CHAPTER XIX
Day after day I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling till nightblotted it out. Then, stunned and exhausted, I would lie in the dark,crying in my weakness, whimpering for those I loved who had left mehere alone. There was no strength left in me, body or mind; and,perhaps for that reason, my suffering was too feeble to waste what wasleft of me, for I had not even the strength of the fretful who dodamage themselves with every grimace.
Certain it was that my thinned blood was growing gradually warmer, andits currents flowed with slightly increasing vigour day by day. Thefever, which had come only partly from my wounds, had doubtless beenlong in me, and had fermented my blood as the opportunity offered whenWraxall nigh drained my every vein with his butcher's blade.
The emaciation of my body was extreme, my limbs were pithless reeds,my skull grinned through the tensely stretched skin, and my eyes wereenormous.
Yet, such sturdy fibre have I inherited from my soldier father thatgrief itself could not retard the mending of me, and in the littleFrench mirror I could almost see my sunken muscles harden and growslowly fuller. Like a pear in a hot-frame, I was plump long before mystrength could aid me or my shocked senses gather to take counsel forthe future.
The dreadful anguish of my bereavement came only at intervals,succeeded by an apathy which served as a merciful relief. But most Ithought of Silver Heels, and why she had left me here, and when shemight return. Keen fear lurked near to stab me when, rousing fromblank slumber, my first thought was of her. Then I would lie andwonder why she had gone, and tell myself I loved her above all else,or whimper and deem her cruel to leave me.
One late afternoon the doctor came with a dish of China oranges,which I found relief in sucking, my gums being as yet somewhat hot andpainful. He made a hole in an orange and I sucked it awhile, watchinghim meditatively. He wore crape on his arm--the arm that Quider hadbroken, and which now he could not bend as formerly.
"Why does not my Aunt Molly come to see me?" I asked, quietly.
"Dear lad," said the doctor, raising his eyebrows, "did you not knowshe had gone to Montreal?"
"How should I know it," I asked, "when you tell me nothing?"
"I will tell you what I am permitted," he answered, gently.
"Then tell me when my cousin Felicity is coming back? Have you notheard from Sir John Johnson?"
"Yes--I have heard," replied the doctor, cautiously.
I waited, my eyes searching his face.
"Sir John returns to-morrow," he said.
A thrill set my blood leaping. I felt the warm colour staining mypinched face.
"To-morrow!" I repeated.
The doctor regarded me very gravely.
"Miss Warren will remain in Boston," he said.
The light died out before my eyes; presently I closed them.
"How long?" I asked.
"I do not know."
The orange, scarcely tasted, rolled over the bed and fell on thefloor. I heard him rise to pick it up.
I opened my eyes and looked at the distant pines through the window.
"Doctor," I muttered, "I am heartsick for a familiar face. Where arethe people who have lived in this house? It is scarce four months thatI have been away, yet all is changed and strange--new servantseverywhere, no old, friendly faces--nay, even Peter has grown so grossand sullen that I scarce knew him. Where is Esk? Is there not one soulunchanged?"
"Have I changed?" he asked.
"Yes--you are gray! gray!--and smaller; and you stoop when you sit."
After a moment he said: "These are times to age all men. Have youyourself not aged in these five months? You went away a fresh-facedlad, scarce weaned from your alley-taws and the chalky ring! Youreturn a man, singed already by the first breath of a fire which willscorch this land to the bedded rock!"
Presently I asked, "Is war certain?"
He nodded, looking at the floor.
"And--and the Six Nations?" I asked again.
"On our side surely," he said, in a low voice.
"On our side?" I repeated.
He looked at me suddenly, stern mouth tightly shut. A cold lighttouched his gray eyes and seemed to harden every feature.
"When I say 'our side' I assume you to be loyal, Mr. Cardigan," hesaid, curtly.
The change in his shrewd, kindly face amazed me. Was it possible forold friends to turn so quickly? Was this coming strife to poison theworld with its impending passions?
"If you have become tainted with rebel heresy since you left us, thankGod you have returned in time to purge your mind," he said, sternly."Sir William has gone--Heaven rest his brave soul!--but Sir John isalive to take no uncertain stand in the face of this wicked rebellionwhich all true loyal hearts must face."
I looked at him serenely. Who but I should know what Sir William hadthought about the coming strife. Those sacred confidences of the pasthad cleared my mind, and made it up long since. Had I not, in SirWilliam's service, braved death for the sake of these same rebels? Iunderstood my mission better now. I had gone in the cause ofhumanity--a cause which was not embraced by the loyal subjects of ourKing. I had failed, but failure had brought wisdom. Never could I setmy back against the firm rock of loyalty to fight for a name that nowmeant nothing to me. I had quenched my thirst at bitter waters; I hadlearned that men could beggar themselves for principle and die for atuppenny tax with pockets full.
"Lad," said the doctor, kindly, "the two rough woodsmen who broughtyou home did what their rude skill permitted to save your life. Theywashed your wounds and bound them with balsam and linen; they bore youfaithfully for miles and miles through the valley of death itself.But, lad, they could not have saved you had not something intervenedbetween you and that keen blade which searched your life to slay it!"
He rose and took something from the chest of drawers in the corner. Itwas a British flag, all torn and hacked and covered with black stains.
"It was found rolled up beneath your hunting-shirt," he said,solemnly. "Look on it, lad! For this torn flag, which your father dieddefending, held back that deadly knife, shielding the vital sparkbeneath its folds. A hair's-breadth more and you had died at the firststab. The flag was your strength and shield: let it become yoursalvation! It was your father's flag: exalt it!"
He spread the flag reverently upon the bed. I touched its folds, stiffwith my own blood. It was the flag of Cresap's fort which I had taken,seeing it abandoned by all.
"I shall always honour it," I said, half unconsciously.
"And the men who bear it!" he added.
"That is very different," I said, wearily, and turned my head on thepillow.
When I looked again he was folding the flag and placing it in thechest of drawers, smiling quietly to himself. Doubtless he thought meloyal to the King whose armies bore the flag my father died for. But Iwas too tired to argue further.
"There is one man I would like to see," I said, "and that is Mr.Duncan. Will you send to the guard-house and beg him to come to me,doctor?"
"Ay, that I will, lad," he said, cheerily, picking up his hat and caseof drugs. "And, by-the-way, your regiment of Border Horse will be herein a month. You will doubtless be content to see the gallant troopersin whose ranks you will one day serve, please God."
"Perhaps," I said, closing my eyes.
I must have fallen into a light sleep, for when I unclosed my eyes Isaw Mr. Duncan beside me, looking down into my face. I smiled andraised one hand, and he took it gently in both of his strong,sun-browned hands.
"Well, well, well," he muttered, smiling, while the tears stood in hispleasant eyes; "here is our soldier home again--that same soldier whomI last saw in the guard-house, having his poll clipped by honestWraxall, a la coureur-de-bois--eh?"
I motioned feebly for him to find a chair beside my bed, and he satdown, still holding my hand in his.
"Now," I said, "explain to me all that has happened. The doctor tellsme what I ask, but I have had little inclination to hear much. I likeyou, Mr. Duncan. Tell me
everything."
"You mean--about Sir William?" he asked, gently.
"Yes--but that last of all," I muttered, choking.
After a silence he straightened up, unhooked his sword, and laid itagainst the wall. Then, settling comfortably back in his chair, heclasped his hands over his white gaiters and looked at me.
"You must know," he said, "that Colonel Guy Johnson is nowsuperintendent of Indian affairs in North America for his Majesty. Hehas appointed as deputies Colonel Claus and Colonel John Butler--"
"Who?" I exclaimed.
"Colonel Butler," repeated Mr. Duncan; "you remember him, don't you?"
"Yes, I remember him," I replied; "where is he?"
"He and Joseph Brant are organizing the loyalists and Indians north ofus," said Mr. Duncan, innocently. "This border war in Virginia has setthe Six Nations afire. Many of our Mohawks have slipped away to joinLogan and Sowanowane against this fellow Cresap who murdered Logan'schildren; the others are restless and sullen. There was but one man inthe world who could have controlled them--"
He paused.
"I know it," said I. "You mean Sir William."
"Ay, Mr. Cardigan, I mean Sir William. Well, well, there is no helpnow. It is Sir John Johnson's policy to win over the savages to ourside; but I often think Sir William knew best how to manage them. Itwill be dreadful, dreadful! I for one wish no such allies as aregathering north of us under Joseph Brant and Colonel Butler."
"Why do you not say as much to Sir John?" I asked.
"I? What weight would my opinion carry? I have said often to those whoask me that I would give all I possess to see the savages remainneutral in this coming strife."
"Do you also believe it is coming?"
"Surely, surely," he said, lifting his hand solemnly. "Mr. Cardigan,you have been away, and have also been too ill to know what passes atour very doors. You are ignorant of the passion which has dividedevery town, village, and hamlet in Tryon County--ay, the passion whichhas turned neighbours to bitterest foes--the passion which has turnedkinship to hatred--which sets brother against brother, son againstfather!
"Our village of Johnstown yonder seethes and simmers with Tory againstWhig, loyalist against rebel. Houses are barricaded; arms stored,stolen, and smuggled; seditious words uttered, traitorous songs sung,insults flung in the faces of the King's soldiers. We of the RoyalAmericans receive the grossest epithets; curses and threats are flungin our teeth; sentries on guard are mocked and reviled; officersjeered at in tavern and street.
"I do not believe such fierceness would betray itself if the questionhere were but the old Boston grievance--the ancient protest againsttaxing people without the people's consent. No, it is not the wranglebetween Parliament and colonies that has brought the devil's ownconfusion into Tryon County; it is the terrible possibility that oneor the other side may let loose the savages. We of Tryon County knowwhat that means. Small wonder then, I say, that the rebels curse usfor swine and dogs and devils incarnate because we are slowly gainingthe good-will of the Six Nations."
He wiped his face with a laced hanker and pressed his temples,frowning.
"Yet," he said, "the rebels, too, would doubtless use the savagesagainst us if they could win them over. Sir John says so. That is whyhe sent Thayendanegea and Colonel Butler to recruit in the north. Theysay that Captain Walter Butler is with Cresap. I don't know; I havenot seen him in months."
"I know," said I, quietly.
"Doubtless you met him then at Cresap's camp?"
"Doubtless."
Mr. Duncan waited a moment, then laughed.
"You were ever a man to keep your own counsel," he said.
"What have you heard from Cresap's men?" I asked.
"Nothing save that the war is a fierce one. An express came inyesterday with news that the Cayugas had been terribly whipped by thebackwoodsmen under Andy Lewis, somewhere near the Great Kanawha. Theexpress rider got it from some of Cresap's men, but it may not betrue."
After a silence I asked him what month of the year it now was. I hadnoticed yellow leaves outside.
"October," he said, pityingly; "did you not know it?"
I tried to realize the space of time which had been wiped out from mymemory.
"When did Sir William--die?" I muttered, painfully.
Mr. Duncan looked at me with tears in his eyes.
"On Monday, the 11th of July."
"Tell me--all," I motioned, with quivering lips.
"It is history," he said, simply. "I will tell you what I heard andwhat I witnessed.
"On the 1st of July we received news of the murder of Bald Eagle, afriendly Delaware chief. Rumour had it that one of my Lord Dunmore'sagents had slain the old man, but that, of course, is preposterous. Itis hard to sift truth out of rumours. Why, the wildest statements wereopenly made in some taverns that young Walter Butler had murdered theold man. What reason could Walter Butler have to slay a friendly chiefin Pennsylvania?"
"Go on," I said, grimly.
"Well, then, this murder was committed while the poor old man wassitting in his canoe on one of the streams near Fort Pitt. Aftertearing the scalp from the old man the murderer set him afloat in hiscanoe. The ghastly progress of the dead was seen by Indians andwhites, and the news, following the report of the outrage on Logan bythat creature Daniel Greathouse, roused the Six Nations to fury.
"You know that even after the Logan outrage Sir William had held backthe warriors of the Long House; but this fresh crime drove themfrantic. They might still have held off had not Bald Eagle beenscalped, but you know, Mr. Cardigan, that the Six Nations _always_regard the scalping of a murdered person as a _national_ act, not anindividual one, and _always_ accept it as a declaration of war."
"I know," I said.
"The sachems of the Long House," continued Mr. Duncan, "immediatelynotified Sir William that they desired to see him without delay. Whenyou think, Mr. Cardigan, that the murders of Logan's children and ofBald Eagle touched every clan tie in the Six Nations, nothing couldprove more clearly the marvellous influence of Sir William over thesavages than the fact that their first impulse was not to seizehatchet and knife and begin an indiscriminate butchery of our people,but to solicit a conference with Sir William, so that they might statetheir wrongs calmly and ask his advice. Lord! Lord! A great man diedin last July; and who can take his place?"
Again he wiped his brow and clasped his gaitered knees with his hands.
"In two days," he resumed, "two hundred Onondagas came here, withintelligence that four hundred more were on their way. Then they camein hordes--Mohawks, Senecas, Cayugas, and Oneidas. From morning tillnight Sir William was engaged in talking with them, persuading andpromising and exerting himself tirelessly to hold the gatheringtempest in check.
"He was even then far from well; his old trouble had returned; hecould scarcely drag himself up here to this room when night came. Yethe said to me, after an exhausting conference with the Oneidas, 'Mr.Duncan, I have daily to combat with thousands of white men who, bytheir avarice, cruelty, or indiscretions, are constantly counteractingall my judicious measures with the Indians. It is not the Indians Iblame. I shall persevere: the occasion requires it; and I shall neverbe without hope till I find myself without that influence which hasnever yet forsaken me.'
"'That influence is built up on your personal honour,' I said; 'it cannever forsake you.'
"He smiled--you know his rare smile, Mr. Cardigan--"
Mr. Duncan almost broke down; my eyes were dry and throbbing.
"On the 7th of July," he resumed, "we had a thousand Indians assembledhere at the Hall. The sachems and chiefs were earnestly pleading forthe congress. Sir William was sick abed and suffering pitifully, buthe rose and refused to listen to Doctor Pierson, saying that thecongress should never be delayed by anything but his own death.
"The weather was frightfully hot; nearly the whole of the first daywas occupied by the speech of Senhowane, a Seneca chief, who made outa bitter case against the white people of Cresap's co
mmand. A Cayugawar-chief followed the Seneca, speaking until the moon rose.
"The next day was the Sabbath. Sir William lay abed all day, unable tosee for the frightful pains in his head. Yet the next day, athalf-past nine in the morning, Sir William was at the fire, belts inhand.
"Never, never, Mr. Cardigan, had any one heard him speak with sucheloquence. Sick unto death as he was, he stood there in the burningJuly sun, hour after hour, in the cause of peace. He spoke with allthe fire and vivacity of youth; his words held the savages' grave andstrained attention until the end."
Mr. Duncan paused, staring at space as though to fix that last scenein his mind forever.
"I was commanding the escort," he said. "My men saluted as the Indiansleft the congress. When the last chief had disappeared, I saw that SirWilliam was in distress, and ran to him. He lurched forward into myarms. I held him a moment. He tried to speak, but all he could saywas, 'Tell Michael I am proud--of--him,' and then fell back fullweight. We got him to the Hall and laid him on the library couch. Agillie rode breakneck for Sir John, who was at the old fort nine milesaway. Mistress Molly had gone to Schenectady; there remained no one ofhis own kin here."
Mr. Duncan leaned forward, with his face in his hands.
"Sir John came too late," he said; "Sir William died utterly alone."
As I lay there I could hear the robins chirping outside, just as I hadso often heard them from the school-room. Could this still be the samesummer? Years and years seemed to have slipped away in these briefmonths between May and October.
"Where is he buried?" I asked.
"In the vault under the stone church he built in the village. When youcan walk--we will go."
"I shall walk very soon now," said I.
After a moment I asked who had succeeded Sir William.
"In title and estate Sir John succeeds him," said Mr. Duncan, "but theKing has conferred the intendancy of Indian affairs on Colonel GuyJohnson."
"Is he as close a friend as ever of Colonel Butler and Joseph?"
"Quite. Joseph Brant is a special deputy, too."
"Then God save our country," I replied, calmly, and closed my eyes.
Lying there, thinking, I saw for a moment into that red horror calledthe future--which now, thank God, is already the past.
"When Sir John returns from Boston you will hear the will read," saidMr. Duncan.
"When does he return?" I asked, opening my eyes.
"To-morrow, we hope."
"Why did he go?"
"I do not know," said Mr. Duncan, frankly.
"Why did he take Miss Warren?"
"I'm sure I do not know," he answered.
"Will she return with him?"
"I cannot say--but I suppose she will," replied Mr. Duncan, lookingcuriously at me.
"The doctor says she will not return with Sir John."
"Ah!"
"Why?"
"Lord, lad, I don't know!" he exclaimed, amused.
"Did Miss Warren see me while I was ill?"
"Ay, that she did," he cried. "She never left you; they could not dragher away to eat enough to keep a bird alive. She hung over you, shefollowed the doctor, holding to his sleeve and asking questions tillthe good man nigh lost his senses. And all the time Sir John wasfuming and impatient to be off to Boston, but Miss Warren would notgo until the doctor was able to promise on his sacred honour that youwere not only out of danger, but that you would recover completely inmind and body."
"And then?" I muttered.
"Why, then Sir John would no longer be denied, and she must needsjourney with him to Boston. I know that she herself did not understandwhy she was going, except that some legal affairs required herpresence."
"And she left no word for me?"
"None with me. I heard her ask Sir John how soon you would be able toread if she wrote you, but Sir John shook his head without reply. Thenshe asked the doctor, and I think he told Miss Warren she might writein October if she remained in Boston as long as that. So, doubtless,the express is already galloping up the old post-road with yourletter, Mr. Cardigan."
Presently--for I was becoming very tired--I asked about the twoforest-runners who had brought me hither, not mentioning their namesfor prudence sake.
"I don't know where they are," said Mr. Duncan, rising to buckle onhis sword. "The little, mild-spoken man disappeared the day that SirJohn and Miss Warren left for Boston. The other, the big, swaggeringfellow, abandoned by his running-mate, seemed astonished, and huntedabout the village for a week, swearing that there was foul playsomewhere, and that his comrade would never willingly have desertedhim. Then our magistrate, Squire Bullock, was stopped and robbed onthe King's highway--ay, and roundly cursed for a Tory thief--by thissame graceless giant in buckskin who brought you here. They sought forhim, but you know how those fellows travel. He may be in Quebec now,for aught I know--the impudent rascal."
After a moment I said, "Miss Warren, you say, cared for me while I layill?"
"Like a mother--or fond sister."
I closed my eyes partly.
He looked down at me and pressed my hand.
"I have tired you," he said, gently.
"No, you have given me life," I answered, smiling.