CHAPTER XI.—THE JOURNEY IN THE WILDERNESS.
We made a prosperous voyage up that fine river of the Hudson, the weathergrateful, the hills singularly beautified with the colours of the autumn.At Albany we had our residence at an inn, where I was not so blind and mylord not so cunning but what I could see he had some design to hold meprisoner. The work he found for me to do was not so pressing that weshould transact it apart from necessary papers in the chamber of an inn;nor was it of such importance that I should be set upon as many as fouror five scrolls of the same document. I submitted in appearance; but Itook private measures on my own side, and had the news of the towncommunicated to me daily by the politeness of our host. In this way Ireceived at last a piece of intelligence for which, I may say, I had beenwaiting. Captain Harris (I was told) with “Mr. Mountain, the trader,”had gone by up the river in a boat. I would have feared the landlord’seye, so strong the sense of some complicity upon my master’s partoppressed me. But I made out to say I had some knowledge of the Captain,although none of Mr. Mountain, and to inquire who else was of the party.My informant knew not; Mr. Mountain had come ashore upon some needfulpurchases; had gone round the town buying, drinking, and prating; and itseemed the party went upon some likely venture, for he had spoken much ofgreat things he would do when he returned. No more was known, for noneof the rest had come ashore, and it seemed they were pressed for time toreach a certain spot before the snow should fall.
And sure enough, the next day, there fell a sprinkle even in Albany; butit passed as it came, and was but a reminder of what lay before us. Ithought of it lightly then, knowing so little as I did of that inclementprovince: the retrospect is different; and I wonder at times if some ofthe horror of there events which I must now rehearse flowed not from thefoul skies and savage winds to which we were exposed, and the agony ofcold that we must suffer.
The boat having passed by, I thought at first we should have left thetown. But no such matter. My lord continued his stay in Albany where hehad no ostensible affairs, and kept me by him, far from my dueemployment, and making a pretence of occupation. It is upon this passageI expect, and perhaps deserve, censure. I was not so dull but what I hadmy own thoughts. I could not see the Master entrust himself into thehands of Harris, and not suspect some underhand contrivance. Harris borea villainous reputation, and he had been tampered with in private by mylord; Mountain, the trader, proved, upon inquiry, to be another of thesame kidney; the errand they were all gone upon being the recovery ofill-gotten treasures, offered in itself a very strong incentive to foulplay; and the character of the country where they journeyed promisedimpunity to deeds of blood. Well: it is true I had all these thoughtsand fears, and guesses of the Master’s fate. But you are to consider Iwas the same man that sought to dash him from the bulwarks of a ship inthe mid-sea; the same that, a little before, very impiously but sincerelyoffered God a bargain, seeking to hire God to be my bravo. It is trueagain that I had a good deal melted towards our enemy. But this I alwaysthought of as a weakness of the flesh and even culpable; my mindremaining steady and quite bent against him. True, yet again, that itwas one thing to assume on my own shoulders the guilt and danger of acriminal attempt, and another to stand by and see my lord imperil andbesmirch himself. But this was the very ground of my inaction. For(should I anyway stir in the business) I might fail indeed to save theMaster, but I could not miss to make a byword of my lord.
Thus it was that I did nothing; and upon the same reasons, I am stillstrong to justify my course. We lived meanwhile in Albany, but thoughalone together in a strange place, had little traffic beyond formalsalutations. My lord had carried with him several introductions to chiefpeople of the town and neighbourhood; others he had before encountered inNew York: with this consequence, that he went much abroad, and I am sorryto say was altogether too convivial in his habits. I was often in bed,but never asleep, when he returned; and there was scarce a night when hedid not betray the influence of liquor. By day he would still lay uponme endless tasks, which he showed considerable ingenuity to fish up andrenew, in the manner of Penelope’s web. I never refused, as I say, for Iwas hired to do his bidding; but I took no pains to keep my penetrationunder a bushel, and would sometimes smile in his face.
“I think I must be the devil and you Michael Scott,” I said to him oneday. “I have bridged Tweed and split the Eildons; and now you set me tothe rope of sand.”
He looked at me with shining eyes, and looked away again, his jawchewing, but without words.
“Well, well, my lord,” said I, “your will is my pleasure. I will do thisthing for the fourth time; but I would beg of you to invent another taskagainst to-morrow, for by my troth, I am weary of this one.”
“You do not know what you are saying,” returned my lord, putting on hishat and turning his back to me. “It is a strange thing you should take apleasure to annoy me. A friend—but that is a different affair. It is astrange thing. I am a man that has had ill-fortune all my life through.I am still surrounded by contrivances. I am always treading in plots,”he burst out. “The whole world is banded against me.”
“I would not talk wicked nonsense if I were you,” said I; “but I willtell you what I _would_ do—I would put my head in cold water, for you hadmore last night than you could carry.”
“Do ye think that?” said he, with a manner of interest highly awakened.“Would that be good for me? It’s a thing I never tried.”
“I mind the days when you had no call to try, and I wish, my lord, thatthey were back again,” said I. “But the plain truth is, if you continueto exceed, you will do yourself a mischief.”
“I don’t appear to carry drink the way I used to,” said my lord. “I getovertaken, Mackellar. But I will be more upon my guard.”
“That is what I would ask of you,” I replied. “You are to bear in mindthat you are Mr. Alexander’s father: give the bairn a chance to carry hisname with some responsibility.”
“Ay, ay,” said he. “Ye’re a very sensible man, Mackellar, and have beenlong in my employ. But I think, if you have nothing more to say to me Iwill be stepping. If you have nothing more to say?” he added, with thatburning, childish eagerness that was now so common with the man.
“No, my lord, I have nothing more,” said I, dryly enough.
“Then I think I will be stepping,” says my lord, and stood and looked atme fidgeting with his hat, which he had taken off again. “I suppose youwill have no errands? No? I am to meet Sir William Johnson, but I willbe more upon my guard.” He was silent for a time, and then, smiling: “Doyou call to mind a place, Mackellar—it’s a little below Engles—where theburn runs very deep under a wood of rowans. I mind being there when Iwas a lad—dear, it comes over me like an old song!—I was after thefishing, and I made a bonny cast. Eh, but I was happy. I wonder,Mackellar, why I am never happy now?”
“My lord,” said I, “if you would drink with more moderation you wouldhave the better chance. It is an old byword that the bottle is a falseconsoler.”
“No doubt,” said he, “no doubt. Well, I think I will be going.”
“Good-morning, my lord,” said I.
“Good-morning, good-morning,” said he, and so got himself at last fromthe apartment.
I give that for a fair specimen of my lord in the morning; and I musthave described my patron very ill if the reader does not perceive anotable falling off. To behold the man thus fallen: to know him acceptedamong his companions for a poor, muddled toper, welcome (if he werewelcome at all) for the bare consideration of his title; and to recallthe virtues he had once displayed against such odds of fortune; was notthis a thing at once to rage and to be humbled at?
In his cups, he was more expensive. I will give but the one scene, closeupon the end, which is strongly marked upon my memory to this day, and atthe time affected me almost with horror.
I was in bed, lying there awake, when I heard him stumbling on the stairand singing. My lord had no gi
ft of music, his brother had all thegraces of the family, so that when I say singing, you are to understand amanner of high, carolling utterance, which was truly neither speech norsong. Something not unlike is to be heard upon the lips of children, erethey learn shame; from those of a man grown elderly, it had a strangeeffect. He opened the door with noisy precaution; peered in, shading hiscandle; conceived me to slumber; entered, set his light upon the table,and took off his hat. I saw him very plain; a high, feverish exultationappeared to boil in his veins, and he stood and smiled and smirked uponthe candle. Presently he lifted up his arm, snapped his fingers, andfell to undress. As he did so, having once more forgot my presence, hetook back to his singing; and now I could hear the words, which werethose from the old song of the _Twa Corbies_ endlessly repeated:
“And over his banes when they are bare The wind sall blaw for evermair!”
I have said there was no music in the man. His strains had no logicalsuccession except in so far as they inclined a little to the minor mode;but they exercised a rude potency upon the feelings, and followed thewords, and signified the feelings of the singer with barbaric fitness.He took it first in the time and manner of a rant; presently thisill-favoured gleefulness abated, he began to dwell upon the notes morefeelingly, and sank at last into a degree of maudlin pathos that was tome scarce bearable. By equal steps, the original briskness of his actsdeclined; and when he was stripped to his breeches, he sat on the bedsideand fell to whimpering. I know nothing less respectable than the tearsof drunkenness, and turned my back impatiently on this poor sight.
But he had started himself (I am to suppose) on that slippery descent ofself-pity; on the which, to a man unstrung by old sorrows and recentpotations there is no arrest except exhaustion. His tears continued toflow, and the man to sit there, three parts naked, in the cold air of thechamber. I twitted myself alternately with inhumanity and sentimentalweakness, now half rising in my bed to interfere, now reading myselflessons of indifference and courting slumber, until, upon a sudden, the_quantum mutatus ab illo_ shot into my mind; and calling to remembrancehis old wisdom, constancy, and patience, I was overborne with a pityalmost approaching the passionate, not for my master alone but for thesons of man.
At this I leaped from my place, went over to his side and laid a hand onhis bare shoulder, which was cold as stone. He uncovered his face andshowed it me all swollen and begrutten {10} like a child’s; and at thesight my impatience partially revived.
“Think shame to yourself,” said I. “This is bairnly conduct. I mighthave been snivelling myself, if I had cared to swill my belly with wine.But I went to my bed sober like a man. Come: get into yours, and havedone with this pitiable exhibition.”
“Oh, Mackellar,” said he, “my heart is wae!”
“Wae?” cried I. “For a good cause, I think. What words were these yousang as you came in? Show pity to others, we then can talk of pity toyourself. You can be the one thing or the other, but I will be no partyto half-way houses. If you’re a striker, strike, and if you’re ableater, bleat!”
“Cry!” cries he, with a burst, “that’s it—strike! that’s talking! Man,I’ve stood it all too long. But when they laid a hand upon the child,when the child’s threatened”—his momentary vigour whimpering off—“mychild, my Alexander!”—and he was at his tears again.
I took him by the shoulders and shook him. “Alexander!” said I. “Do youeven think of him? Not you! Look yourself in the face like a brave man,and you’ll find you’re but a self-deceiver. The wife, the friend, thechild, they’re all equally forgot, and you sunk in a mere log ofselfishness.”
“Mackellar,” said he, with a wonderful return to his old manner andappearance, “you may say what you will of me, but one thing I never was—Iwas never selfish.”
“I will open your eyes in your despite,” said I. “How long have we beenhere? and how often have you written to your family? I think this is thefirst time you were ever separate: have you written at all? Do they knowif you are dead or living?”
I had caught him here too openly; it braced his better nature; there wasno more weeping, he thanked me very penitently, got to bed and was soonfast asleep; and the first thing he did the next morning was to sit downand begin a letter to my lady: a very tender letter it was too, though itwas never finished. Indeed all communication with New York wastransacted by myself; and it will be judged I had a thankless task of it.What to tell my lady and in what words, and how far to be false and howfar cruel, was a thing that kept me often from my slumber.
All this while, no doubt, my lord waited with growing impatiency for newsof his accomplices. Harris, it is to be thought, had promised a highdegree of expedition; the time was already overpast when word was to belooked for; and suspense was a very evil counsellor to a man of animpaired intelligence. My lord’s mind throughout this interval dwelledalmost wholly in the Wilderness, following that party with whose deeds hehad so much concern. He continually conjured up their camps andprogresses, the fashion of the country, the perpetration in a thousanddifferent manners of the same horrid fact, and that consequent spectacleof the Master’s bones lying scattered in the wind. These private, guiltyconsiderations I would continually observe to peep forth in the man’stalk, like rabbits from a hill. And it is the less wonder if the sceneof his meditations began to draw him bodily.
* * * * *
It is well known what pretext he took. Sir William Johnson had adiplomatic errand in these parts; and my lord and I (from curiosity, aswas given out) went in his company. Sir William was well attended andliberally supplied. Hunters brought us venison, fish was taken for usdaily in the streams, and brandy ran like water. We proceeded by day andencamped by night in the military style; sentinels were set and changed;every man had his named duty; and Sir William was the spring of all.There was much in this that might at times have entertained me; but forour misfortune, the weather was extremely harsh, the days were in thebeginning open, but the nights frosty from the first. A painful keenwind blew most of the time, so that we sat in the boat with blue fingers,and at night, as we scorched our faces at the fire, the clothes upon ourback appeared to be of paper. A dreadful solitude surrounded our steps;the land was quite dispeopled, there was no smoke of fires, and save fora single boat of merchants on the second day, we met no travellers. Theseason was indeed late, but this desertion of the waterways impressed SirWilliam himself; and I have heard him more than once express a sense ofintimidation. “I have come too late, I fear; they must have dug up thehatchet;” he said; and the future proved how justly he had reasoned.
I could never depict the blackness of my soul upon this journey. I havenone of those minds that are in love with the unusual: to see the wintercoming and to lie in the field so far from any house, oppressed me like anightmare; it seemed, indeed, a kind of awful braving of God’s power; andthis thought, which I daresay only writes me down a coward, was greatlyexaggerated by my private knowledge of the errand we were come upon. Iwas besides encumbered by my duties to Sir William, whom it fell upon meto entertain; for my lord was quite sunk into a state bordering on_pervigilium_, watching the woods with a rapt eye, sleeping scarce atall, and speaking sometimes not twenty words in a whole day. That whichhe said was still coherent; but it turned almost invariably upon theparty for whom he kept his crazy lookout. He would tell Sir Williamoften, and always as if it were a new communication, that he had “abrother somewhere in the woods,” and beg that the sentinels should bedirected “to inquire for him.” “I am anxious for news of my brother,” hewould say. And sometimes, when we were under way, he would fancy hespied a canoe far off upon the water or a camp on the shore, and exhibitpainful agitation. It was impossible but Sir William should be struckwith these singularities; and at last he led me aside, and hinted hisuneasiness. I touched my head and shook it; quite rejoiced to prepare alittle testimony against possible disclosures.
“But in that case,” cries S
ir William, “is it wise to let him go atlarge?”
“Those that know him best,” said I, “are persuaded that he should behumoured.”
“Well, well,” replied Sir William, “it is none of my affairs. But if Ihad understood, you would never have been here.”
Our advance into this savage country had thus uneventfully proceeded forabout a week, when we encamped for a night at a place where the river ranamong considerable mountains clothed in wood. The fires were lighted ona level space at the water’s edge; and we supped and lay down to sleep inthe customary fashion. It chanced the night fell murderously cold; thestringency of the frost seized and bit me through my coverings so thatpain kept me wakeful; and I was afoot again before the peep of day,crouching by the fires or trotting to and for at the stream’s edge, tocombat the aching of my limbs. At last dawn began to break upon hoarwoods and mountains, the sleepers rolled in their robes, and theboisterous river dashing among spears of ice. I stood looking about me,swaddled in my stiff coat of a bull’s fur, and the breath smoking from myscorched nostrils, when, upon a sudden, a singular, eager cry rang fromthe borders of the wood. The sentries answered it, the sleepers sprangto their feet; one pointed, the rest followed his direction with theireyes, and there, upon the edge of the forest and betwixt two trees, webeheld the figure of a man reaching forth his hands like one in ecstasy.The next moment he ran forward, fell on his knees at the side of thecamp, and burst in tears.
This was John Mountain, the trader, escaped from the most horrid perils;and his fist word, when he got speech, was to ask if we had seen SecundraDass.
“Seen what?” cries Sir William.
“No,” said I, “we have seen nothing of him. Why?”
“Nothing?” says Mountain. “Then I was right after all.” With that hestruck his palm upon his brow. “But what takes him back?” he cried.“What takes the man back among dead bodies. There is some damned mysteryhere.”
This was a word which highly aroused our curiosity, but I shall be moreperspicacious, if I narrate these incidents in their true order. Herefollows a narrative which I have compiled out of three sources, not veryconsistent in all points:
_First_, a written statement by Mountain, in which everything criminal iscleverly smuggled out of view;
_Second_, two conversations with Secundra Dass; and
_Third_, many conversations with Mountain himself, in which he waspleased to be entirely plain; for the truth is he regarded me as anaccomplice.