He turned his head, but before he could answer they were both jolted from their separate preoccupations. A weird clamor broke from the quiet forest, war whoops and the tooting of horns. Beneath these the steady beat of a fife and drum, and defiant voices singing to the tune of 'Old Dan Tucker.'
The barouche was surrounded with dozens of masked figures in lurid calico costumes shouting and gesticulating as they waved pitchforks and spears and clubs. The near horse shied violently, and the carriage stopped.
'Batter the coach in!' yelled one of the figures, and a heavy blow from a pitchfork rebounded from the carriage's sturdy roof.
'Stop that; that's not the way!' shouted another man in a blue sheepskin mask. 'Down with the rent, Van Ryn! Get out so we may talk to you.'
Nicholas was already out of the carriage. Though her heart was beating fast Miranda was not frightened. In spite of the weapons, there was more comedy than threat in this crazy collection of childish masks and calico nightgowns.
'It's all right, dear,' she said to Katrine, whom the racket had only half wakened. 'Go back to sleep.' The child subsided.
Miranda, moved by curiosity and a desire to be near Nicholas, also got out.
He walked up to the man in the blue sheepskin mask who seemed to be the leader. The others pressed close around them in a menacing circle.
'Well?' said Nicholas to the blue mask. 'Pray what is all this?' He spoke as casually as though this were a garden party on the Dragonwyck lawns, and before the leader could answer, a large figure in pink calico with a headdress of turkey feathers broke from the circle and brandishing a torch in Nicholas' face shouted: 'Ye know very well what we are. We're Indians! We've banded together on the warpath to right a grievous wrong!'
Nicholas' eyes traveled slowly from the speaker's muddy hobnailed boots beneath the home-dyed nightgown to the rawhide belt from which dangled a tin horn. Finally he raised his eyes to the clumsily painted mask.
Nicholas' lips curved. 'I've no objections to your playing at Indians, though it seems a childish amusement for grown men. But kindly play your games elsewhere; you're blocking the road.'
A threatening growl issued from a dozen throats. The group moved closer, but as well as the hatred which flowed from them toward the man in their midst, there was uncertainty. His attitude confounded them, for they saw that he was not bluffing, that their demonstration provoked in him no emotion but contempt and annoyance that his carriage should be delayed. And allegiance to the patroon was in their blood, violently as they resented the system.
The group wavered, several of the masks turned toward the one in blue sheepskin as though for guidance. 'You tell him, Blue Eagle,' muttered the man in turkey feathers.
The leader nodded and raised his hand toward Nicholas in a gesture of command. 'We're warning you, Van Ryn,' he said in a stern voice muffled by the mask. You won't collect the next rents. We Indians will see to that. Our chief Big Thunder has promised the farmers. You can send all the sheriffs and mealy-mouthed bailiffs you've a mind to but you'll not collect the rents.'
'Indeed?' said Nicholas. 'And now, having conveyed your message, I take it we may proceed.'
There was a silence. Even Miranda passionately admiring Nicholas felt the discouragement which emanated from the leader and gripped the others, and she amazed herself by feeling a twist of pity for them—the utter unreason of trying to assault the patroon's impregnability with puerile warnings and masquerade.
At last the blue mask dipped in assent. 'You may proceed.'
As Nicholas turned toward his carriage a few pitchforks were waved, and there were scattered tootings from the tin horns, but their defiance had flattened.
'Oh, you were so splendid!' cried Miranda as they once more seated themselves in the barouche. 'So—' Her voice broke into a frightened scream.
The glass windows in the doors on either side of them shattered simultaneously, and above the crash there was a report and the high whine of a bullet.
Without conscious thought she threw herself into Nicholas' arms. They tightened convulsively around her, holding her pressed against him. Her bonnet fell to the floor, and bending his head he touched her hair with his lips.
As soon as the coachman had managed to control the terrified horses the left-hand door was thrown open and Jeff Turner's anxious face peered in at them. 'You all right?' he cried. By the light of the torch he had seized as he ran to the carriage he saw Miranda's bright head against Van Ryn's breast, and even in his dismay he had a swift thought—Oh, Lord, so that's the way it is—before Nicholas put the girl gently from him.
'That bullet was a mistake, Van Ryn,' said Jeff. 'I'm mortal sorry. One of the men lost his head and we'll deal with him. We don't mean violence.' His quick eyes saw that no one had been hurt. Katrine, who was now wailing, had been protected from the falling glass by the carriage robe, and the bullet had passed harmlessly in and out the windows.
Still trembling, Miranda pulled the frightened child onto her lap, glared with the anger of ebbing terror at Jeff. So did Nicholas, who except for unusual pallor was composed again. They both saw the blue sheepskin mask which Jeff had hastily shoved down below his chin when he heard the shot.
'So Doctor Turner is Blue Eagle,' remarked Nicholas without particular emphasis. 'Don't you think you might keep your companions in better order?'
'Yes, of course,' answered Jeff impatiently. 'I told you I'm sorry, but there's no harm done, and it's no wonder one of us lost control. You're mighty provoking, Van Ryn, with your god-like airs and your stubborn refusal to see any viewpoint but your own. Don't you realize these men are desperate—you fool!'
Jeff snapped his mouth shut against his rising temper. Neither violence nor abuse was the way to right this injustice that was unfortunately backed by law. The two in the carriage infuriated him. But for Nicholas he felt an unwilling admiration. The man was cool and brave enough.
'It's you who are the fool, Doctor Turner,' said Nicholas indifferently.
Jeff turned and walked slowly back to the group of disgruntled maskers. Silently they all watched the carriage speed down the road and disappear between the pines. They had accomplished nothing, except to put themselves in the wrong and in danger of the law by that reckless pistol shot.
'Never mind, men,' said Jeff, tacitly admitting the affair's failure. 'Take heart, we'll win out yet. We'll show 'em we mean business over at Ancram next week!'
There were mutters of assent. They formed a straggling file, the fife and drums began again. A few voices took up the refrain:
'The moon was shining silver bright,
The sheriff came at dead of night.
High on a hill an Indian true,
And on his horn a blast he blew.
Get out of the way, Big Bill Snyder,
We'll tar your coat and feather your hide, sir.'
Singing doggedly, the calico Indians plodded down the cold, muddy roads to their various farms.
In the Van Ryn carriage Miranda was trying hard to control hysterical tears while she soothed the whimpering child on her knee. It was not only the fright and danger, nor shame at the way she had thrown herself inro Nicholas' arms. It was the realization that he had pulled her violently against him and she had felt the hard pressure of his face on her hair. This time there could be no doubt of his response, and beneath the exultation of that knowledge she felt a corroding fear. She could not look at him: above Katrine's head she kept her face turned toward the blackness of the broken window through which an icy wind blew. Though her teeth were chattering she scarcely felt the cold.
I must go home, she thought wildly. I must get away. It's true I must go. Tomorrow I'll tell him. No, now—quickly, before I lose my courage.
'Cousin Nicholas,' she said, her voice high and strained, 'it'll soon be Christmas time. I should be home. My mother will need me. There's always so much to do. I think I should go at once. Tomorrow or the next day—perhaps—'
Nicholas reached out in the darkness and put h
is hand on her arm. At his touch she fell silent.
'Be patient, Miranda,' he said in a quiet tone of absolute command. 'You will go back to the farm in due time. In due time—' he repeated on a lower note. He took his hand from her arm.
What is there to be patient for? she thought with anguish. I can't go on like this. But she had not the strength to protest. Her head drooped against the cushions. Later, she thought, when I'm in my room alone and warm again, I'll be able to think clearly. I'll know what to do.
She shivered as they emerged from the forest and the wind from the river blew through the broken panes with redoubled force. Katrine was dozing again. Heavy as a stone against Miranda's breasts the child's round head rolled in rhythm with the motion of the carriage.
8
MIRANDA DID NOT GO HOME. SHE MENTIONED THE possibility in a letter to her mother, but Abigail, suppressing her longing for her favorite child, wrote back by the next post that Miranda must not think of returning if the Van Ryns were willing to keep her. 'I can see that you are learning many gentle ways and becoming quite the lady. Mind you take full advantage of this rare opportunity.'
So it seemed foolish to insist on going, particularly as Miranda found her sudden panic inexplicable when coolly examined in the morning light. There had, after all, been nothing shameful or astonishing about that moment in the carriage. What more natural than to turn for protection to one's escort, and Nicholas' behavior—that had been really nothing more than chivalry and the affectionate impulse of an older relative. Even Ma wouldn't think it queer if she knew thought Miranda But she had not mentioned that episode to her mother.
Life at the Manor House went on as though the day in Hudson had never been. Nicholas sent to New York and Boston for books. Boxes of them arrived on each boat and were carried from the dock straight up to the tower room, where he now spent most of his time. An Albany schooner homing from the Orient brought a fresh consignment of foreign plants, and to Miranda's regret all the exquisite Persian oleanders were removed from the conservatory to make room for palms, an aloe, and some bulbous Ceylonese ferns that she thought hideous. She had admired the oleanders' waxy rose blossoms and the vivid green of their lance-shaped leaves, and she missed the fragrance which had delicately penetrated to the dining-room. But Nicholas seemed to have lost interest in flowers.
By early December everyone had a more vital interest than the placing of shrubs. The anti-rent wars were gathering momentum.
December the sixth was Saint Nicholas' Day, and according to Dutch custom the time for giving and receiving presents. Several of the neighboring children had been invited to celebrate with Katrine, and by three the guests had all arrived: Dominie Huysmann, the pastor, with his wife and three solemn children, the Verplancks from Kinderhook with their brood, two Van Rensselaer grandchildren, and the little Dejongs from Stuyvesant.
It was Nicholas himself who represented his name saint, not in the later convention of a jolly Santa Claus, but in the original conception of a fourth-century ecclesiastic. The blue satin robe stiff with embroidery, the gold miter and episcopal staff, had come from Holland, as had the traditional ceremony which Nicholas invested with an awe-inspiring solemnity. Though he produced no faggots for the punishment of naughty children, Katrine and the others sat terrified while he lectured them on their sins in the prescribed manner. Even when he raised the crook high over his head and slashed open the muslin bag which released a clattering rain of sugar plums onto the floor, the children waited until he vanished through a side door before precipitating themselves on the candies.
After they had sated themselves with the sugar plums, the double doors to the Italian drawing-room were thrown open to disclose a long table covered with damask upon which lay a row of wooden sabots gilded at the tips. These sabots also waited from year to year with the Saint's costume in an attic room. On each one had been pasted a child's name and they contained besides a wisp of hay—for Saint Nicholas' horse—a quantity of small trinkets and toys.
There were no gifts for adults, New Year's Day was the proper time for that; and while the children examined their presents the elders gathered in the Green Room for gossip and refreshment.
Miranda sat apart from the group in a chair designated by Johanna. The girl no longer resented these continual reminders of her inferior position, for since the day in Hudson she had felt a nervous desire to propitiate Johanna—an unreasonable desire, Miranda told herself, for had she not conclusively proved that there was no basis for guilt?—still she now made constant efforts to please the mistress of Dragonwyck and had even taken to confining her ringlets in a net.
The general conversation which flowed past her was dull enough talk of the river families until Nicholas, dressed in his own clothes, joined the group. At once Dominie Huysmann turned his lean, apprehensive face to the patroon.
'Oh, mynheer, that was shocking about the canopy,' he cried, his Adam's apple working. 'I trust mynheer understands that I knew nothing about it. They're ruffians. I think they've gone mad!'
Miranda looked at Nicholas. What was all this about the canopy? She had no doubt that some new down-rent demonstration was referred to, and she soon heard the details.
While she had been busy helping to fill the sabots, Johanna, Katrine, and Nicholas had that morning driven to the village church for the saint-day services. They found that the carved oaken canopy which covered the Van Ryn pew had been chopped down in the night. Splintered wood and mangled carvings littered the aisles. There had been a sign tacked on the pew door: 'Canopies are for kings and we'll have no kings here.'
'It was dreadful,' put in Johanna to the sympathetic audience. 'I assure you there were splinters on all the cushions.'
The Dominie listened respectfully to his patroness's complaint, then turned back to Nicholas. 'But mynheer, the matter is getting desperate. What shall we do?'
'Do?' repeated Nicholas. His eyes rested on the pastor with detached amusement. 'Why, we'll build the canopy again tomorrow. I've already given orders. I think this time it'll be of black walnut, somewhat in the gothic manner but more delicate. And the Van Ryn arms shall be blazoned in sable and gules upon the front panel.'
Huysmann swallowed. 'It'll make the tenants very angry. They—they might harm you, or—' he squirmed, scarcely daring to link himself with the patroon but made bold by fear, 'or me and my family. They know I'm loyal to the manor.'
The ladies rustled and looked at each other anxiously. The Dominie's wife bit her pale lips and clasped her reticule to her skinny bosom as though it were one of her children. Nicholas frowned.
'There is nothing to fear from my tenants. Nothing. Do you think we can't guide and control them as we have done this two hundred years? This hysteria will pass as it has before.'
The Dominie, after a quick glance at his patron's face, bowed his head. 'Yes mynheer. Doubtless you are right.'
The ladies subsided. After all, this was men's business, and if the Lord of Dragonwyck believed the matter unimportant it must be so. None of them had had any first-hand contact with the down-renters. Only Miranda was not so sure. She had the memory of the sullen meeting in Jeff Turner's surgery, of the pitchfork rebounding from the carriage roof—and the pistol shot. Could Nicholas possibly be wrong?
Nicholas was not wrong in so far as the immediate outcome of the rebellion affected him personally. And no broader consideration interested him. That the events of the next few days—events in which he took no part and ignored until they were over —were eventually to mould his life he neither knew nor would have believed.
The unrest in Columbia County culminated outside of Dragonwyck Manor on Van Rensselaer lands. On December 12, in Copake, Sheriff Henry Miller and a deputy attempted to dispossess two farmers who were behind with the rent. They were met with violent opposition. The little doctor, Smith Boughton, disguised as Big Thunder, inflamed three hundred of his calico Indians with his oratory. They seized the sheriff and burned his legal papers in a tar barrel. After this they a
llowed the disconsolate officers to ride back to Hudson with jeers and the tooting of horns for accompaniment.
By December eighteenth matters had come to a head. Big Thunder called a mass meeting at Smoky Hollow near Claverack. Nearly a thousand Indians gathered on the square before the tavern, a whooping, yelling mob in masks and gowns. This time there were many guns and the tavern's cellar full of whiskey was raided. The combination produced tragedy.
While Doctor Boughton from the tavern balcony vainly tried to quiet his rioting Indians, a stray shot killed one of them—young Bill Rifenburg, a gentle boy from a near-by farm, the only son of a widowed mother.
The suddenly hushed crowd flocked around the still figure on the ground gaping at the spreading stain of red on the calico shirt. Someone snatched off the boy's fox-shaped mask. Jeff, not yet disguised, had been upstairs with Boughton. The two doctors exchanged a look of horror. 'That's done it!' cried Jeff. 'See if you can quiet 'em down, while I do what I can for that boy.'
Big Thunder leaned over the balcony railing; Jeff pelted down the stairs and knelt by the quiet body. There was nothing to be done. Jeff was still kneeling there wondering how to break the news to Mrs. Rifenburg, and bitterly regretting the tragedy and inevitable blow to their cause, when Sheriff Miller and five deputies galloped through the subdued crowd.
'So it's murder too, along with the other charges!' cried the sheriff, taking in the situation. Then seeing the figure up on the balcony he cried exultantly, 'Come, boys—we've got Big Thunder at last!'
With pistols cocked the officers rushed into the inn. They found Boughton flattened against the fireplace in the upper room, his mouth twisted with despair. For a few minutes he resisted arrest, exerting his slight strength and cursing. The six men hustled him downstairs and bundled him on a horse.
Jeff watched helplessly. He could do nothing for his friend then, and a further brush with the law would damage them irreparably. The sheriff paid no attention to him. He had no warrant for Doctor Turner, whom he knew and liked, and he was in a hurry to get away from the dazed, silent mob before they turned threatening. He slapped the rump of the horse on which Boughton was tied: he and his men mounted swiftly and herded their prize down the road to Hudson.