down his sword when its cause was lost and
the Celt who had sheathed his, when his name was tarnished, stood
together in the crystal-clear air of the heights, looking down from a
summit over crags and valleys that sparkled with the rime of frost.
Undulating like a succession of arrested waves, were the ramparts of the
ridges stretching into immeasurable distances. They were almost leafless
now, but they wrapped themselves in colour tones that touched them into
purple and blue. They wore atmospheric veils, mist-woven, and sun-dyed
into evanescent and delicate effects of colour, but the cardinal note
which lay upon them, as an expression rests upon a human face, was
their declaration of wildness; their primitive note of brooding
aloofness.
"They are unchanged," declared General Prince in a low voice. "The west
has gone under the plough. The prairies are fenced. Alaska even is
won--. These hills alone stand unamended. Here at the very heart of our
civilization is the last frontier, and the last home of the
trail-blazer." His eyes glistened as he pointed to a wisp of smoke that
rose in a cove far under them, straight and blue from its clay-daubed
chimney.
"There burns the hearth fire of our contemporary ancestors, the stranded
wagon voyagers who have changed no whit from the pioneers of two hundred
years ago."
Victor McCalloway nodded gravely, and his companion went on.
"With one exception this range was the first to which the earth, in the
travail of her youth, gave birth. Compared with the Appalachians, the
Himalayas and the Alps are young things, new to life. On either side of
where we stand a youthful civilization has grown up, but these ridges
have frowned on, unaltered. Their people still live two centuries behind
us."
McCalloway swept out his hands in a comprehensive gesture.
"When you leave this spot, sir, for your return, you travel not only
some two hundred miles, but also from the infancy of Americanism to its
present big-boyhood. Pardon me, if that term seems disrespectful," he
hastened to add. "But it is so that I always think of your nation, as
the big growing lad of the world family. Titanically strong,
astonishingly vigorous of resource, but, as yet, hardly adult."
The Kentuckian, standing spare and erect, typical of that old South
which has caught step with the present, yet which has not outgrown the
gracious touch of a more courtly past, smiled thoughtfully while his
younger companion, who had known the life of court and camp, in the
elder hemisphere, puffed at his blackened pipe: "Adult or adolescent, we
are altering fast, casting aside today the garments of yesterday,"
admitted Prince. "In my own youth a gentleman felt the call of honour to
meet his personal enemy on the duelling field. I have, myself, answered
that call. In my young manhood I donned the gray, with a crusader's
ardent sincerity, to fight for the institution of human slavery. Today
we think in different terms."
Upon them both had fallen a mood; the mood of gazing far backward and
perhaps also of adventuring as far forward in the forecasting of human
transition.
Such a spirit may come to men who have, in effect, stepped aside from
the march of their own day, into an elder regime--a pioneer setting.
To Basil Prince, in the fore-shortening of retrospect, all the gradual
amendments of life, as he had known them in their enactment, stood forth
at once in a gigantic composition of contrasts; heroically pictured on a
single canvas.
"Now," he reflected, "we hear the younger generation speak with a
pitying indulgence of the archaic stodginess of mid-Victorian
ideas--and, my God, sir, that was all only yesterday, and this
mid-Victorian thought was revolutionary in its newness and its
advancement! I can remember when it startled the world: when Tennyson
was accounted a wild radical, and Darwin a voice savouring strongly of
heresy."
McCalloway filled a fresh pipe. He sent out a cloud of tobacco smoke and
set back his shoulders.
"In my belief, your radical poet said one true thing at least," he
observed.
"... I doubt not through the ages, one increasing purpose runs.
"That purpose lies towards the swallowing of the local, and the
individualistic, the national even into the international. It lies
toward the broadest federation of ideals that can exist in harmony." He
paused there, and in the voice of one expecting contradiction, added:
"And that end will not be attained in parliaments, but on the
battlefield."
"The creed of Americanism," Prince reminded him, "rests on the pillars
of non-interference with other states and of a minimum of meddling among
our own."
"So far, yes," admitted the Scot, but his eyes held a stubborn light of
argument. "Yet I predict that when the whole story of Americanism is
written, it will be cast to a broader plot."
On General Prince's lips flickered a quiet smile.
"Is there a broader thing than independence?" he inquired, and the
answer came back with a quick uptake.
"At least a bigger thing, sir. Breadth is only one dimension, after all.
A larger concept, perhaps, comes by adding one syllable to your word and
making it interdependence. Inexorably you must follow the human cycle
and some day, sir, your country must stand with its elder brethren,
grappled in the last crusade. Then only will the word Americanism be
completely spelled."
The Kentuckian's eyes kindled responsively to the animation of his
companion's words, his manner. It was a phase of this interesting man
that he had not before seen, but his own response was gravely calm,
"I am thinking," he said whimsically, "that this wine-like air has gone
to our heads. We are standing in a high place, dreaming large dreams."
The Scot nodded energetically.
"I dare say," he acceded. "After all a hermit is thrown back on dreaming
for want of action." He broke off and when he spoke again it was with a
trace of embarrassment, almost of shyness which brought a flush to his
cheeks.
"I've been living here close to the life that was the infancy of your
nation, and I've been imagining the wonder of a life that could start
as did that of these hardy settlers and pass, in a single generation,
along the stages that the country, itself, has marched to this day. It
would mean birth in pioneer strength and simplicity, and fulfilment in
the present and future. It would mean ten years lived in one!"
"It would have had to begin two centuries ago," Prince reminded him,
"and to run, who can say, how far forward?"
Half diffidently, half stubbornly, McCalloway shook his head.
"You saw that boy last night who called you a 'great horse-thievin'
raider'?" The gray eyes twinkled with reminiscence. "In every essential
respect he is a lad of two hundred years ago. He is a pioneer boy, crude
as pig-iron, unlettered and half barbaric. Yet his stuff is the raw
material of which your people is made. It needs only fire, water, oil
and work to convert pig-iron into tempered steel."
Prince looked into his companion's eyes and found them serious.
"You mean to try," he sceptically inquired, "to make the complete
American out of that lad in whose veins flows the blood of the
vendetta?"
"I told you that we hermits were dreamers," answered McCalloway. "I've
never had a son of my own. I think it would be a pretty experiment, sir,
to see how far this young back-woodsman could go."
* * * * *
Strange indeed would have seemed to any prying eye the occurrences
within the walls of McCalloway's cabin on those many evenings which
Boone Wellver spent there. But of what took place the boy breathed no
word, despite the almost feverish eagerness that glowed constantly in
his blue eyes. His natural taciturnity would have sealed his lips had he
given the "furriner" no pledge of confidence, and even McCalloway never
guessed how strict was the censorship of that promise as Boone
construed its meaning. Inasmuch as he could not be sure just what
details, out of the summary of their conversations, fell under the
restrictive ban, he set upon the whole association a seal of Masonic
silence. And Victor McCalloway, recognizing that dependable discretion,
talked with a freedom which he would have permitted himself with few
other companions.
Sometimes he read aloud from books whose pages were, to the young
listener, gates swinging open upon gilded glimpses of chivalry, heroism
and those thoughts which are not groundling but winged and splendid.
Sometimes through the hills where the distances shimmered with an ashen
ghost of brilliance, they tramped together, a peripatetic philosopher
and his devoted disciple.
But strangest and most fantastical of all, were the hours they spent
before McCalloway's hearth when the man threw off his coat and rolled
his sleeves high over scarred forearms while the boy's eyes sparkled
with anticipation. And at outside mention of these sessions, McCalloway
himself might have reddened to the cheekbones, for then it was that the
man produced improvised wooden swords and placed himself, feet wide
apart and left hand elevated in the attitude of the fencer's salute.
Facing him was a solemn, burning-eyed pupil and adversary of fifteen in
a linsey-woolsey shirt and jeans overalls. The lad with his freckled
face and his red-brown shock of hair made an absurd contrast with the
gentleman whose sword play possessed the exquisite grace and deft
elegance of a Parisian fencing master--but Boone had the astonishing
swiftness of a panther cub, and a lightning play of wrist and agility of
limb. How rapidly he was gaining mastery over his foil he could not,
himself, realize because standing over against him was one of the best
swords of Europe, but this enthusiasm, which was a very passion to
learn, was also a thing of which he never spoke outside.