CHAPTER XXVII
He hesitated, poised on the threshold, his yellow eyes contracting,dazzled by the candle; then, like lightning, his sword glittered inhis hand, but Mount, behind him, tore the limber blade from his gripand flung it ringing at my feet. Now, weaponless and alone, Butlerstood confronting us, his blank eyes travelling from one to another,his thin lips twitching in an ever-deepening sneer. Nor did the sneerleave his face when Mount slammed and locked the door behind him, andunsheathed his broad hunting-knife.
"Something is dreadfully wrong, gentlemen," quavered poor Cade Renard;"this is Captain Butler, my daughter's affianced. I pray you follow noancient quarrel under my roof, gentlemen. I cannot suffer thisaffront--I cannot permit this difference between gentlemen in mydaughter's presence--"
Mount quietly drew the little man aside to the door and led him out,saying tenderly: "All is well, old friend; you have forgotten much inthese long days. You will remember soon. Go, dream in the moonlight,Cade. She was ever a friend to us, the moon."
Suddenly Butler turned on Silver Heels, his darkening face distorted.
"You have played the game well!" he whispered, between his teeth.
"What game?" I asked, with deadly calmness. "Pray say what you have tosay at once, Mr. Butler."
Again his evil gaze shifted from face to face; there was no mercy inthe eyes that met his; his visage grew loose and pallid.
"That she-devil swore to wed me!" he broke out, hoarsely, pointing ashaking finger full at Silver Heels. "She--swore it!" His voice sankto a hiss.
"To save my father from a highwayman's death!" said Silver Heels,deathly white.
She turned to me, quivering. "Michael, I am a thief's daughter. Thisis what I am come to!--to buy my father's life with my own body--andfling my soul at that man's feet! _Now will you wed me?_"
A cold fury blinded me so I could scarcely see him. I cocked my rifleand drew my hand across my eyes to clear them.
"This is not your quarrel!" he said, desperately; "this woman is thedaughter of Cade Renard, a notorious highwayman known as the Weasel! Idoubt that Sir Michael Cardigan--for your uncle is dead, whether youknow it or not!--would care to claim kinship in this house!"
He turned like a snake and measured Mount from head to foot.
"Give me my sword!" he said, harshly, "and I will answer for myselfagainst this other thief!" His glaring eyes fell on Foxcroft.
"What the devil are you doing here?" he snarled. "Are you knave orfool, that you stand there listening to this threat on my life? Youknow that this woman is Renard's child! You have Sir John's papers toprove it! Are you not his attorney, man? Then tell these gentlementhat I speak the truth, and that I will meet them both, singly, andcarve it on their bodies lest they forget it!"
"It is too late," I said; "a gentleman's sword can never again besoiled by those hands."
"Ay!" cried Foxcroft, suddenly, "it is too late! You say I have papersto prove the truth? I have; and you shall hear the truth, you cursedscoundrel!"
"She is the Weasel's child!" cried Butler, hoarsely.
"If she were the child of Tom o' Bedlam, she is still betrothed to me!God knows," I said, "whether you be human or demon, and so perhaps youmay not burn in hell, but I shall send you thither, with God's help!"
And I laid my hand on his arm, and asked him if he was minded to diequietly in the garden; while Mount, knife at his throat, pushed himtowards the door.
"Do you mean it?" he burst out, shuddering. "Am I not to have achance for life? This is murder, Mr. Cardigan!"
"So dealt you by me at the Cayuga stake," I said.
"Yet--it is murder you do. If my hands are not clean, would you foulyour own?"
"So dealt you by me in Queen Street prison," I said, slowly.
"Yet, nevertheless, it is murder. And you know it. This is no court oflaw, to sit in judgment. Are the Cardigans the public hangmen?"
"Give him his sword!" I cried, passionately. "I cannot breathe whilehe draws breath! Give him his sword, or I will slay him with nakedhands!"
"No!" roared Foxcroft, hurling me back.
Butler scowled at the lawyer; Foxcroft scowled at him, and placed hisheavy shoe on the fallen sword. Then he suddenly stooped, seized thegilded hilt, and snapped the blade in two, casting the fragments fromhim in contempt.
"The sword of a scoundrel," he said; "the sword of a pettymalefactor--a pitiful forger--"
"Liar!" shrieked Butler, springing at him. Mount flung the maddenedman into a chair, where he lay, white and panting, staring atFoxcroft, who now stood by the table, coolly examining a packet ofdocuments.
"It is all here," he said--"the story of two cheap dabblers in pettycrime--Sir John Johnson and Mr. Walter Butler--how they did conspireto steal from Miss Warren her wealth, her fair fame, and the very nameGod gave her. A shameful story, gentlemen, but true on the word of anhonourable man."
"Lies!" muttered Butler, between ashen lips. His cheeks became looseand horrible; his lips shrivelled up above his teeth. Foxcroft turnedto me, purple with passion.
"Sir William Johnson, your honourable kinsman, left Miss Warrenproperty in his will. Sir John found, in the same box which held thewill, a packet of documents and letters addressed to Sir William,apparently proving that Miss Warren was the child of a certain ladywho had left her husband to follow the fortunes of Captain Warren--herchild by her own husband, Cade Renard, a gentleman of Cambridge."
"The Weasel!" burst out Jack Mount.
"But she is not, sir!" cried Foxcroft, turning on Mount. "She isCaptain Warren's own child; I journeyed to England and proved it; Ihave papers here in my pocket to prove it!" he said, slapping theflaps of his brass-buttoned coat. "It was a lie from beginning to end;the letters supposed to have been written to Sir William by Sir PeterWarren were forged; the documents supposed to have been unearthed fromthe flooring in the captain's cabin of his Majesty's ship _Leda_ wereforged. I can prove it! I can prove that Walter Butler was the forger!I can prove that Sir John Johnson knew it! And to that end Sir Johnand Captain Butler conspired to make her believe herself to be thechild of a half-crazed forest-runner who had been besetting Sir Johnwith his mad importunities, calling himself Cade Renard, and vowingthat Miss Warren was his own child!"
He glared at Butler; the wretched man's lips moved to form the word,"Lies!" but no sound came. Then Foxcroft turned to me.
"In my presence these three men broke the news to her; they hoodwinkedme, too. By God, sir, I had never suspected villany had not thatcontemptible fool, Sir John, attempted to bribe silence, shouldanything ever occur to cast doubt on the relationship betwixt thisfellow Renard and Miss Warren!"
The lawyer paused, grinding his teeth in rage.
"I accepted the bribe! I did, gentlemen! I did it to quiet suspicion.Sir John believes me to be his creature. But I set out to follow thematter to the bitter end, and I have done it! It's a falsehood from Ato Zed! I shall have the pleasure of flinging Sir John's bribe intohis face!"
He laid his hand on my arm, speaking very gently and gravely.
"Mr. Cardigan, Miss Warren is the truest, bravest, sweetest woman Ihave ever known. She received the news of her dreadful position as agallant soldier receives the fire of the enemy. When it was madehopelessly clear to her that this lunatic Renard was her father, andthat she was not a Warren, not an heiress, that she must now give upall thought of the family on which she had so long imposed--and giveup all pretensions to _you_, sir--she acquiesced with a dignity thatmight have become a princess of the blood, sir! No whining there, Mr.Cardigan! Not a whimper, sir; not a reproach, not a tear. Her firstthought was of pity for her father--this little, withered lunatic, whosat there devouring her with his eyes of a sick hound. She went to himbefore us all; she took his hand--his hard, little claw--and kissedit. By God, gentlemen, blood tells!"
After a long silence I repeated, "Blood tells."
Mount, head in his hands, was weeping.
"Then came Butler, the forger," said Foxcroft, pointing at him. "An
dwhen he found that, after all, Miss Warren honoured herself too highlyto seek a rehabilitation through his name, he came here and threatenedthis poor old man's life--threatened to denounce him as a thief, andhave him hung at a cross-roads, unless she gave herself to him!Then--then she consented."
Butler was sitting forward in his chair, his bloodless face supportedbetween his slim fingers, his eyes on vacancy. He did not seem to hearthe words that branded him; he did not appear to see us as we drewcloser around him.
"In the orchard," muttered Mount; "we can hang him with his ownbridle."
We paused for an instant, gazing silently at the doomed man. ThenMount touched him on the shoulder.
At the voiceless summons he looked up at us as though stunned.
"You must hang," said Mount, gravely.
"Not that! No!" I stammered; "I can't do it! Give him a sword--givehim something to fight with! Jack--I can't do it. I am not made thatway!"
There was a touch on my arm; Silver Heels stood beside me.
"Let them deal with him," she murmured, "you cannot fight with him;there is no honour in him."
"No!--no honour in him!" I repeated.
He had risen, and now stood, staring vacantly at me.
"Damnation!" cried Mount, "are you going to let him loose on the worldagain?"
"I cannot slay him," I said.
"But a rope can!" said Mount.
"Do you then draw it," I replied, "and never rail more at thehangman!"
After a moment I unlocked and opened the door. As in a trance, Butlerpassed out into the moonlight; Mount stole close behind him, and I sawhis broad knife glimmer as he followed.
"Let him go," I said, wearily. "I choke with all this foul intrigue.Is there no work to do, Jack, save the sheriff's? Faugh! Let him go!"
Butler slowly set foot to stirrup; Mount snatched the pistol from thesaddle-holster with a savage sneer.
"No, no," he said. "Trust a scoundrel if you will, lad, but draw hisfangs first. Oh, Lord above!--but I hate to let him go! Shall I? I'llgive him a hundred yards before I fire! And I'll not aim at that!Shall I?"
If Butler heard him he made no sign. He turned in his saddle andlooked at Silver Heels.
Should I let him loose on the world once more? God knows I am noprophet, nor pretend to see behind the veil; yet, as I stood there,looking on Walter Butler, I thought the haze that the moon spun in thegarden grew red like that fearsome light which tinges the smoke ofburning houses, and I remembered that dream I had of him, so long ago,when I saw him in the forest, with blood on him, and fresh scalps athis belt--and the scalps were not of the red men.
Should I, who had him in my power, and could now forever render thedemon in him powerless--should I let him go free into the world, orsend him forever to the dreadful abode of lost souls?
War was at hand. War would come at dawn when the Grenadiers marchedinto Concord town. To slay him, then, would be no murder. But now?
Mount, watching me steadily, raised his rifle.
"No," I said.
What was I to do? There was no prison to hale him to; the jails o'Boston lodged no Tories. Justice? There was no justice save thatmockery at Province House. Law? Gage was the law--Gage, the friend ofthis man. What was I to do? Once again Mount raised his rifle.
"No," I said.
So passed Walter Butler from among us, riding slowly out into theshadowy world, under the calm moon. God witness that I conducted as myhonour urged, not as my hot blood desired--and He shall deal with meone day, face to face, that I let loose this man on the world, yet didnot dream of the hell he should make of Tryon County ere his red soulwas fled again to the hell that hatched it!
So rode forth mine enemy, Walter Butler, invulnerable for me in hisarmour of dishonour, unpunished for the woe that he had wrought,unmarked by justice which the dawn had not yet roused from her longsleep in chains.
Again Mount raised his rifle.
"No," I said.
* * * * *
A little breeze began stirring in the moonlit orchard; our horsestossed their heads and stamped; then silence fell.
After a long while the voice of Mount recalled me to myself; he haddrawn poor Renard to a seat on the rotting steps of the porch.
"Now do you know me, Cade?" asked Mount, again and again.
The Weasel folded his withered hands in his lap and looked up,solemnly.
"Cade? Cade, old friend?" persisted Mount, piteously, drawing hisgreat arm about the Weasel's stooping shoulders.
The Weasel's solemn eyes met his in silence.
Mount forced a cheerful laugh that rang false in the darkness.
"What! Forget the highway, Cade? The King's highway, old friend? Themoon at the cross-roads? Eh? You remember? Say you remember, Cade."
The blank eyes of the Weasel were fixed on Mount.
"The forest? Eh, Cade? Ho!--lad! The rank smell o' the moss, and thestench of rotting logs? The quiet in the woods, the hermit-bird pipingin the pines? Say you remember, old friend!" he begged; "tell me youremember! Ho! lad, have you forgot the tune the war-arrow sings?"
And he made a long-drawn, whispering whimper with his lips.
In pantomime he crouched and pointed; the Weasel's mild eyes turned.
"The Iroquois!" whispered Mount, anxiously. "They wearO-Kwen-cha!--red paint! Hark to the war-drums! Do you not hear themchanting:
"Ha-wa-sa-say! Ha-wa-sa-say!"
The Weasel's eyes grew troubled; he looked up at Mount trustfully,like a child who refuses to be frightened.
"I hear Che-ten-ha, the mouse; he gnaws, gnaws, gnaws."
"No, it is the Iroquois!" urged Mount. "You have fought them, Cade;you remember? Say that you remember!"
"I--I have fought the Iroquois," repeated the Weasel, passing his handover his brow; "but it was years ago--years ago--too long ago toremember--"
"No, no!" cried Mount, "it was but yesterday, old friend--yesterday!And who went with you on the burnt trail, Cade? Who went with you bynight and by day, by starlight and by sun, eating when you ate,starving when you starved, drinking deep when you drank, thirstingwhen you thirsted? It was I, Cade!" cried Mount, eagerly; "I!"
"It was Tah-hoon-to-whe, the night-hawk," murmured the little man.
"It was I, Jack Mount!" repeated the forest-runner, in a loud voice."Hark! The Iroquois drums! The game's afoot, Cade! Rouse up, oldfriend! The trail is free!"
But the Weasel only stared at him with his solemn, aged eyes, andclasped his trembling hands in his lap.
Mount stood still for a long while. Slowly his eager head sank, hisarms fell, hopelessly. Then, with a gulping sob, he sank down besidehis ancient comrade, and hid his head in his huge hands.
The Weasel looked at him with sorrowful eyes; then rose, and cameslowly towards Silver Heels.
"They say you are not my daughter," he said, taking Silver Heels'shands from mine. "They tell me I have forgotten many things--that youare not my little girl. But--we know better, my child."
He bent and kissed her hands. His hair was white as frost.
"We know better, child," he murmured. "You shall tell me all theysay--for I cannot understand--and we will smile to remember it all, inthe long summer evenings--will we not, my child?"
"Yes," said Silver Heels, faintly.
"There is much, sir, that I forget in these days," he said, turninggravely towards me--"much that I cannot recall. Age comes to us allwith God's mercy, sir. Pray you forgive if I lack in aught of courtesyto my guests. There are many people who stay with us--and I cannotremember all names of new and welcome guests--believe me, mostwelcome. I think your name is Captain Butler?"
"Sir Michael Cardigan," whispered Silver Heels.
"And welcome, always welcome to us here in Cambridge Hall," murmuredthe old man, staring vacantly about him.
Foxcroft, who had gone to the shabby barn, came back and whisperedthat there were no horses there, and no vehicle of any description;that we had best make ready for a jo
urney to Albany immediately, andabandon the house and its scant furnishings to the mercy of chance.
I left it to him and to Jack Mount to persuade poor Renard that ajourney was necessary that very night; and to them also I left thecare of providing for us as best they might, saying that I had nomoney until I could reach Albany, and that my horse Warlock was tocarry Miss Warren.
When Mount had drawn poor Cade away, and when Foxcroft began rummagingthe great house for what necessaries and provisions it might contain,Silver Heels took me by the hand and led me up the creaking old stairsand across the gallery to her own chamber. The moonlight flooded theroom as we entered, making its every corner sparkle.
Save for the great four-posted bed with its heavy canopy, there was inthe room nothing but a pine table and a jug and basin.
"So poor am I," she whispered, close beside my face.
"Is this all?" I asked.
"All save the clothes on my body, Michael."
"Silver Heels! Silver Heels!" I said, sorrowfully, holding her by thehands and never moving my eyes from her tender eyes. And we lookedand looked, nor gazed our fill, and the light of her sweet presencewas like moonlight which swam in the silvery room, bathing me to thesoul of me with deep content.
"All these piteous days!" she said, slowly.
"Ay--all of them! And each hour a year, and each nightfall a closingcentury. Silver Heels! Silver Heels! You are unchanged, dear heart!"
"Thin to my bones, and very, very old--like you, Michael."
"We have young souls."
"Yes, Michael. We are young in all save sorrow."
"And you are so tall, Silver Heels--"
"Span my waist!"
"My hand would span it. Ah! Your head comes not above my chin for allyour willow growth!"
"Your hands are rough, Sir Michael."
"Your hands are satin, sweet."
"Yet I wash my kerchief and my shifts in suds."
How the moon glowed and glowed on her.
"You grow in beauty, Silver Heels," I said.
"When you are with me I do truly feel beauty growing in me, Michael."
We sat down together on the great bed's edge, her face against mine,and looked out at the faint stars which the glory of the moon had notyet drowned in light.
Far in the night a cock crowed in the false dawn.
"You have suffered, sweet?" I whispered.
"Ay. And you?"
"Much," I replied.
After a long while she spoke.
"You have never wavered--not once--not for one moment?"
"Once."
In a faint whisper, "When?"
"On the road from Albany, dear heart."
"You rode in company?"
"Not of my choice."
"Who?"
"Do not ask."
"Who?"
"I cannot tell--"
"Who?"
"In honour."
"You wavered?"
"There was no danger when I thought of you."
She raised her face; her mouth touched mine, then clung to it, and Ibreathed the sweetest breath a maid e'er drew, and all my soul grewdim and warm and faint, with her arms now around my neck, now clingingto my shoulders, and her face like a blossom crushed to mine.
Trembling in limb and body she stood up, brushing her gray eyes awakewith slender fingers.
"Ah, what happiness, what happiness!" she whispered. "I am alla-quiver, and I burn to the soul of me. What strange, sweet mischiefis there in your lips, Michael? Nay--do not touch me--dear, dear lad;not now--not yet."
She leaned from the open casement; in the intense stillness a voicebroke out from below:
"Ready, Cardigan! The horses wait at the barn!"
As she had no cloak I wrapped her in mine, and, passing my arm aroundher, led her down to the porch and out across the orchard to the barnwhere Renard sat, mounted on his old comrade's horse.
Warlock came to my call; he nosed the little hand that Silver Heelsheld out, and laid his head close to hers.
"Bear her safely, Warlock!" I muttered, huskily, and lifted her to thesaddle, bidding Foxcroft mount his own horse, as I would walk besideMiss Warren.
So we started, Foxcroft in the van, then the Weasel, with Mount afoot,leading the horse, then Silver Heels in her saddle, with one hand onmy shoulder as I walked at her side, rifle trailed.
"There is a road which swings north," said Foxcroft. "We must circleLexington."
"There is a road yonder," called out Mount.
Foxcroft hesitated.
"I think it leads to Roxbury," he said; "I cannot tell if it be theroad."
"Is it the Roxbury Road, Cade?" asked Mount, cheerfully.
"Doubtless, doubtless," replied the Weasel, vacantly, staring atSilver Heels.
"He does not remember," whispered Silver Heels.
"Try it," said Mount; "I doubt not but that it swings far north o'Lexington. If this were the forest 'twixt Saint Sacrement and Pitt I'dvouch for us all, but the smell o' the town has dulled and blunted mynose, and I see no longer like a tabby in a dark pantry."
He moved into the road, following Foxcroft, and leading the horse onwhich Cade Renard was mounted. I came last with Silver Heels.
The moon was well on her journey towards the dark world's edge ere wecame to a cross-roads; but the four finger-posts were missing, and wefound ourselves no wiser than before. Foxcroft voiced his misgivingsthat we were on the Lexington Road after all, and not on the road toRoxbury, as we should surely have crossed the Concord Road ere this.
And he was right, for in a few moments we came in full view of theLexington Meeting-house, with the Concord Road running into our roadon the left and "Buckman's Tavern" on the right, all ablaze withcandles set in every window, and a great stable lanthorn shining inthe centre of the road.
"It is past three in the morning," said Foxcroft, looking at hiswatch. "The British should have been here ere this if they were comingat all."
Mount threw his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, and, tossinghis horse's bridle to Foxcroft, walked towards "Buckman's Tavern"where, in the lanthorn light, a throng of men were standing.
I heard him greet them with a hearty "God save our country"; then hedisappeared in the crowd.
The night had turned chilly; I buttoned my riding-coat across SilverHeels's throat and covered her head with the cape, tying it under herchin like a hood.
Presently Mount came striding back, rifle on shoulder, followed by anhostler with a stable light.
"The militia have been yonder under arms since midnight," he said. "Amessenger rode in ten minutes since with news that the road was clearand no British coming. We can get a post-chaise here"--he noddedtowards the hostler who stood swinging his lamp in one hand and hisfirelock in t'other.
"I guess the redcoats ain't a-coming, gentlemen," said the hostler,with a grin.
"Then we had best bait at the tavern," said Foxcroft, quickly; and heled the way, riding beside the Weasel, who seemed utterly indifferentto his surroundings.
As we threaded our path through the crowd of men and boys I noticedthat all were armed with rifles or old-time firelocks, and some evenwith ancient blunderbusses and bell-muzzled matchlocks. They appearedto be a respectable company, mostly honest yokels from the village,clad in plain homespun. A few wore the militia uniform; one or twoofficers were dressed in the full uniform of the Third SuffolkRegiment. They eyed us curiously as we passed through their stragglingranks; one called out: "The forest-runners are with us! Hurrah!" But,for the most part, they regarded us quietly, readily making way for meas I came up, leading Warlock with Silver Heels in the saddle, cloakedto the eyes.
A servant, wearing a pistol in his belt, brought us bread and hotstirabout in a great blue bowl. This dry fare we washed with ale,Silver Heels tasting a glass of Madeira to warm her chilled body.
It was a silent, thoughtful repast. Mount, sitting close beside theWeasel, urged the old man to eat, and he did, mechanically, with dazedeyes fixed on spa
ce.
One thing I began to notice: he no longer watched Silver Heels withthat humble, devoted, hungering mien of a guardian hound; he scarcelyappeared to be aware of her presence at all. Once only he spoke,asking what had become of his rifle; and Mount, eager and hopeful,brought his own rifle to the stricken man. But the Weasel had alreadyforgotten what he had asked for, and he glanced at the weaponlistlessly, his hands folded before him on the cloth.
Though her life had nigh been wrecked forever by this poor madman,Silver Heels, sitting at his elbow, watched over him with a serioustenderness and pity, doing for him those little offices which dobecome the children of the aged and infirm, and which, God grant, ourchildren shall fulfil towards us. And so I saw her with the salt-box,savouring his stirabout so that it should be seasoned to his liking,and, with the cone of sugar, chip such morsels with her knife as hemight mumble when he chose.
Presently Foxcroft went to the stables to see that our post-chaise waswell provisioned for the journey, and Mount led Renard away to watchthe feed-bags filled for our horses' provender.
Silver Heels, still wrapped in my riding-cloak, laid her slim hand onmy arm, and we walked together to the tavern porch.
The road from Boston divides in front of the Meeting-house, formingtwo sides of a grassy triangle, on the base of which stands theMeeting-house, facing down the Boston Road. Near this village green afew armed men still lingered in the faint light of dawn, conversing inlow voices, and glancing often down the deserted Boston Road.
A score of men sat around us on the damp tavern steps, listlesslybalancing their rifles between their knees, some smoking wooden pipes,some dozing, some drinking early milk from a bucket brought by asmall, freckled lad who wore neither hat nor shoes.
"Do you desire some fresh milk, lady?" he asked, gazing solemnly up atSilver Heels.
She smiled faintly, took the proffered dipper, and drank a little.
"No pay, lady," he said, as I drew out some coins which Foxcroft hadloaned me; "the redcoats are comin', and we need to for-ti-fy thein-ner man--and the in-ner lady," he added, politely.
A soldier looked up and laughed.
"That's what the little rascal heard Captain Parker say," he drawled,much amused, while the barefoot Ganymede withdrew, blushing andembarrassed, to act as cup-bearer to others who had beckoned him.
"We've got a hundred an' thirty militia here already," volunteered adrummer-boy who lolled on the porch, fondling his wet drum; "butCaptain Parker, he let 'em go into the houses around the green becausehe guesses the redcoats ain't a-comin', but I'm to stay here an' drumlike the devil if the redcoats come."
"An' I'm to fife if they come!" added another boy, stoutly.
I glanced down at the big, painted drum, all beaded with dew, and Iread "Louisburg" written in white letters on the hoops.
"We have some old Louisburg soldiers here," said the urchin, proudly."The redcoats say that we be all cowards, but I guess we have fitbattles for 'em long enough."
"You are over-young to fight in war," said Silver Heels, gently.
"No, ma'am, we ain't!" they retorted, in a breath. "We'll give 'em'Yankee Doodle' this time, my lady!"
"'Yankee Doodle,'" repeated Silver Heels, mystified.
"A foolish song the British play in Boston to plague us," I explained.
Presently Silver Heels touched my arm. "See yonder--look at that man,down there in the road! See him running now, Michael!"
I turned and looked down the Boston Road; the little bareleggeddrummer stood up.
Faintly came the far cry through the misty chill: "The British arecoming! The British are coming!"
The next instant the wet, stringy drum banged and buzzed on the tavernporch, drowning all other sounds in our ears; a score of men stumbledto their feet, rifles in hand; the little fifer blew a whistling call,then ran out into the road.
At that same moment our post-chaise lumbered around the corner of thetavern yard and drew up before us, Mount acting as post-boy, andFoxcroft and the Weasel riding together in the rear.
Mount apprehended the situation at a glance; he motioned me to placeSilver Heels in the chaise, which I did, with my eyes still fixed onthe foggy Boston Road.
"Is it a false alarm?" inquired Foxcroft, anxiously, as a few of themilitia came running past our chaise. "Ho! Harrington! Hey! BobMonroe! Is it true they are coming, lads?"
Harrington and Monroe, whom I had met in Boston at the "Wild Goose,"waved their arms to us, and called out that it was doubtless true.
"Which way?" cried Foxcroft, standing up in his stirrups.
But the militia and Minute Men ran out without answering, and joinedthe line which was slowly forming on the green, while the oldLouisburg drum rolled, vibrating sonorously, and the fife's shrilltreble pierced the air.
There was a uniformed officer in front of the ragged line, shoutingorders, gesticulating, pushing men into place; some sidled nearer totheir comrades as though for shelter, many craned their necks likealarmed turkeys, a few huddled into groups, charging and priming theirpieces--some threescore yokels in all, though others were running fromthe houses and joining the single rank, adding to the disorder andconfusion. And all the while the old Louisburg drum thundered theassembly.
"Cardigan, which way are they coming?" cried Foxcroft, still standingup in his stirrups. "They say there are redcoats behind us and more infront of us!"
"Do those ragged rascals mean to face a British army?" exclaimedMount, reining in his horse, which had begun to rear at the noise ofthe drum.
"Turn your horses, Jack!" I said, holding Warlock by the head; "turnback towards Concord!"
"There's redcoats on the Concord Road!" cried a woman, running out ofa house close by. I saw her hurry across to the village green,carrying a sack of home-moulded bullets.
Jonathan Harrington caught her arm, took the bullet-pouch, kissed her;then she hastened back to the little house and stood at the window,peering out with white face pressed to the dark glass.
I flung myself astride Warlock, wheeled the restless horse, and rangedup alongside Mount.
"Can we not take the Bedford Road?" I asked, anxiously.
"They say the British are betwixt us and the west," replied Mount. Hiseyes had begun to burn with a steady, fierce light; he sat astride theoff horse, cocking and uncocking his rifle.
"Then we should make for the Boston Road!" I said, impatiently; "wecan't stay here--"
"Look yonder!" broke in Foxcroft, excitedly.
Out into the Boston Road, in the gray haze of dawn, trotted a Britishofficer, superbly mounted. The pale light glimmered on his silvergorget; the gold on his sleeves and hat sparkled.
Straight on his heels marched the British infantry, moving walls ofscarlet topped with shining steel, rank after rank, in magnificentalignment, pouring steadily into the square, with never a drum-beat totime the perfect precision of their black-gaitered legs.
"Halt!" cried a far voice; the red ranks stood as one man. An officergalloped alongside of the motionless lines, and, leaning forward inhis saddle, shouted to the disordered group of farmers, "Stop thatdrum!"
"Fall in! Fall in!" roared the captain of the militia; the oldLouisburg drum thundered louder yet.
"Prime! Load!" cried the British officers, and the steady call wasrepeated from company to company, and yet to companies unseen, fardown the Boston Road.
Twoscore of spectators had now so hemmed in our post-chaise that wecould not move without crushing them, yet I struggled ceaselessly toback the vehicle into the stable-yard, and Foxcroft begged the crowdto move and let the chaise pass.
We had scarcely succeeded in reaching the corner of the yard, and thebody of the chaise was now safe from bullets, when a British majorgalloped into the green, motioning violently to the militia with hisdrawn sword.
"Disperse! Disperse!" he called out, angrily.
"Stand your ground!" roared the militia captain. "Don't fire unlessfired upon! But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here!"
"Disperse!" shouted the British major. "Lay down your arms! Why don'tyou lay down your arms and disperse--"
A shot cut him short; his horse gave a great bound, backed, lashed outwith both hind feet, then reared in agony.
"My God! they've shot his horse!" cried Foxcroft.
"'Tis his own men, then," broke in Mount; "I marked the smoke."
"Disperse!" bellowed the maddened officer, dragging his horse to astand-still--"disperse, ye rebels!"
Behind a stone wall a farmer rose and presented his firelock, but thepiece flashed in the pan. A shot rang out, but I could not see whofired.
Far down the Boston Road the solid front of a second British columnappeared.
Already some of the Minute Men were quitting the single, disorderedrank on the green which still wavered, facing the regulars; but theircaptain continued in front of his men, and the drummer still drummedhis hoarse challenge.
Then a British officer fired his pistol from the saddle, and, beforeany one could move or lift a finger, a bright sheet of flame girdledthe British front, and the deafening roar of musketry shook the earth.
Through the low rushing billows of smoke that gushed out over theground like foam, I saw the British major rise in his stirrups, and,reversing his sword, drive it downward as signal to cease firing.Other officers rode up through the smoke, shouting orders which werelost in the dropping shots from the militia, now retreating on a runpast us up the Bedford Road.
"Look at Harrington," cried Mount; "he's down under that smoke!"
But Harrington rose, and reeled away towards his own house. I saw hiswife at the door; the wounded man also saw her, and feebly stretchedout his hands as though calling for aid, then he pitched forward onhis face and lay still, one hand clutching his own door-step.
"Halt!" shouted the British major, plunging about on his wounded horsethrough the smoke. "Stop that firing! D'ye hear what I say? Stop it!Stop it!" And again and again he reversed his sword in frantic signalswhich no one heeded.
An officer cantered up, calling out: "Major Pitcairn! Major Pitcairn!Are you hit, sir?"
A volley from the British Tenth Foot drowned his voice, and thered-coated soldiers came bursting through the smoke on a double-quick,shouting and hoisting their mitre-caps on the points of theirbayonets. Behind them the grenadiers rushed forward, cheering.
A soldier of the light infantry in front of the Meeting-house flung uphis musket and fired at an old man who was hobbling across thestreet; shots came quicker and quicker; I saw my acquaintance, Monroe,attempt to traverse the road towards the tavern; he was rolling in themud ere he had taken two steps. A grenadier ran after a lank farmerand caught him by the collar; the farmer tripped up the redcoat andstarted to run, but they brought him to his knees in the road, andthen shot him to death under their very feet.
I galloped to the chaise and jerked the horses back, then wheeled themwestward towards Bedford, where the remnants of the militia weresullenly falling back, firing across at the British, now marching onpast the Meeting-house up the Concord Road.
"No! No!" cried Foxcroft, "we cannot risk it! Stay where you are!"
"We cannot risk being butchered here!" I replied. Silver Heels wasstanding straight up in the chaise, one hand holding to the leathercurtain. Her face had grown very white.
"They've killed a poor young man behind that barn!" she whispered, asI leaned from my saddle and motioned her to crouch low. "They shot himtwice, and struck him with their muskets!"
I glanced hastily towards the barn and saw a dark heap lying in thegrass behind it. Three red-coated soldiers stood near, loading theirmuskets and laughing.
"Look at the Weasel!" muttered Mount, jerking my arm as my horseranged up beside his.
The Weasel was hastily climbing out of his saddle, rifle in hand. Hisface, which a few moments before had been haggard and vacant, hadgrown flushed and eager, his eyes snapped with intelligence, his headwas erect, and his movements quick as a forest-cat's.
"Cade!" quavered Mount. "Cade, old friend, what are you doing?"
"Come!" cried the Weasel, briskly; "can't you see the redskins?"
"Redcoats! Redcoats!" cried Mount, anxiously. "Where are you going,Cade? Come back! Come back! They can't hit us here! Redcoats, Cade,not redskins!"
"They be all one to me!" replied the Weasel, briskly, scuttling awayto cover under a tuft of hazel.
"Don't shoot, Cade!" bawled Mount. "Wait till we can gather ourpeople! Wait! Hell and damnation! don't fire!"
"Bang!" went the Weasel's long brown rifle; a red-coated soldier onthe Concord Road dropped.
"He's done it! God help us!" groaned Foxcroft.
"Hold those horses!" said Mount, desperately. I seized the leaders,Mount slipped from his saddle to the ground, and ran out to the long,dead grass behind the Meeting-house. I could see him catch the Weaselby the arm and attempt to drag him back by force, but the mad littlecreature clung obstinately to his patch of hazel.
"He won't come!" shouted Mount, turning towards me.
As he turned, I saw the entire British column marching swiftly up theConcord Road, a small flanking party thrown out on the right. TheWeasel also saw the troops and made haste to level his rifle again,but Mount fell upon him and dragged him down into the marsh-grass.
From the Bedford Road our militia fired slowly across at the fastvanishing troops on the Concord Road; the British flanking partyreturned the fire, but the main column paid no heed to the shots, andpressed on in silence, without music, without banners, without adrum-tap to mark their rapid march. No British soldiers came our way;they appeared to disdain the groups of militia retreating along theBedford Road; their rear-guard fired a few scattering shots into"Buckman's Tavern" at long range, then ran on to keep in touch withthe main body.
Both the Weasel and Mount were now deliberately firing at the Britishflanking party, which had halted on a bit of ploughed ground, andseemed to be undecided whether to continue their march or return andpunish the two foolhardy riflemen whose bullets had already knockedone big soldier flat on his back across the fresh furrows.
All at once six red-coated soldiers started running towards Jack Mountand the Weasel. I shouted to warn the infatuated men. Silver Heelscaught my arm.
"I cannot leave them there!" I stammered; "I must go to them!"
"Foxcroft will guard me!" she murmured. "Go to them, dearest!"
"Foxcroft! Hold these horses!" I cried, flinging Warlock's bridle tohim, and slipping out of my saddle.
Rifle a-trail, I ran across the road, leaped the fence, and plungedinto the low bushes. Jack Mount turned a cool, amused eye on me as Icame up.
"The Weasel is right," he said, triumphantly; "we'll catch ahalf-dozen red-birds now. Be ready when I draw their fire, lad; thendrop and run forward through the swamp! You know how the Senecasfight. We'll catch them alive!"
Over the tops of the low bushes I could see the soldiers comingtowards us, muskets half raised, scanning the cover for the game theymeant to bag, thrusting their bayonets into bushes, beating the longgrass with their gunstocks to flush the skulking quarry for asnap-shot.
Without warning, Mount rose, then sank to the ground as a volleyrattled out; and instantly we three ran forward, bent double. In amoment more I sprang up from the swamp-grass beside a soldier andknocked him flat with a blow from my rifle-stock. Mount shot atanother and missed him, but the fellow promptly threw down his musket,yelling lustily for quarter.
The four remaining soldiers attempted to load, but the Weasel trippedup one, with a cartridge half bitten in his mouth, and the other threewere chased and caught by some Acton militia, who came leaping acrossthe swampy covert from the Bedford Road.
When the Acton men returned with their prisoners, the soldier whom Ihad struck was sitting up in the swamp-grass, rubbing his powderedhead and staring wildly at his sweating and anxious comrades.
"That's the fellow who murdered Harrington!" said one of the militia,and drew up his rifle with a jerk.
"Use
these prisoners well, or I'll knock your head off!" roared Mount,striking up the rifle.
An officer of Minute Men came up; his eyes were red as though he hadbeen weeping.
"They butchered his brother behind the red barn yonder," whispered alean yokel beside me. "He'll hang 'em, that's what he'll do."
"That's it! Hang 'em!" bawled out a red-headed lout, flourishing apitchfork. "Hang the damn--!"
"Put that fool under arrest," said the officer, sharply. Some ActonMinute Men seized the lout and hustled him off; others formed a guardand conducted the big, perspiring, red-coated soldiers towards"Buckman's Tavern."
"You will treat them humanely?" I asked, as the officer passed me.
He gave me a blank glance; the tears again had filled his eyes.
"Certainly," he said, shortly; "I am not a butcher."
I gave him the officer's salute; he returned it absently, and walkedon, with drawn sword and head sunk on his tarnished brass gorget.
A restless, silent crowd had gathered at "Buckman's Tavern," where twodead Minute Men lay on the porch, stiffening in their blood.
The sun had not yet risen, but all the east was turning yellow; greatclouds of red-winged blackbirds rose and settled in the swampymeadows, and filled the air with their dry chirking; robins sangecstatically.
Back along the muddy Bedford Road trudged the remnants of thescattered Lexington company of militia; the little barelegged drummerposted himself in front of the Meeting-house once more, and drummedthe assembly. Men seemed to spring from the soil; every bramble-patchwas swarming now; they came hurrying across the distant fields singly,in twos and threes, in scores.
Far away in the vague dawn bells rang out in distant villages, and Iheard the faint sound of guns and the throbbing of drums. I passed theLexington company re-forming on the trodden village green. Theircaptain, Parker, called out to me: "Forest-runner! We need your rifle!Will you fight with us?"
"I cannot," I said, and ran towards the post-chaise, rifle onshoulder.
The women and children of Lexington were gathered around it. I saw ata glance that Silver Heels had given her seat to a frightened oldwoman, and that other women were thrusting their children into thevehicle, imploring Mount and Foxcroft to save them from the British.
"Michael," said Silver Heels, looking up with cool gray eyes, "theBritish are firing at women in the farm-houses on the Concord Roadabove here. We must get the children away."
"And you?" I asked, sharply. She lifted a barefooted urchin into thechaise without answering.
A yoke of dusty, anxious oxen, drawing a hay-cart, came clattering up,the poor beasts running heavily, while their driver followed on a trotbeside them, using his cruel goad without mercy.
"Haw! Haw! Gee! Gee! Haw!" he bellowed, guiding his bumping wagon intothe Bedford Road.
"The children here!" called out Silver Heels, in her clear voice, andcaught up another wailing infant, to soothe it and lift it into thebroad ox-wagon.
In a moment the wagon was full of old women and frantic children; ayoung girl, carrying a baby, ran alongside, begging piteously for aplace, but already other vehicles were rattling up behind gaunt, rustyhorses, and places were found for the frightened little ones in theconfusion.
Some boys drove a flock of sheep into the Bedford Road; a herd ofyoung cattle broke and ran, scattering the sheep. Mount and I sprangin front of Silver Heels, driving the cattle aside with clubbedrifles. Then there came a heavy pounding of horses' hoofs in the mud,a rush, a cry, and a hatless, coatless rider drew up in a cloud ofscattering gravel.
"More troops coming from Boston!" he shouted in his saddle. "LordPercy is at Roxbury with three regiments, marines, and cannon! PaulRevere was taken at one o'clock this morning!" And away he galloped,head bent low, reeking spurs clinging to his horse's gaunt flanks.
Silver Heels, standing beside me in the hanging morning mist, laid herhand on my arm.
"If the British are at Roxbury," she said, "we are quite cut off, arewe not?"
I did not answer. Mount turned a grave, intelligent eye on me;Foxcroft came up, wiping the mud and sweat from his eyes.
At that moment the drum and fife sounded from the green; the Lexingtoncompany, arms trailing, came marching into the Bedford Road, Indianfile, Captain Parker leading.
Beside him, joyous, alert, transfigured, trotted the Weasel. "We'vegot them now!" he called out to Mount. "We'll catch the redskins withour hands at Charlestown Neck!"
The little barelegged drummer nodded seriously; the old Louisburg drumrumbled out the route-march.
Into "Buckman's Tavern" filed the Lexington men and fell to slammingand bolting the wooden shutters, piercing the doors and walls forrifle-fire, piling tables and chairs and bedding along the veranda fora rough breastwork.
"You must come with the convoy," I said, taking Silver Heels by thehand.
Her grave, gray eyes met mine in perfect composure.
"We must stay," she said.
"They are bringing cannon--can you not understand?" I repeated,harshly.
"I will not go," she said. "Every rifle is required here. I cannottake you from these men in their dire need. Dear heart, can you notunderstand me?"
"Am I to sacrifice you?" I asked, angrily. "No!" I cried. "We havesuffered enough--"
Tears sprang to her eyes; she laid her hand on my rifle.
"Other women have sent their dearest ones. Am I less brave than thatwoman whose husband died yonder on his own door-sill? Am I a useless,passionless clod, that my blood stirs at naught but pleasure? Look atthose dead men on the tavern steps! Look at our people's blood on thegrass yonder! Would you wed with a pink-and-white thing whose veinsrun water? I saw them kill that poor boy behind his own barn!--theseredcoat ruffians who come across an ocean to slay us in our own land.Do you forget I am a soldier's child?"
A loud voice bellowing from the tavern: "Women here for thebullet-moulds! Get your women to the tavern!"
She caught my hand. "You see a maid may not stand idle in Lexington!"she said, with a breathless smile.