It was the morning of Sunday, July 13, that this shameful flight began. Its arrant cowardice weighed on many of the officers who were left alive, and even on some of the men, especially, I am glad to say, on many of the Virginians. Whose fault was it? Well, Colonel Dunbar was in command, since the general was no longer conscious, and must take the blame.
Colonel Washington had asked me to remain near him, if possible. He had secured me a horse, and together with Captain Orme, who was no less depressed, we formed the escort to the litter whereon lay the dying man. Doctor Craik came to us from time to time, but the general was far beyond human aid. I had never respected him so much as in this hour, for of his downright valor I had had every proof. If only his pride had been a little less, that his valor might have counted! It was while I was riding thus, absorbed in melancholy thought, that a horse cantered up beside me, and looking up, I saw Lieutenant Allen.
"Confess I was a true prophet, Lieutenant Stewart," he remarked, with a sorry attempt at a smile, "though damme if I could have foretold that act of folly back yonder! You see, I know our new commander better than do you."
"So it seems," I answered, and at that moment caught Colonel Washington's astonished eyes fixed upon us. Allen followed my glance, and smiled as he saw the expression of Washington's face.
"He cannot understand our friendliness," he laughed. "He is doubtless wondering if we are arranging the preliminaries for the desperate encounter for which we were booked. Let me explain the situation to him," and he spurred to Washington's side. "I had occasion to say to Lieutenant Stewart a few evenings ago," he said, "that I had been grievously mistaken in my estimate of his courage, and that of the Virginia companies, and that I was truly sorry that I had ever questioned them. In the light of to-day's event, I am still more sorry, and I wish to add to you, Colonel Washington, that I regret the words I used to you, and that I sincerely ask your pardon."
"'Tis granted with all my heart!" cried Washington, his face illumined with that fine smile which always lighted it before any deed of courage or gentleness, and the two shook hands warmly. "'Twas granted before you asked it. I am not such a fire-eater as Tom, back there. I have regretted that foolish quarrel many times, and had determined that it should not lead to another meeting between you, which would have been mere folly. Come here, sir," he called to me. "I wish to tell you how pleased I am that this quarrel has been adjusted."
"No more pleased than I, I assure you, colonel," I laughed. "Lieutenant Allen gave me a sample of his swordsmanship I shall not soon forget. I should have been as helpless before him as a lamb in the jaws of a tiger."
"Now you are mocking me!" cried Allen, and as I related to Colonel Washington the story of his little bout with Langlade, we rode on laughing, the best of friends.
"But, believe me, Lieutenant Stewart," he said, when I had finished, "it was not self-complacency which urged me to take up the foils that day. I merely wished to show you that you had need to keep in practice, and so prevent you from becoming over-sure."
"'T was well done," said Washington heartily. "I appreciate your conduct,Lieutenant Allen."
"And I certainly took the lesson to heart," I laughed. "Just before you came, I had conceived a most exalted opinion of my own abilities. I shall not make the mistake a second time."
Presently Allen fell back to rejoin the rear-guard, with which he had been stationed, and we rode on beside the general's litter. He was delirious most of the time, and was fighting the battle of the Monongahela over and over again, giving orders and threshing from side to side of his couch in his agony. In one of his intervals of consciousness, he called my companion to him.
"Colonel Washington," he said in a low tone, "I feel that I have done you great injustice. Had I followed your advice, this catastrophe might not have happened. But my eyes were not opened until too late. Had I lived, I should not have forgot you. I am sure you cannot withhold your pardon from a dying man."
Washington's lips were trembling as he bent over the litter.
"If there is anything to pardon, general," he said softly, "be sure I pardon you with all my heart. You have the love of all your officers, sir, who revere you as a brave and gallant man."
"Ay, but a proud and stubborn one," and he smiled sadly. "Would God I had had the grace to see it while it was yet time. Colonel Washington," he added, "I wish you to have my charger, Bruce, and my body servant, Bishop. These two gentlemen are witnesses that I give them to you."
Orme and I bowed our assent, and Washington thanked him with a trembling voice. He was soon wandering again, this time, apparently, among the scenes of his earlier manhood.
"Messieurs de la Garde Française," he cried, "tirez, s'il vous plait!"
"Ah," murmured Orme, "he is at Fontenoy."
And again,—
"Poor Fanny, I always thought she would play till she would be forced to tuck herself up."
"She was his sister," said Orme, answering our questioning glances. "She ruined herself at cards and then hanged herself. It was a sad story."
And yet again,—
"No, I'll not take your purse!" he cried; and then after a moment, "nor ask my life at your hands. Do what you will."
I could bear no more, and rode forward out of earshot. To see this gallant man lying there, slowly dying, bereft at one stroke of life and that far dearer to him than life, his military reputation, moved me as few things had ever done. He had another lucid interval toward the middle of the afternoon, and warmly praised the conduct of his officers.
"They were gallant boys, every one," he said. "They did their duty as brave men should. How many of them fell?" he asked suddenly, turning to Orme.
"Sixteen," answered Orme sadly.
"And how many were wounded?"
"Forty-seven."
"Sixty-three,—and there were only eighty-nine," and Braddock sighed heavily. "And how went it with the men?"
Orme hesitated, fearing to disclose the extent of the disaster, but the general's eyes were on his and would take no denial.
"They suffered very heavily," said Orme at last. "Less than five hundred escaped unharmed. All of the wounded who remained on the field were killed by the Indians."
"And we went into battle with near fifteen hundred men," said Braddock. "Why, it was mere slaughter. There has never an army gone into battle which lost such proportion of its numbers. Ah, well, I shall soon join them. And they are happier than I, for they went to their end honored and applauded, whilst I am a broken and ruined man, who will be remembered only to be cursed."
He turned his head away from us, and a great tear rolled down his cheek.Orme was crying like a child, and made no effort to conceal it, nor wereWashington and I less moved.
"At least," he said at last, turning back to us with a smile, "it were better to have died than to have lived. I am glad I do not have to live."
He soon lapsed again into delirium, and seemed to be living over a second time a meeting with some woman.
"Dear Pop," he said, "we are sent like sacrifices to the altar. They have given me a handful of men and expect me to conquer whole nations. I know that I shall never see you more. Good-by, Pop, and God bless you."
Orme turned away for a moment to master his emotion.
"'T was his last night in London," he said when he could speak. "He was to set out on the morrow, and he asked Colonel Burton and myself to go with him to visit a very dear protegee of his, George Anne Bellamy, the actress, to whom, I think, he has left all his property. He used to her almost the same words he has just repeated."
"So he had doubts of his success," said Washington musingly. "Well, he was a brave man, for he never permitted them to be seen."
He was fast growing weaker. His voice faltered and failed, and he lay without movement in his litter, continuing so until eight o'clock in the evening. We had halted for the night, and had gathered about his couch, watching him as his breathing grew slowly fainter. At last, when we thought him all but gone, he opened his eyes, and seeing the ring of anxious faces about him, smiled up at them.
"It is the end," he said quietly. "You will better know how to deal with them next time;" and turning his head to one side, he closed his eyes.
We buried him at daybreak. The grave was dug in the middle of the road, so that the wagons passing over it might efface all trace of its existence and preserve it inviolate from the hands of the Indians. Our chaplain, Mr. Hughes, had been severely wounded, so it was Colonel Washington who read the burial service. I shall not soon forget that scene,—the open grave in the narrow roadway, the rude coffin draped with a flag, the martial figure within in full uniform, his hands crossed over the sword on his breast, the riderless charger neighing for its master, and the gray light of the morning over it all. The burial service has never sounded more impressively in my ears than it did as read that morning, in Colonel Washington's strong, melodious voice, to that little group of listening men, in the midst of the wide, unbroken, whispering forest. How often have I heard those words of hope and trust in God's promise to His children, and under what varying circumstances!
We lowered him into the grave, and lingered near until the earth was heaped about it. Then the drums beat the march, the wagons rolled over it, and in half an hour no trace of it remained. So to this day, he lies there undisturbed in the heart of the wilderness, in a grave which no man knows. Others have railed at him,—have decried him and slandered him,—but I remember him as he appeared on that last day of all, a brave and loyal gentleman, not afraid of death, but rather welcoming it, and the memory is a sweet and dear one. If he made mistakes, he paid for them the uttermost penalty which any man could pay,—and may he rest in peace.
Of the remainder of that melancholy flight little need be said. We struggled on through the wilderness, bearing our three hundred wounded with us as best we could, and marking our path with their shallow graves, as they succumbed one after another to the hardships of the journey. On the twenty-second day of July we reached Fort Cumberland, and I learned with amazement that Dunbar did not propose to stop here, although he had placed near a hundred and fifty miles between him and the enemy, but to carry his whole army to Philadelphia, leaving Virginia open to Indian and French invasion by the very road which we had made. He alleged that he must go into winter quarters, and that, too, though it was just the height of summer. Colonel Washington ventured to protest against this folly, but was threatened with court-martial, and came out of Dunbar's quarters red with anger and chagrin.
And sure enough, on the second of August, Dunbar marched away with all his effective men, twelve hundred strong, leaving at the fort all his sick and wounded and the Virginia and Maryland troops, over whom he attempted to exercise no control. I bade good-by to Orme and Allen and such other of the officers as I had met. Colonel Burton took occasion to come to me the night before he marched, and presented me with a very handsome sword in token of his gratitude, as he said, for saving his life,—an exploit, as I pointed out to him, small enough beside a hundred others that were done that day.
The sword he gave me hangs above my desk as I write. I am free to confess that I have performed no great exploits with it, and when I took it down from its hook the other day to look at it, I found that it had rusted in its scabbard.
"To my mind, there is only one thing to be done. That is to retire."
The speaker was Colonel Henry Innes, commandant of the fort, but as he looked up and down the row of faces opposite him, he saw few which showed assent. Scarcely had the rear-guard of Dunbar's troops disappeared among the trees which lined the narrow military road, when Colonel Innes had called this meeting of the officers left at the fort, "to decide," as the summons put it, "on our future course of action." As if, I thought indignantly to myself, there could be any question as to what our future course of action should be.
"We are left here," continued the speaker, in a louder voice and growing somewhat red in the face, "with scarce five hundred men, all provincials, and most of them unfit for service. A great part of the army's equipment has been abandoned or destroyed back there in the woods. In short, we are so weak that we can hope neither to advance against the enemy nor to repel an assault, should they march against us in force, as they are most like to do."
For a moment there was an ominous silence.
"May I ask what it is you propose, Colonel Innes?" asked CaptainWaggoner at last.
"I propose to abandon the place," replied Innes, "and to fall back to Winchester or some other point where our wounded may lie in safety and our men have opportunity to recover from the fatigues of the campaign."
Again there was a moment's silence, and all of us, as by a common impulse, glanced at Colonel Washington, who sat at one end of the table, his head bowed in gloomy thought. The fever, which he had shaken off for a time, had been brought back by the arduous work he had insisted on performing, and he was but the shadow of his former self. He felt our eyes upon him and suddenly raised his head.
"Do you really anticipate that the French will march against us, Colonel Innes?" he asked quietly. "There were scarce three hundred of them at the fort three weeks ago, hardly enough for an expedition of such moment, and it is not likely that they can be reinforced to undertake any campaign this summer."
"There would be little danger from the French themselves," retorted Innes, with an angry flush, "but they will undoubtedly rally the Indians, and lead them against us along the very road which Braddock cut over the mountains. Fort Cumberland stands at one end of that road."
Washington smiled disdainfully.
"I have heard of few instances," he said, "where Indians have dared attack a well-manned fortification, and of none where they have captured one. To retreat from here would be to leave our whole frontier open to their ravages, and would be an act of cowardice more contemptible than that which Colonel Dunbar performed this morning, when he marched his troops away."
I had never seen him so moved, and I caught the infection of his anger.
"Colonel Washington is right!" I cried hotly. "Our place is here."
Innes did not so much as look at me. His eyes were on Washington, and his face was very red.
"Colonel Washington," he sneered, his lips curling away from his teeth with rage, "was, I believe, an aide on the general's staff. Since the general is dead, that position no longer exists. Consequently, Colonel Washington is no longer an officer of the army, and I fail to see what right he has to take part in this discussion."
Half a dozen of us were on our feet in an instant, but Washington was before us and waved us back with a motion of his hand.
"Colonel Innes is right," he said, his deep-set eyes gleaming like two coals of fire. "I am no longer an officer of the army, and I thank God this is so, since it is about to further disgrace itself."
"Take care, sir," cried Innes, springing to his feet. "You forget there is such a thing as court-martial."
"And you forget that I am no longer of the army, and so can defy its discipline."
He stood for a moment longer looking Innes in the eyes, and then, without saluting, turned on his heel and left the place. A moment later the council broke up in confusion, for Innes saw plainly that the sentiment of nearly all the other officers present was against him, and he did not choose to give it opportunity of expression. I had scarcely reached my quarters when I received a note from his secretary stating that as the mortality among the Virginia companies had been so heavy, it had been decided to unite the three into one, and my lieutenancy was therefore abolished. Trembling with anger, I hurried to Washington's quarters and laid the note before him.
"Why, Tom," he said, with a short laugh, after he had read it, "we seem to have fallen into disgrace together. But come," he added more cheerfully, seeing my downcast face, "do not despair. We may yet win out. The governor and the House of Burgesses will not receive so quietly this project to retire from the frontier. I had a letter from Dinwiddie but the other day, in which he said as much. In the mean time, I am going home to Mount Vernon to rest, and you must come with me."
I accepted readily enough, for I knew not what else to do, and on the morrow we set out. Colonel Washington was so ill that we could proceed but slowly. We finally reached Winchester, and from there, because of the better road, crossed the river to Frederick, where a great surprise awaited us. For scarcely were we off our horses at the little tavern, than the host, learning our names, rushed away down the wide, rambling street, crying the news aloud, to our great wonderment, who saw not why it should interest any one. In an incredibly short time, above a hundred people had gathered before the inn, cheering and hallooing with all their might, while we looked at them in dumb amazement. We sent for the host to learn what this might mean, thinking doubtless there was some mistake, and even as he entered, a dozen men burst into the room, and insisted that we should not be permitted for a moment to think of putting up at an inn, but should accompany them home.
"But, gentlemen," protested Washington, "you have mistaken us for some one else. We have done nothing to deserve your hospitality."
"Have you not?" they cried, and they hustled us out into the yard. There was no denying them, so off we rode again, greatly bewildered, and in the course of half an hour were being introduced by our self-appointed entertainer to his wife and three pretty daughters.
"'T is Colonel Washington, you understand, wife," he cried. "Colonel Washington, whose advice, had it been followed, would have saved the expedition."
A great light broke upon me. So my friend's merits were to be recognized at last,—were to win him something more than contumely and insult,—and as he would have made denial, I cut him short.
"Do not listen to him!" I cried. "'T is true, every word of it, and much more besides."
Whereat the girls smiled at me very sweetly, our host wrung my hand again, and I swear there were tears in Washington's eyes as he looked at me in feigned anger. Such a night's entertainment as was given us I shall not soon forget, nor Colonel Washington either, I dare say. Word of our presence had got about the neighborhood with singular speed, and the people flocked in by dozens, until the great hallway, which ran through the house from front to rear, was crowded from end to end. Then, nothing would do but that Colonel Washington must tell the story of the advance, the ambuscade, and the retreat, which he did with such consummate slighting of his own part in the campaign that I interrupted him in great indignation, and, unheeding his protests, related some of the things concerning him which I have already written, and which, I swear, were very well received.
"But Lieutenant Stewart says nothing of what he himself did," criedWashington, when I had finished.
"Because I did nothing worth relating," I retorted, my cheeks hot with embarrassment at the way they looked at me.
"Ask him how he won that sword he wears at his side," he continued, not heeding my interruption, his eyes twinkling at my discomfiture. "Believe me, 'tis not many Virginia officers can boast such a fine one."
And then, of course, they all demanded that he tell the story, which he did with an exaggeration that I considered little less than shameful. In some mysterious manner, tankards of cold, bitter Dutch beer, the kind that is so refreshing after a journey or at the close of a hot day's work, had found their way into the right hand of every man present, and as Washington ended the story and I was yet denying, our host sprang to his feet.
"We'll drink to the troops of Maryland and Virginia," he cried, "who behaved like soldiers and died like men, teaching England's redcoats a lesson they will not soon forget, and to two of the bravest among them, Colonel Washington and Lieutenant Stewart!"
It was done with a cheer that made the old hall ring, and when, half an hour later, I found myself beside the prettiest of the three daughters of the house, I was not yet quite recovered. Only this I can say,—it is a pleasant thing to be a hero, though trying to the nerves. I had only the one experience, and did not merit that, as the reader has doubtless decided for himself.
Of course there was a dance,—what merrymaking would be complete without one?—and Colonel Washington walked a minuet with a certain Mistress Patience Burd, with a grace which excited the admiration of every swain in the room, and the envy of not a few,—myself among the number, for I was ever but a clumsy dancer, and on this occasion no doubt greatly vexed my pretty partner. But every night must end, as this one did at last. Colonel Washington was much better next morning, for his illness had been more of the mind than of the body, and our kind reception had done wonders to banish his vexation. Our friends bade us Godspeed, and we rode on our way southward. I never saw the house again, and it is one of my great regrets and reasons for self-reproach that I have forgot the name of the honest man who was our host that night, and remember only that the name of his prettiest daughter was Betty.
As we reached a part of the country which was more closely settled, I soon perceived that however great dishonor had accrued to British arms and British reputations as the result of that battle by the Monongahela, Colonel Washington had won only respect and admiration by his consistent and courageous conduct. We were stopped a hundred times by people who asked first for news, and when they heard my companion's name, vied with one another to do him honor. It did me good to see how he brightened under these kind words and friendly acts, and how the color came again into his face and the light into his eyes. And I hold that this was as it should be, for I know of nothing of which a man may be more justly proud than of the well-earned praises of his fellows.
At last, toward the evening of a sultry August day, we turned our horses' heads into the wide road which led up to Mount Vernon, and drew near to that hospitable and familiar mansion. News of our approach must have preceded us, for there, drawn up in line, were the bowing and grinning negroes, while at the entrance gate were Mrs. Washington and her children, as well as a dozen families assembled from as many miles around to do honor to the returning warrior. My heart beat more quickly as I ran my eyes over this gathering, but fell again when I saw that the family from Riverview was not there.
And such a greeting as it was! We all remained a space apart until Mrs. Washington had kissed her son, as something too sacred for our intrusion. But when he turned to greet his neighbors, I have rarely seen such genuine emotion shown even in our whole-hearted Virginia. At the great dinner which followed, with Mrs. Washington at the head of the table and her son at the foot, we told again the story of the campaign, and the men forgot to sip their wine until the tale was ended. Yet with all this largess of goodwill, I was not wholly happy. For I had no home to go to, nor was there any waiting to welcome me, and the woman I loved seemed farther away than ever, though now she was so near.
But Dorothy was not so near as I had thought, for next morning came a message from my aunt. It was delivered almost as soon as I was out of bed by a negro boy who had ridden over at daybreak. It was dated but two days before, and began very formally.
"Sir," it ran, "since you no doubt will wish to recuperate from the fatigues of the campaign so unfortunately ended, and as there is no place where you can do this so well as at Riverview, I hasten to assure you that the place is entirely at your service."
I paused a moment to get my breath. Her reference to the campaign was intended as a stab, of course, yet could it be she was relenting? But hope fell as I read on.
"In order that you may feel at liberty to avail yourself of this invitation," the note continued, "my daughter and I have accepted one of long standing to spend a month, or perhaps two months, at the home of a relative. James is at Williamsburg, so that you may be entirely free to occupy your leisure at Riverview as best pleases you. Do not think that you have driven us from the place, for that is not at all the case. I have long felt the need of rest, and take advantage of this opportunity, while there is little doing on the plantation, to secure it. I trust to your sense of honor to make no inquiries as to where we are stopping, nor to attempt to see my daughter, who, I believe, has already discovered that any fancy she may ever have seemed to entertain for you was more imaginary than real."
Here was a blow, straight from the shoulder, and I winced under it.
"I could never consent," the note concluded, "to any attachment of a serious nature between you, having quite other views for my daughter, which, I am sure, will be for her happiness and well-being."
I read the note through a second time before I realized what a blow it gave to all my hopes. I had had little cause to anticipate any other treatment, it is true, and yet I have often observed that men hope most who have least reason for it, and this was so in my case. As I read the note again, I could not but admire the adroitness of its author. She had placed me upon honor—without my consent, 't is true—to make no effort to see Dorothy. I stood biting my lips with anger and vexation, and then, with sudden resolve, turned back to the messenger.
"Go around to the kitchen and get something to eat, if you are hungry," I said to him. "I shall be ready to ride back with you in half an hour;" and as he disappeared around a corner of the house, agrin from ear to ear at the prospect of refreshment, I sought Mrs. Washington and told her that I had just received a note from my aunt and would ride to Riverview at once. How much she suspected of my difference with my aunt, I do not know, but if she experienced any surprise at my sudden departure, she certainly did not show it, saying only that she regretted that I must go so soon, and that I must always consider Mount Vernon no less my home than Riverview,—an assurance which Colonel Washington repeated when the moment came to say good-by, and I rode away at last with a very tender feeling in my heart for those two figures which stood there on the steps until I turned into the road and passed from sight.
"And how is everything at Riverview, Sam?" I asked of the boy, as we struck into the road and settled our horses into an easy canter. He did not answer for a moment, and when I glanced at him to see the cause of his silence, I was astonished to find him rolling his eyes about as though he saw a ghost.
"What's the matter, boy?" I asked sharply. "Come, speak out. What is it?"
He looked behind him and all around into the woods, and then urged his horse close to mine.
"Mas' Tom," he said, almost in a whisper, "dere's gwine t' be hell at d' plantation foh long. Youse stay 'way fum it."
I looked at him, still more astonished by his singular behavior. A full-blooded negro does not turn pale, but under the influence of great terror his skin grows spotted and livid. Sam's was livid at that moment.
"See here, Sam," I said sharply, "if you have anything to tell, I want you to tell me right away. What are you afraid of?"
"D' witch man," he whispered, his eyes almost starting from his head, and his forehead suddenly beading with perspiration.
"The witch man? Has a witch man come to Riverview?"
He nodded.
"And what is he doing there, Sam?"
"He says d' French dun whopped d' English, an' a-comin' t' set all d' niggahs free. He says we mus' holp, an' dere won't be no mo' slaves. All ub us be free, jus' like white folks."
It took me a minute or two to grasp the full meaning of this extraordinary revelation.
"He says the French are coming to set all the niggers free?" I repeated.
Sam nodded.
"And that the niggers must help them?"
Again Sam nodded.
"Help them how, Sam?"
He hesitated.
"By killing the English, Sam?"
"I reckon dat 's it," he said reluctantly.
"And burning down their houses, perhaps?"
"I 'se hearn dat talked erboat, too."
I drew my horse in with a jerk, and catching Sam's by the bridle, pulled it to me.
"Now, boy," I said, "you must tell me all about this. I promise you that no one shall harm you."
He began to whimper.
"I'll tell yo', Mas' Tom," he stuttered, "but yo' mus' n' hurt d' witch man."
"Who is this witch man?" I demanded.
"Ole uncle Polete."
"Polete's no witch man. Why, Sam, you 've known him all your life. He's nothing but an ordinary old nigger. He's been on the plantation twenty or thirty years. All that he needs is a good whipping."
But the boy only shook his head and sobbed the more.
"Ef he's a-killed," he cried, "his ha'nt 'll come back fo' me."
I saw in a moment what the boy was afraid of. It was not of old Polete in the flesh, but in the spirit. I thought for a moment. Well, I had no reason to wish Polete any harm, yet if it were discovered that he had been inciting the slaves to insurrection, there was no power in the colony could save his life. If his owner did not execute him, the governor would take the matter out of his hands, and order it done himself.
"I tell you what I'll do, Sam," I said at last. "You tell me everything you know, and I'll do all I can to save Polete. I believe I can stop this thing without calling in any outside help."
He agreed to this, and as we jogged along I gradually drew the details of the plot from him. The news of our defeat had, it seemed, stirred up the negroes at the plantation, and in some way the wild rumor had been started that a great force of French was marching over the mountains to conquer Virginia and all the other English colonies; that emissaries had come to the negroes and promised them that if they would assist the invading army, they would be given their freedom and half of the colony to live in. It was at this time that old Polete, crazed, perhaps, by working in the tobacco fields under the blazing sun, had suddenly developed into a witch man, and proclaimed that he could see the French army marching, and urged the negroes to strike a blow at once in order to merit their freedom when the French should come. Meetings were held almost nightly in the woods some miles from their cabins, whence they stole away after dark by twos and threes. Just what their plans were Sam did not know, as he did not belong to the inner council, but he believed that something would happen soon because of the increasing excitement of the older negroes who were acquainted with the plans.
I rode on for some time in silence, thinking over this story and trying to decide what I would better do. I did not know until months later that signs of unrest had been observed among the slaves all over the colony, and that the governor had considered the situation so serious that he had sent out many warnings concerning the danger. It was as well, perhaps, that I did not know this then, for I might not have thought my own portion of the problem so easy of solution. At the time, I had no thought but that the outbreak was the result of old Polete's prophecies, and was confined alone to Riverview.
Sam was cantering along behind me, his face still livid with terror, and as I caught sight of it again, I wondered what impulse it was had moved him to confide in me, with such fancied peril to himself.
"I would n' tole nobody else," he said, in answer to my question, "but you tole a lie fo' me oncet, an' saved me a lickin'."
"Told a lie for you, Sam?" I questioned in astonishment. "When was that?"
"Don' yo' 'membah boat d' whip, Mas' Tom, what I stole?" he asked.
I looked at him for a moment before that incident of my boyhood came back to me.
"Why, yes, I remember it now," I said. "But that was years ago, Sam, andI had forgotten it. Besides, I didn't tell a lie for you. I only told oldGump that I wished to give you the whip."
"Well," said Sam, looking at me doubtfully, "yo' saved me a lickin' anyhow, an' I did n' f 'git it," and he dropped back again.
Well, to be sure, an act of thoughtfulness or mercy never hurts a man, a fact which I have since learned for myself a hundred times, and wish all men realized.
We were soon at Riverview, and I ordered Sam to ride out to the field where the men were working, and tell the overseer, Long, that I wished to see him. Sam departed on the errand, visibly uneasy, and I wandered from my room, where I had taken my pack, along the hall and into my aunt's business room while I waited his return. I stood again for a moment at the spot on the staircase where I had kissed Dorothy that morning,—it seemed ages ago,—and as I looked up, I fancied I could still see her sweet face gazing down at me. But it was only fancy, and, with a sigh, I turned away and went down through the hall.
There were reminders of her at every turn,—there was the place where she had sat sewing in the evenings; over the fireplace hung a little picture she had painted, rude enough, no doubt, but beautiful to my eyes. With a sudden impulse, I ran down the steps and to the old seat under the oaks by the river. Nothing had changed,—even the shadows across the water seemed to be the same. But as I ran my hand mechanically along the arm of the seat on the side where Dorothy always sat my fingers felt a roughness which had not been there before, and as I looked to see what this might be, I saw that some one had cut in the wood a T and a D, intertwined, and circled by a tiny heart. Who could have done it? I had no need to ask myself the question. My heart told me that no one but Dorothy could have done it, and that she knew that I should come and sit here and live over again the long evenings when she had sat beside me. It was a message from my love, and with trembling lips I bent and kissed the letters which she had carved. As I sat erect again, I heard footsteps behind me, and turned to see Long approaching.
"You sent for me, Mr. Stewart?" he asked. "I saw you sitting here, and decided you were waiting for me."
"Yes," I said, and I shook hands with him, for he was an honest man and a good workman.
"I am glad to see you back again, sir, though looking so ill," he added. "I trust the air of Riverview will soon bring you around all right," and from his eyes I knew he meant it.
I thanked him, and bade him sit beside me. Then, in a few words, I told him what I had learned of the negro meetings, and saw his face grow grave.
"'Tis what I have always feared," he said, when I had finished. "There are too many of them in the colony, and they feel their strength. If they had a leader and a chance to combine, they might do a great deal of harm. However, we shall soon knock this in the head."
"How?" I asked.
"Make an example of Polete," he answered decidedly. "That's the best way, sir. Put him out of the way, let the other niggers see us do it, and they'll quiet down fast enough."
"Undoubtedly that is the easiest way," I said, smiling, "but, unfortunately, I had to promise the person who gave me the information that Polete should not be harmed."
Long stared at me for a moment in amazement.
"It would be unfortunate if any of the other planters should hear of that promise, Mr. Stewart," he said at last. "They would probably take Polete's case into their own hands."
I laughed at his evident concern.
"No doubt," I said, "but they are not going to hear of it. I intend telling no one but yourself, for we two are quite sufficient to stop this thing right here, and it need go no further."
"Perhaps we are," he answered doubtfully. "What is your plan, sir?"
"Polete will hold a meeting to-night over there in the woods. Well, we will be present at the meeting."
He looked at me without saying a word. "Our visit will probably not be very welcome," I continued, "but I believe it will produce the desired effect. Will you go with me?"
"Certainly," he answered readily, "but I still think my plan the best, sir."
"Perhaps it is," I laughed, "but we will try mine first," and he went back to the field, agreeing to be at the house at eight o'clock.
I covered with my hand the tiny letters on the arm of the bench, and, looking out across the broad river, drifted into the land of dreams, where Dorothy and I wandered together along a primrose path, with none to interfere.
I ate my supper in solitary splendor in the old dining-room, with my grandfather's portrait looking down upon me, and Long found me an hour later sitting in the midst of a wreath of smoke just within the hallway out of the river mist.
"'T was as you said, Mr. Stewart," he remarked, as he joined me. "Fully a hundred of the niggers stole off to the woods to-night so soon as it was dark. They went down toward the old Black Snake swamp."
"Very well," I said, rising. "Wait till I get my hat, and I am with you."
"But you will go armed?" he asked anxiously.
I paused to think for a moment.
"No, I will not," I said finally. "A brace of pistols would avail nothing against that mob, should they choose to resist us, and our going unarmed will have a great moral effect upon them as showing them that we are not afraid."
"You have weighed fully the extent of the risk you are about to run, I hope, sir," protested Long.
"Fully," I answered. "'T is not yet too late for you to turn back, you know. I have no right to ask you to endanger your life to carry out this plan of mine. Perhaps it would be wiser for you not to go."
"And if I stay, you"—
"Will go alone," I said.
He caught my hand and wrung it heartily.
"You are a brave man, Mr. Stewart," he exclaimed. "If I have shown any hesitation, 't was on your account, not on my own. I am ready to go with you," and as he spoke, he drew a brace of pistols from beneath his coat and laid them on the table by the fireplace.
"Wait one moment," I said, and hurrying to my aunt's room, I wrote a short note telling her of the trouble I had discovered and where Long and I were going, so that, if we did not return, she would know what had happened. Folding and sealing it, I wrote on the outside, "To be delivered at once to Mrs. Stewart," left it on the table, knowing that no one would enter the room till morning, and hurried back to rejoin Long. We were off without further words, and were soon well on our way.
It was a clear, cool, summer night, with the breeze just stirring in the trees and keeping up a faint, unceasing whispering among the leaves. The moon had risen some hours before, and sailed upward through a cloudless sky. Even under the trees it was not wholly dark, for the moon's light filtered through here and there, making a quaint patchwork on the ground, and filling the air with a peculiar iridescence which transformed the ragged trunks of the sycamores into fantastic hobgoblins. All about us rose the croaking of the frogs, dominating all the other noises of the night, and uniting in one mighty chorus in the marshes along the river. An owl was hooting from a distant tree, and the hum of innumerable insects sounded on every side. Here and there a glittering, dew-spangled cobweb stretched across our path, a barrier of silver, and required more than ordinary resolution to be brushed aside. As we turned nearer to the river, the ground grew softer and the underbrush more thick, and I knew that we had reached the swamp.
Then, in a moment, it seemed to me that I could hear some faint, monotonous singsong rising above all the rest. At first I thought it was the croaking of a monster frog, but as we plodded on and the sound grew more distinct, I knew it could not be that. At last, in sheer perplexity, I stopped and motioned Long to listen.
"Do you hear it?" I asked. "Do you know what it is?"
"Yes, I have heard it for the last ten minutes, Mr. Stewart," he answered quietly. "It is old Polete preaching to the niggers. I have often heard their so-called witch men preach. It is always in a singsong just like that."
As we drew nearer, I perceived that this was true, for I could catch the tones of the speaker's voice, and in a few minutes could distinguish his words. Some years before, when the river had been in flood, its current had been thrown against this bank by a landslide on the other side, and had washed away trees and underbrush for some distance. The underbrush had soon sprung up again, but the clearing still remained, and as we stopped in the shadow of the trees and looked across it, we saw a singular sight. Negroes to the number of at least a hundred and fifty were gathered about a pile of logs on which Polete was mounted. He was shouting in a monotone, his voice rising and falling in regular cadence, his eyes closed, his head tilted back, his face turned toward the moon, whose light silvered his hair and beard and gave a certain majesty to his appearance. His hearers were seemingly much affected, and interrupted him from time to time with shouts and groans and loud amens.
"Dis is d' promise' lan'!" cried old Polete, waving his arms above his head in a wild ecstasy. "All we hab t' do is t' raise up an' take it from ouh 'pressahs. Ef we stays hyah slaves, it's ouh own fault. Now's d' 'pinted time. D' French is ma'chin' obah d' mountings t' holp us. Dee'll drib d' English into d' sea, and wese t' hab ouh freedom,—ouh freedom an' plenty lan' t' lib on."
"Dat's it," shouted some one, "an' we gwine t' holp, suah!"
The negroes were so intent upon their speaker that they did not perceive us until we were right among them, and even then for a few minutes, as we forced our way through the mob, no one knew us.
"It's Mas' Tom!" yelled one big fellow, as my hat was knocked from my head. And, as if by instinct, they crowded back on either side, and a path was opened before us to the pile of logs where Polete stood. He gaped at us amazedly as we clambered up toward him, and I saw that he was licking his lips convulsively. A yell from the crowd greeted us as we appeared beside him,—a menacing yell, which died away into a low growling, and foretold an approaching storm.
"Now, boys," I cried, "I want you to listen to me for a minute. That is a lie about the French coming over the mountains,—every word of it. If Polete here, who, you know, is only a laborer like most of you, says he has seen them coming in a vision, why he's simply lying to you, or he doesn't know what he's talking about. There are not three hundred Frenchmen the other side of the mountains, in the first place, and it will be winter before they can get any more there. So if you fight, you will have to fight alone, and you can guess how much chance of success you have. You know the penalty for insurrection. It's death, and not an easy death, either,—death by fire! If you go ahead with this thing, no power on earth can save every one of you from the stake."
"It's a lie!" yelled Polete. "I did hab d' vision. I did see d' French a-comin'—millions o' dem—all a-ma'chin' t'rough d' forest. Dee's almost hyah. Dee want us t' holp."
A hoarse yell interrupted him, and I saw that something must be done.
"Wait a minute, boys," I cried. "Let me ask Polete a question. You say you have seen the French marching, Polete?"
He nodded sullenly.
"What was the color of their uniforms?"
He hesitated a moment, but saw he must answer.
"Dee was all colors," he said. "Red, blue, green,—all colors."
I saw that my moment of triumph was at hand.
"Now, boys," I cried, holding up my hand so that all might be quiet and hear my words. "You may guess how much value there is in Polete's visions. He says he has seen the French army marching, and he has just told me that their uniforms are all colors,—red, blue, green, and so on. Now, if he has seen the army, he ought to know the color of the uniforms, ought he not?"
"Yes, yes," yelled the mob.
"Well, boys," I continued, "the French wear only one color uniform, and that color is just the one which Polete has not mentioned—white. No Frenchman goes to war except in a white uniform."
They were all silent for a moment, and I saw them eyeing Polete distrustfully.
But he was foaming at the mouth with fury.
"A lie!" he screamed. "A lie, same's de uddah. Don' yo' see what we mus' do? Kill 'em! Kill 'em, an' nobody else'll evah know!"
That low growling which I had heard before again ran through the crowd. I must play my last card.
"You fools!" I cried, "do you suppose we are the only ones who know? If so much as a hair of our heads is touched, if we are not back among our friends safe and sound when morning comes, every dog among you will yelp his life out with a circle of fire about him!"
They were whining now, and I knew I had them conquered.
"I came here to-night to save you," I went on, after a moment. "Return now quietly to your quarters, and nothing more will be said about this gathering. Put out of your minds once for all the hope that the French will help you, for it is a lie. And let this be the last time you hold a meeting here, or I will not answer for the consequences."
I waved them away with my hand, and they slunk off by twos and threes until all of them had disappeared in the shadow of the wood.
"And now, what shall we do with this cur?" asked Long, in a low voice, at my elbow. I turned and saw that he had old Polete gripped by the collar. "He tried to run away," he added, "but I thought you might have something to say to him."
Polete was as near collapse as a man could be and yet be conscious. He was trembling like a leaf, his eyes were bloodshot, and his lower jaw was working convulsively. He turned an imploring gaze on me, and tried to speak, but could not.
"Polete," I said sternly, "I suppose you know that if this night's work gets out, as it is certain to do sooner or later, no power on earth can save your life?"
"Yes, massa," he muttered, and looked about him wildly, as though he already saw the flames at his feet.
"Well, Polete," I went on, "after the way you have acted to-night, I see no reason why I should try to save you. You certainly did all you could to get me killed."
"Yes, massa," he said again, and would have fallen had not Long held him upright by the collar.
I waited a moment, for I thought he was going to faint, but he opened his eyes again and fixed them on me.
"Now listen," I went on, when he appeared able to understand me. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to give you a chance for your life,—not a very big chance, perhaps, but a great deal better one than you would have here."
"Yes, massa," he said a third time, and there was a gleam of hope in his face.
"I'm going to let you go," I concluded. "I'd advise you to follow the river till you get beyond the settlements, and then try for Pennsylvania. I promise you there'll be no pursuit, but if you ever show your face around here again, you're as good as dead."
Before I had finished, he had fallen to his knees and bowed his head upon my feet, with a peculiar reverence,—a relic, I suppose, of his life in Africa. He was blubbering like a baby when he looked up at me.
"I'll nevah f'git yeh, Mas' Tom," he said. "I'll nevah f'git yeh."
"That'll do, uncle," and I caught him by the collar and pulled him to his feet. "I don't want to see you killed, but you'd better get away from here as fast as you can, and drop this witch man business for good and all. Here's two shillings. They'll get you something to eat when you get to Pennsylvania, but you'd better skirmish along in the woods the best you can till then, or you'll be jerked up for a runaway."
He murmured some inarticulate words,—of gratitude, perhaps,—and slid down from the pile of logs. We watched him until he plunged into the woods to the south of the clearing, and then started back toward the house. I was busy with my own thoughts as we went, and Long was also silent, so that scarcely a word passed between us until we reached the steps.
"Sit down a minute, Long," I said, as he started back to his quarters. "I don't believe we'll have any more trouble with those fellows, but perhaps it would be well to watch them."
"Trust me for that, sir," he answered. "I'll see to it that there are no more meetings of that kind. With Polete away, there is little danger. The only question is whether he will stay away."
"I think he will," and I looked out over the river thoughtfully. "He seemed to understand the danger he was in. If he returns, you will have to deliver him up to the authorities at once, of course."
"Well," said Long, "I'm not a bloodthirsty man, sir, as perhaps you know, but I think we'd be safer if he were dead. Still, we'll be safe enough anyway, now the niggers know their plot is discovered. But we were in a ticklish place there for a while this evening."
"Yes," I answered, with a smile. "It was not so easy as I had expected. I want to thank you, Long, for going with me. It was a service on your part which showed you have the interest of the place at heart, and are not afraid of danger."
"That's all right, sir," he said awkwardly. "Good-night."
"Wait till I get your pistols," I said. "You left them in the hall, you know."
The moonlight was streaming through the open window, and as I stepped into the hall, I rubbed my eyes, for I thought I must be dreaming. There in a great chair before the fireplace sat Colonel Washington. His head had fallen back, his eyes were closed, and from his deep and regular breathing I knew that he was sleeping. Marveling greatly at his presence here at this hour, I tiptoed around him, got Long's pistols, and took them out to him. Then I lighted my pipe and sat down in a chair opposite the sleeper, and waited for him to awake. I had not long to wait. Whether from my eyes on his face, or some other cause, he stirred uneasily, opened his eyes, and sat suddenly bolt upright.
"Why, Tom," he cried, as he saw me, "I must have been asleep."
"So you have," I said, shaking hands with him, and pressing him back into the chair, from which he would have risen. "But what fortunate chance has brought you here?"
"The most fortunate in the world!" he cried, his eyes agleam. "You know I told you that the governor and House of Burgesses would not bear quietly the project to leave our frontier open to the enemy. Well, read this," and he drew from his pocket a most formidable looking paper. I took it with a trembling hand and carried it to the window, but the moon was almost set, and I could not decipher it.
"What is it?" I asked, quivering with impatience.
"Here, give it to me," he said, with a light laugh, which reminded me of the night I had seen him first in the governor's palace at Williamsburg. "The House of Burgesses has just met. They ordered that a regiment of a thousand men be raised to protect the frontier in addition to those already in the field, and voted £20,000 for the defense of the colony."
"And that is your commission!" I cried. "Is it not so?"
"Yes," he said, scarce less excited than myself. "'Tis my commission as commander-in-chief of all the Virginia forces."
I wrung his hand with joy unutterable. At last this man, who had done so much, was to know something beside disappointment and discouragement.
"But you do not ask how you are concerned in all this," he continued, smiling into my face, "or why I rode over myself to bring the news to you. 'Tis because I set out to-morrow at daybreak for Winchester to take command, and I wish you to go with me, Tom, as aide-de-camp, with the rank of captain."
It was at Winchester that Colonel Washington established his headquarters, maintaining a detachment at Fort Cumberland sufficient to repel any attack the Indians were like to make against it, and to cut off such of their war parties as ventured east of it. From Winchester he was able more easily to keep in touch with all parts of the frontier, and with the string of blockhouses which had been built years before as a gathering-place for the settlers in the event of Indian incursions. By the first of September his arrangements had been completed, but long before that time it was evident the task was to be no easy one.
Already, from the high passes of the Alleghenies, war parties of Delawares and Shawanoes had descended, sweeping down upon the frontier families like a devastating whirlwind, and butchering men, women, and children with impartial fury. The unbounded forest, which covered hill and valley with a curtain of unbroken foliage, afforded a thousand lurking-places, and it was well-nigh impossible for an armed force to get within striking distance of the marauders. So, almost daily, stories of horrible cruelty came to the fort, plunging the commander into an agony of rage and dejection at his very impotence. The fort was soon crowded with refugees,—wives bewailing their husbands, husbands swearing to avenge their wives, parents lamenting their children, children of a sudden made orphans,—and from north and south, scores of hard-featured, steel-eyed men came to us, their rifles in their hands, to offer their services, and after a time these came to be one of the most valuable portions of our force.
Ah, the stories they told us! Tragedies such as that which Spiltdorph and I had come upon had been repeated scores of times. The settler who had left his cabin at daybreak in search of game, or to carry his furs to the nearest post, returned at sundown to find only a smoking heap of ashes where his home had been, and among them the charred and mutilated bodies of his wife and children. Horror succeeded horror, and the climax came one day when we were passing a little schoolhouse some miles below the fort, in the midst of a district well populated. Wondering at the unwonted silence, we dismounted, opened the door, and looked within. The master lay upon the platform with his pupils around him, all dead and newly scalped. The savages had passed that way not half an hour before.
And to add to the trials of the commander, his troops, hastily got together, were most of them impatient of restraint or discipline, and with no knowledge of warfare, while the governor and the House of Burgesses demanded that he undertake impossibilities. It was a dreary, trying, thankless task.
"They expect me to perform miracles," he said to me bitterly one day. "How am I to protect a frontier four hundred miles in length with five or six hundred effective men, against an enemy who knows every foot of the ground, and who can find a hiding-place at every step?"
Only by the sternest measures could many of the levies be brought to the fort, and one man—a captain, God save the mark!—sent word that he and his company could not come because their corn had not yet been got in. Yet, in spite of all these drawbacks, we did accomplish something. There were a few of the Iroquois who yet remained our friends, and the general spared no effort to retain their goodwill, for their services were invaluable. With a lofty contempt for the Delawares and Shawanoes, whom they had one time subjugated and compelled to assume the name of women, they roamed the forest for miles around, and more than once enabled us to ambush one of the war parties and send it howling back to the Muskingum, where there was great weeping and wailing in the lodges upon its return. But it was fruitless work, for the Indians, driven back for the moment, returned with augmented fury, and again drenched the frontier in the blood of the colonists.
We realized one and all that nothing we could do would turn the tide of war permanently from our borders and render the frontier safe until the French had been driven from Fort Duquesne. For it was they who urged the Indians on, supplying them with guns and ammunition, and rewarding them with rum when they returned to the fort laden with English scalps. An expedition against the French stronghold was for the present out of the question, and we could only bite our nails and curse, waiting for another night when we might sally forth and fall upon one of the war parties. But the few Indians we killed seemed a pitiful atonement for the mangled bodies scattered along the frontier and the hundreds of homes of which there remained nothing but blackened ruins. As the weeks passed and the Indians saw our impotence, they grew bolder, slipped through the chain of blockhouses, and ravaged the country east of us, disappearing into the woods as if by magic at the first alarm.
The month of August and the first portion of September wore away in this dreary manner, and it was perhaps a week later that Colonel Washington sent me to Frederick to make arrangements for some supplies. The distance, which was a scant fifty miles, was over a well-traveled road, and through a district so well protected that the Indians had not dared to visit it; so I rode out of the fort one morning, taking with me only my negro boy Sam, whom I had selected for my servant since the day he had warned me against Polete. I remember that the day was very warm, and that there was no air stirring, so that we pushed forward with indifferent speed. At noon we reached a farmhouse owned by John Evans, where we remained until the heat had somewhat moderated, and set forward again about four o'clock in the afternoon.
We had ridden for near an hour, and I was deep in my own thoughts, when I heard something breaking its way through the underbrush, and the next moment my horse shied violently as a negro stumbled blindly into the road and collapsed into a heap before he had taken half a dozen steps along it. I reined up sharply, and as I did so, heard Sam give a shrill cry of alarm.
"Shut up, boy," I cried, "and get off and see what ails the man. He can't hurt you."
But Sam sat in his saddle clutching at his horse's neck, his face spotted with terror as I had seen it once before.
"What is it, Sam?" I asked impatiently.
"Good Gawd, Mas' Tom," he cried, his teeth chattering together and cutting off his words queerly, "don' yo' see who 'tis? Don' yo' know him?"
"Know him? No, of course not," I answered sharply. "Who is he?"
"Polete," gasped Sam. "Polete, come back aftah me," and seemed incapable of another word.
In an instant I was off my horse and kneeling in the road beside the fallen man. Not till then did I believe it was Polete. From a great gash in the side of his head the blood had soaked into his hair and dried over his face. His shirt was stained, apparently from a wound in his breast, but most horrible of all was a circular, reeking spot on the crown of his head from which the scalp had been stripped. It needed no second glance to tell me that Polete had been in the hands of the Indians.
By this time Sam had partially recovered his wits, and being convinced that it was Polete in the flesh, not in the spirit, brought some water from a spring at the roadside. I bathed Polete's head as well as I could, and washed the blood from his face. Tearing open his shirt, I saw that blood was slowly welling from an ugly wound in his breast. He opened his eyes after a moment, and stared vacantly up into my face.
"Debbils," he moaned, "debbils, t' kill a po' ole man. Ain't I said I done gwine t' lib wid yo'? Kain't trabble fas' 'nough fo' yo'? Don' shoot, oh, don' shoot! Ah!"
He dropped back again into the road with a groan, and tossed from side to side. I thought he was dying, but when I dashed more water in his face, he opened his eyes again. This time he seemed to know me.
"Is it Mas' Tom?" he gasped. "Mas' Tom what let me go?"
"Yes, Polete," I answered gently, "it's Master Tom."
"Whar am I?" he asked faintly. "Have dee got me 'gin? Dee gwine to buhn me?"
"No, no," I said. "Nobody 's going to harm you, Polete. Where have you been all this time?"
"In d' woods," he whispered, "hidin' in d' swamps, an' skulkin' long aftah night. Could n' nevah sleep, Mas' Tom. When I went t' sleep, seemed laike d' dogs was right aftah me."
His head fell back again, and a rush of blood in his throat almost choked him.
"Wish I'd stayed at d' plantation, Mas' Tom," he whispered. "Nothin' could n' been no wo'se 'n what I went frough. Kep' 'long d' ribbah, laike yo' said, but could n' git nothin' t' eat only berries growin' in d' woods. Got mighty weak, 'n' den las' night met d' Injuns."
"Last night!" I cried. "Where, Polete?"
"Obah dah 'long d' ribbah," he answered faintly. "Dee gib me some'n' t' eat, an' I frought maybe dee'd take me 'long, but dis mornin' dee had a big powwow, an' dee shot me an' knock me in d' haid. Seems laike dee 's gwine t' buhn a big plantation t'-night."
"A big plantation, Polete?" I asked. "Where? Tell me—oh, you must tell me!"
But his head had fallen back, and his eyes were closed. There was another burst of blood from his nose and mouth. I threw water over his face, slapped his hands, and shouted into his ears, but to no avail. Sam brought me another hatful of water, but his hands trembled so that when he set it down, he spilled half of it. I dashed what was left over the dying man, but his breathing grew slow and slower, and still his eyes were closed. I trembled to think what would happen should I never learn where the Indians were going, if Polete should never open his eyes again to tell me. But he did, at last,—oh, how long it seemed!—he did, and gazed up at me with a little smile.
"Reckon it's all obah wid ole Polete, Mas' Tom," he whispered.
"Where is this plantation, Polete?" I asked. "The plantation the Indians are going to attack. Quick, tell me."
He looked at me a moment longer before answering.
"D' plantation? Obah dah, eight, ten mile, neah d' ribbah," and he made a faint little motion northward with his hand. The motion, slight as it was, brought on another hemorrhage. His eyes looked up into mine for a moment longer, and then, even as I gazed at them, grew fixed and glazed. Old Polete was dead.
We laid him by the side of the road and rolled two or three logs over him. More we could not do, for every moment was precious.
"Sam," I said quickly, as we finished our task, "you must ride to the fort as fast as your horse will carry you. Tell Colonel Washington that I sent you, and that the Indians are going to attack some big plantation on the river eight or ten miles north of here. Tell him that I have gone on to warn them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sah," he gasped.
"Well, don't you forget a word of it," I said sternly. "You can reach the fort easily by nine o'clock to-night. Now, be off."
He hesitated a moment.
"What is it?" I cried. "You are not afraid, boy?"
He rubbed his eyes and began to whimper.
"Not fo' myself, Mas' Tom," he said. "But yo' gwine t' ride right into d'Injuns. Dee'll git yo' suah."
"Nonsense!" I retorted sharply. "I'll get through all right, and we can easily hold out till reinforcements come. Now get on your horse. Remember, the faster you go, the surer you'll be to save us all."
He swung himself into the saddle, and turned for a moment to look at me, the tears streaming down his face. He seemed to think me as good as dead already.
"Good-by, Sam," I said.
"Good-by, Mas' Tom," and he put spurs to his horse and set off down the road.
I watched him until the trees hid him from sight, and then sprang upon my horse and started forward. Eight or ten miles, Polete had said, northward near the river. The road served me for some miles, and then I came to a cross road, which seemed well traveled. Not doubting that this led to the plantation of which I was in search, I turned into it, and proceeded onward as rapidly as the darkness of the woods permitted. Evening was at hand, and under the overlapping branches of the trees, the gloom grew deep and deeper. At last, away to the right, I caught the gleam of water, and with a sigh of relief knew I was near the river and so on the right road. The house could not be much farther on. With renewed vigor I urged my horse forward, and in a few minutes came to the edge of a clearing, and there before me was the house.
But it was not this which drew my eyes. Far away on the other side, concealed from the house by a grove of trees, a shadowy line of tiny figures was emerging from the forest. Even as I looked, they vanished, and I rubbed my eyes in bewilderment. Yet I knew they had not deceived me. It was the war party preparing for the attack.