Over the tops of the low bushes I could see the soldiers coming towards us, muskets half raised, scanning the cover for the game they meant to bag, thrusting their bayonets into bushes, beating the long grass with their gunstocks to flush the skulking quarry for a snap-shot.
Without warning, Mount rose, then sank to the ground as a volley rattled out; and instantly we three ran forward, bent double. In a moment more I sprang up from the swamp-grass beside a soldier and knocked him flat with a blow from my rifle-stock. Mount shot at another and missed him, but the fellow promptly threw down his musket, yelling lustily for quarter.
The four remaining soldiers attempted to load, but the Weasel tripped up one, with a cartridge half bitten in his mouth, and the other three were chased and caught by some Acton militia, who came leaping across the swampy covert from the Bedford Road.
When the Acton men returned with their prisoners, the soldier whom I had struck was sitting up in the swamp-grass, rubbing his powdered head and staring wildly at his sweating and anxious comrades.
"That's the fellow who murdered Harrington!" said one of the militia, and drew up his rifle with a jerk.
"Use these prisoners well, or I'll knock your head off!" roared Mount, striking up the rifle.
An officer of Minute Men came up; his eyes were red as though he had been weeping.
"They butchered his brother behind the red barn yonder,"whispered a lean yokel beside me. "He'll hang 'em, that's what he'll do."
"That's it! Hang 'em!" bawled out a red-headed lout, flourishing a pitchfork. "Hang the damn—!"
"Put that fool under arrest," said the officer, sharply. Some Acton Minute Men seized the lout and hustled him off; others formed a guard and conducted the big, perspiring, red-coated soldiers towards "Buckman's Tavern."
"You will treat them humanely?" I asked, as the officer passed me.
He gave me a blank glance; the tears again had filled his eyes.
"Certainly," he said, shortly; "I am not a butcher."
I gave him the officer's salute; he returned it absently, and walked on, with drawn sword and head sunk on his tarnished brass gorget.
A restless, silent crowd had gathered at "Buckman's Tavern," where two dead Minute Men lay on the porch, stiffening in their blood.
The sun had not yet risen, but all the east was turning yellow; great clouds of red-winged blackbirds rose and settled in the swampy meadows, and filled the air with their dry chirking; robins sang ecstatically.
Back along the muddy Bedford Road trudged the remnants of the scattered Lexington company of militia; the little barelegged drummer posted himself in front of the Meeting-house once more, and drummed the assembly. Men seemed to spring from the soil; every bramble-patch was swarming now; they came hurrying across the distant fields singly, in twos and threes, in scores.
Far away in the vague dawn bells rang out in distant villages, and I heard the faint sound of guns and the throbbing of drums. I passed the Lexington company re-forming on the trodden village green. Their captain, Parker, called out to me: "Forest-runner! We need your rifle! Will you fight with us?"
"I cannot," I said, and ran towards the post-chaise, rifle on shoulder.
The women and children of Lexington were gathered around it. I saw at a glance that Silver Heels had givenher seat to a frightened old woman, and that other women were thrusting their children into the vehicle, imploring Mount and Foxcroft to save them from the British.
"Michael," said Silver Heels, looking up with cool gray eyes, "the British are firing at women in the farm-houses on the Concord Road above here. We must get the children away."
"And you?" I asked, sharply. She lifted a barefooted urchin into the chaise without answering.
A yoke of dusty, anxious oxen, drawing a hay-cart, came clattering up, the poor beasts running heavily, while their driver followed on a trot beside them, using his cruel goad without mercy.
"Haw! Haw! Gee! Gee! Haw!" he bellowed, guiding his bumping wagon into the Bedford Road.
"The children here!" called out Silver Heels, in her clear voice, and caught up another wailing infant, to soothe it and lift it into the broad ox-wagon.
In a moment the wagon was full of old women and frantic children; a young girl, carrying a baby, ran alongside, begging piteously for a place, but already other vehicles were rattling up behind gaunt, rusty horses, and places were found for the frightened little ones in the confusion.
Some boys drove a flock of sheep into the Bedford Road; a herd of young cattle broke and ran, scattering the sheep. Mount and I sprang in front of Silver Heels, driving the cattle aside with clubbed rifles. Then there came a heavy pounding of horses' hoofs in the mud, a rush, a cry, and a hatless, coatless rider drew up in a cloud of scattering gravel.
"More troops coming from Boston!" he shouted in his saddle. "Lord Percy is at Roxbury with three regiments, marines, and cannon! Paul Revere was taken at one o'clock this morning!" And away he galloped, head bent low, reeking spurs clinging to his horse's gaunt flanks.
Silver Heels, standing beside me in the hanging morning mist, laid her hand on my arm.
"If the British are at Roxbury," she said, "we are quite cut off, are we not?"
I did not answer. Mount turned a grave, intelligent eyeon me; Foxcroft came up, wiping the mud and sweat from his eyes.
At that moment the drum and fife sounded from the green; the Lexington company, arms trailing, came marching into the Bedford Road, Indian file, Captain Parker leading.
Beside him, joyous, alert, transfigured, trotted the Weasel. "We've got them now!" he called out to Mount. "We'll catch the redskins with our hands at Charlestown Neck!"
The little barelegged drummer nodded seriously; the old Louisburg drum rumbled out the route-march.
Into "Buckman's Tavern" filed the Lexington men and fell to slamming and bolting the wooden shutters, piercing the doors and walls for rifle-fire, piling tables and chairs and bedding along the veranda for a rough breastwork.
"You must come with the convoy," I said, taking Silver Heels by the hand.
Her grave, gray eyes met mine in perfect composure.
"We must stay," she said.
"They are bringing cannon—can you not understand?" I repeated, harshly.
"I will not go," she said. "Every rifle is required here. I cannot take you from these men in their dire need. Dear heart, can you not understand me?"
"Am I to sacrifice you?" I asked, angrily. "No!" I cried. "We have suffered enough—"
Tears sprang to her eyes; she laid her hand on my rifle.
"Other women have sent their dearest ones. Am I less brave than that woman whose husband died yonder on his own door-sill? Am I a useless, passionless clod, that my blood stirs at naught but pleasure? Look at those dead men on the tavern steps! Look at our people's blood on the grass yonder! Would you wed with a pink-and-white thing whose veins run water? I saw them kill that poor boy behind his own barn!—these redcoat ruffians who come across an ocean to slay us in our own land. Do you forget I am a soldier's child?"
A loud voice bellowing from the tavern: "Women here for the bullet-moulds! Get your women to the tavern!"
She caught my hand. "You see a maid may not stand idle in Lexington!" she said, with a breathless smile.
Silver Heels stood in the tap-room of "Buckman's Tavern" casting bullets; the barefoot drummer watched the white-hot crucible and baled out the glittering molten metal or fed it with lumps of lead stripped from the gate-post of Hooper's house in Danvers.
Near the window sat some Woburn Minute Men, cross-legged on the worn floor, rolling cartridges. From time to time the parson of Woburn, who had come to pray and shoot, took away the pile of empty powder-horns and brought back others to be emptied.
The tavern was dim and damp; through freshly bored loopholes in the shutters sunlight fell, illuminating the dark interior.
In their shirts, barearmed and bare of throat to the breast-bone, a score of Lexington Minute Men stood along the line of loopholes, their long rifles thrust out. They had no bayonets, but each man had driven his hunting-knife into the wall beside him.
Jack Mount and the Weasel lay, curled up like giant cats, at the door, blinking peacefully out through the cracks into the early sunshine. I could hear their low-voiced conversation from where I stood at my post, close to Silver Heels:
"Redcoats, Cade, not redskins," corrected Mount. "British lobster-backs—eh, Cade? You remember how we drubbed them there in Pittsburg, belt and buckle and ramrod—eh, Cade?"
"That was long ago, friend."
"Call me Jack! Why don't you call me Jack any more?" urged Mount. "You know me now, don't you, Cade?"
"Ay, but I forget much. Do you know how I came here?"
"From Johnstown, Cade—from Johnstown, lad!"
"I cannot remember Johnstown."
Presently the Weasel peered around at Silver Heels.
"Who is that young lady?" he asked, mildly.
Silver Heels heard and smiled at the old man. The faintest quiver curved her mouth; there was a shadow of pain in her eyes.
The fire from the crucible tinted her cheeks; she raised both bared arms to push back her clustering hair. Hazel gray, her brave eyes met mine across the witch-vapour curling from the melting-pot.
"Do you recall how the ferret, Vix, did bite Peter's tight breeches, Michael?"
"Ay," said I, striving to smile.
"And—and the jack-knife made by Barlow?"
"Ay."
She flushed to the temples and looked at my left hand. The scar was there. I raised my hand and kissed the blessed mark.
"Dear, dear Michael," she whispered, "truly you were ever the dearest and noblest and best of all!"
"Unfit to kiss thy shoon's latchet, sweet—"
"Yet hast untied the latchets of my heart."
A stillness fell on the old tavern; the Minute Men stood silently at the loopholes, the barefoot drummer sat on his drum, hands folded, watching with solemn, childish eyes the nuggets of lead sink, bubble, and melt.
A militiaman came down-stairs for a bag of bullets.
"They be piping hot yet," said the drummer-boy, "and not close pared."
But the soldier carelessly gathered heaping handfuls in his calloused palms, and went up the bare, creaking stairs again to his post among the pigeons.
The heat of the brazier had started the perspiration on Silver Heels's face and neck; tiny drops glistened like fresh dew on a blossom. She stood, dreamily brushing with the back of her hand the soft hair from her brow. Her dark-fringed eyes on me; under her loosened kerchief I saw the calm breathing stir her neck and bosom gently as a white flower stirs at a breath of June.
"The scent of the sweet-fern," she murmured; "do you savour it from the pastures?"
I looked at her in pity.
"Ay, dear heart," she whispered, with a sad little smile, "I am homesick to the bones of me, sick for the blue hills o' Tryon and the whistling martin-birds, sick for the scented brake and the smell of sweet water babbling, sick for your arm around me, and your man's strength to crush me to you and take the kiss my very soul does ache to give."
A voice broke in from the pigeon-loft above, "Is there a woman below to sew bandages?"
"Truly there is, sir," called back Silver Heels.
"I'll take the mould," said the small drummer, "but you are to come when the fight begins, for I mean to do a deal o' drumming!"
She started towards the stairway, then turned to look at me.
"My post is wherever you are," I said, stepping to her side.
I took her little hand, all warm and moist from the bullet-moulding, and I kissed the palm and the delicate, rounded wrist.
"There is a long war before us ere we find a home," I said.
"I know," she said, faintly.
"A long, long war; separation, sadness. Will you wed me before I go to join with Cresap's men?"
"Ay," she said.
"There is a parson below, Silver Heels."
Her face went scarlet.
"Let it be now," I whispered, with my arm around her.
She looked up into my eyes. I leaned over the landing-rail and called out, "Send a man for the parson of Woburn!"
An Acton man stepped out on the tavern porch and shouted for the parson. Presently the good man came, in rusty black, shouldering a fowling-piece, his pockets bulging with a Bible and Book of Common Prayer, his wig all caked and wet from a tour through the dewy willows behind the inn.
"Is there sickness here—or wounds?" he asked, anxiously. Then he saw me above and came wheezing up the stairs.
"Heart-sickness, sir," I said; "we be dying, both of us, for the heart's ease you may bring us through your holy office."
At length he understood—Silver Heels striving to keep hersweet eyes lifted when he spoke to her, and I quiet and determined, asking that he lose no time, for no man knew how long we few here in the tavern had to live. In the same breath I summoned a soldier from the south loophole in the garret, and asked him to witness for me; and he took off his hat and stood sheepishly twirling it, rifle in hand.
And so we were wedded, there in the ancient garret, the pigeons coo-cooing overhead, the blue wasps buzzing up and down the window-glass, and our hands joined before the aged parson of Woburn town. I had the plain gold ring which I had bought in Albany for this purpose, nor dreamed to wed my sweetheart with it thus!—and O the sweetness in her lips and eyes when I drew it from the cord around my neck and placed it on her smooth finger at the word!
Little else I remember, save that the old parson kissed her, and the soldier kissed her outstretched hand, and let his gun fall for bashful fright. Nor that we were truly wedded did I understand, even when the parson of Woburn went away down the creaking stairs with his fowling-piece over his shoulder, leaving us standing mute together under the canopy of swinging herbs. We still held hands, standing quiet, in a vague expectation of some mystery yet to come. Children that we were!—the mystery of mysteries had been wrought, never to be undone till time should end.
A pigeon flew, whimpering, to the beam above us, then strutted and bowed and coo-cooed to its startled, sleek, white sweetheart; a wind blew through the rafters, stirring the dry bunches of catnip, mint, and thyme, till they swung above, scented censers all, exhaling incense.
There was a pile of cotton cloth on the floor; Silver Heels sank down beside it and began to tear it into strips for sewing bandages.
I looked from the window, seeing nothing.
Presently the Minute Man at the south loop spoke:
"A man riding this way—there!—on the Concord Road!"
Silver Heels on the floor worked steadily, ripping the snowy cotton.
"There is smoke yonder on the Concord Road," said the Minute Man.
"AND SO WE WERE WEDDED""AND SO WE WERE WEDDED"
"AND SO WE WERE WEDDED"
I roused and rubbed my eyes.
"Do you hear firing," he asked, "far away in the west?"
"Yes."
"Concord lies northwest."
Silver Heels, absorbed in her task, hummed a little tune under her breath.
"The smoke follows the road," said the Minute Man.
The firing became audible in the room. Silver Heels raised her head with a grave glance at me. I went and knelt beside her.
"It is coming at last, little sweetheart," I said. "Will you go, now? Foxcroft will take you across the fields to some safe farm."
"You know Sir William would not have endured to see me leave at such a time," she said.
"Yes, dear heart, but you cannot carry a rifle."
"But I can make bullets and bandages."
"The British fire at women; you must go!" I said, aloud.
"I will not go."
"I command."
"No." She bent her fair, childish head and the tears fell on the cloth in her lap.
"Look! Look at the redcoats!" called out the Minute Man at the attic window.
As I rose I heard plainly the long, resounding crash of musket firing, and the rattle of rifles followed like a hundred echoes.
"Look yonder!" he cried.
Suddenly the Concord Road was choked with scarlet-clad soldiers. Mapped out below us the country stretched, and over it, like a blood-red monster worm, wound the British column—nay, like to a dragon it came on, with flanking lines thrust out east and west for its thin red wings, and head and tail wreathed with smoke.
And now we could see feathery puffs of smoke from the road-side bushes, from distant hills, from thickets, from ploughed fields, from the long, undulating stone walls which crossed the plain. Faster and faster came the musket volleys, but faster yet rang out the shots from our yeomanry, gathering thicker and thicker along the British route, swarming in from distant towns and hamlets and lonely farms.
The old tavern was ringing with voices now—commands of officers, calls from those who were posted above, clattering steps on the porch as the Acton men ran out to their posts behind the tufted willows in the swamp.
He who had been placed in charge at the tavern, a young officer of the Woburn Alarm Men, shouted for silence and attention, and ordered us not to fire unless fired upon, as our position would be hopeless if cannon were brought against us. Then he commanded all women to leave the tavern and seek shelter at Slocum's farm across the meadows.
"No, no!" murmured Silver Heels, obstinately, as I took her hand and started for the stairs, "I will not go,—I cannot—I cannot! Let me stay, Michael; for God's sake, let me stay!" And she fell on her knees and caught at my hands.
"To your posts!" roared the Woburn officer, drawing his sword and coming up the stairs two at a jump. He stopped short when he saw Silver Heels, and glanced blankly at me; but there was no time now for flight, for, as he stepped to the window beside me, pell-mell into the village green rushed the British light infantry, dusty, exhausted, enraged. In brutal disorder they surged on, here a squad huddled together, there a company, bullied, threatened, and harangued by its officers with pistols and drawn swords; now a group staggering past, bearing dead or wounded comrades, now a heavy cart loaded with knapsacks and muskets, driven by hatless soldiers.
Close on their heels tramped the grenadiers. Soldier after soldier staggered and fell from the ranks, utterly exhausted, unable to rise from the grass.
The lull in the firing was broken by a loud discharge of musketry from Fiske's Hill, and presently more redcoats came rushing into the village, while at their very heels the Bedford Alarm Men shot at them, and chased them. Everywhere our militia came swarming—from Sudbury, Westford, Lincoln, Acton; Minute Men from Medford, from Stowe, from Beverly, and from Lynn—and their ancient firelocks blazed from every stone wall, and their long rifles banged from the distant ridges.
Below me in the street I saw the British officers striving desperately to reform their men, kicking the exhausted creaturesto their feet again, striking laggards, shoving the bewildered and tired grenadiers into line, while thicker and thicker pelted the bullets from the Minute Men and militia.
They were brave men, these British officers; I saw a young ensign of the Tenth Foot fall with a ball through his stomach, yet rise and face the storm until shot to death by a dozen Alarm Men on the Bedford Road.
It was dreadful; it was doubly dreadful when a company of grenadiers suddenly faced about and poured a volley into our tavern, for, ere the crashing and splintered wood had ceased, the tavern fairly vomited flame into the square, and the British went down in heaps. Through the smoke I saw an officer struggling to disengage himself from his fallen and dying horse; I saw the massed infantry reel off through the village, firing frenziedly right and left, pouring volleys into farm-houses, where women ran screaming out into the barns, and frantic watch-dogs barked, tugging at their chains.
It was not a retreat, not a flight; it was a riot, a horrible saturnalia of smoke and fire and awful sound. As a maddened panther, wounded, rushes forth to deal death right and left, even tearing its own flesh with tooth and claw, the British column burst south across the land, crazed with wounds, famished, athirst, blood-mad, dealing death and ruin to all that lay before it.
Terrible was the vengeance that followed it, hovered on its gasping flanks, scourged its dwindling ranks, which withered under the searching fire from every tuft of bushes, every rock, every tree-trunk.
Already the ghastly pageant had rushed past us, leaving a crimson trail in its wake; already the old tavern door was flung wide, and our Minute Men were running down the Boston Road and along the ridges on either side, firing as they came on.
I, with Mount and the Weasel, hung to their left flank till two o'clock, when, about half a mile from Lexington Meeting-house, we heard cannon, and understood that the relief troops from Boston had come up.
Then, knowing that there were guns enough and to spare without ours, we shouldered our hot rifles and trudged back to "Buckman's Tavern," through the dust, behind a straw-coveredwain which was driving slowly under the heat of an almost vertical sun.
Mount, parched with thirst, hailed the driver of the wain, asking him if he carried cider.
"Only a wounded man," he said, "most dead o' the red dragoons."
I stepped to the slowly moving wagon and looked over the tail-board down into the straw.
"Shemuel!" I cried.
"Shemuel!" roared Mount.
The little Jew opened his sick eyes under his bandage. The Weasel climbed nimbly over the tail-board and settled down beside the wounded man, taking his blood-smeared hand.
"Shemuel! Shemuel! We saw them split your head!" stammered Mount, in his astonishment and joy.
"Under my hat I did haff a capful of shillings," replied Shemuel, weakly; "I—I go back—two days' time to find me my money by dot Lechemere swamp—eh, Jack?"
"God bless you, old nosey!" cried Mount; "we'll get your money, lad! Won't we, Cardigan?"
The little Jew turned his heavy eyes on me.
"You haff found Miss Warren?" he gasped. "Ach, so iss all well. I go back—two days' time—find me my money." He smiled and closed his eyes.
So we re-entered Lexington, Jack Mount, the Weasel, Saul Shemuel, and I; and on the tavern steps Silver Heels stood, her tired, colourless face lighted up, her outstretched hands falling on my shoulders; and I to take her in my arms, for she had fallen a-weeping. Above us the splendid blue of the sky spread its eternal tent, our only shelter, our only home on the long trail through the world; our lamp was the sun, our fireplace a continent, and the four winds our walls, and our estates were bounded by two oceans, washing the shores of a land where the free, at last, might dwell.
In the south the thunder of the British cannon muttered, distant and more distant; the storm had passed.
Had the storm passed? The smoke hung in the north where Concord town was burning, yet around us birds sang.
And now came Jack Mount, riding postilion on the horses which drew the post-chaise; behind him trotted the Weasel,leading out Warlock. Silver Heels saw them and stood up, smiling through her tears.
"Truly, we stayed and did our duty, did we not, dear heart?"
"With your help, sweet."
"And deserted not our own!"
"Yours the praise, dear soul."
"And did face our enemies like true people all; is it not so, Michael?"
"It is so."
"Then let us go, my husband. I am sick for my own land, and for the happiness to come."
"Northward we journey, little sweetheart."
"To the blue hills and the sweet-fern?"
"Ay, home."
And so we started for the north, out of the bloody village where our liberty was born at the first rifle-shot, out of the sound of the British cannon, out of the land of the salt sea, back to the inland winds and the incense of our own dear forests, and the music of sweet waters tumbling where the white pines sing eternally.
I rode Warlock beside the chaise; Shemuel lay within; Silver Heels sat beside the poor, hurt creature, easing his fevered head; but her eyes ever returned to me, and the colour came and went in her face as our eyes spoke in silence.
"Good-bye," said Foxcroft, huskily.
Mount squared himself in his saddle; the Weasel, rifle on thigh, set his horse's head north.
Slowly the cavalcade moved on; the robins sang on every tree; far to the southward the thunder of the British cannon rolled and re-echoed along the purple hills; and over all God's golden light was falling on life, and love, and death.
We entered Albany on the 22d of April; the town had heard the news from Lexington ere we sighted the Albany hills, the express having passed us as we crossed the New York line, tearing along the river-bank at a breakneck gallop.
So, when we rode into Albany, the stolid, pippin-cheeked Dutchmen had later news than had we, and I learned then, for the first time, how my Lord Percy's troops had been hurled headlong through Cambridge Farms into Charlestown, where they lay like panting, slavering, senseless beasts under the cannon of theSomersetandAsia. And all Massachusetts sat watching them, gun in hand.
We lay at the house of Peter Weaver, my lawyer, Silver Heels and I; Jack Mount and Cade Renard lay at the "Half Moon," where poor Shemuel could procure medicine and such medical attendance as he so sorely stood in need of.
With Peter Weaver I prepared to arrange my affairs as best I might, it being impossible for me to undertake a voyage to Ireland at this time, though my succession to the title and estates of my late uncle, Sir Terence, made it most necessary.
For the first time in my life I now became passably acquainted with my own affairs, though when we came to figure in pounds, shillings, and pence, I yawned, yet made pretence of a wisdom in mathematics which, God knows, is not in me.
Silver Heels, her round chin on my shoulder, listened attentively, and asked some questions which caused the ponderous lawyer to address himself to her rather than to me, seeing clearly that either I cared nothing for my own affairs or else was stupid past all belief.
Sir William's legacies to me and to Silver Heels were discussedmost seriously; and Mr. Weaver would have it that the law should deal with my miserable kinsman, Sir John, for the fraud he had wrought. Yet, it was exactlythat; and, because hewasmy kinsman, I could not drag him out to cringe for his infamy before the rabble.
The land and the money left to us by Sir William we would now, doubtless, receive, but it was only because Sir William had desired it that we at length made up our minds to accept it at all.
This I made plain to Mr. Weaver, then relapsed into a dull inspection of his horn spectacles as he discoursed of mortgages and bonds and interests and liens with stupefying monotony.
"It is like the school-room, Micky," murmured Silver Heels, close to my ear, and composed her countenance to listen to a fluent peroration on percentage and investments in terms which were to me as vain as tinkling cymbals.
"Then I am wealthy?" I interposed, again and again, yet could draw from that fat badger, Weaver, neither a "yes" nor "no," nor any plain speech fit for a gentleman's comprehension.
So when at length we quitted Mr. Weaver a sullen mood possessed me and I felt at bay with all the learned people in the world, as I had often felt, penned in the school-room.
"Am I?" I asked Silver Heels.
"What?"
"Rich or poor? Tell me in one word, dear heart, for whether or not I possess a brass farthing in the world, I do not know, upon my honour!"
"Poor innocent," she laughed; "poor unlearned and harassed boy! Know, then, that you have means to purchase porridge and a butcher's roast for Christmas."
"I be serious," said I, anxiously, "and I would know if I have means to support a large family—"
"Hush!" said Silver Heels. What I could see of her face,—one small ear,—was glowing in rich colour.
"Because—" I ventured. But she plucked at my arm with lowered eyes, nor would hear me to explain that I, newly wedded, viewed the future with a hopeful gravity that befitted.
"As for a house," said I, "there is a pleasant place of springs called Saratoga, dearly loved by Sir William."
"I know," said she, quickly; "it comes from 'asserat,' sparkling waters."
"It comes from 'Soragh,' which means salt, and 'Oga,' a place—"
"It doesnot, Micky!"
"It does!"
"No!"
"It does!"
"Oc-qui-o-nis! He is a bear!" said Silver Heels, to herself.
We stopped in the hallway, facing each other. Something in her flushed, defiant face, her bright eyes, the poise of her youthful body, brought back with a rush that day, a year ago, when I, sneaking out of the house to avoid the school-room, met her in the hallway, and was balked and flouted and thrust back to the thraldom of the school. Here was the same tormentor—the same child with her gray eyes full of pretty malice, the same beauty of brow and mouth and hair was here, and something added—a maid's delicate mockery which veiled the tenderness of womanhood; a sweetheart and a wedded wife.
"I am thinking of a morning very, very long ago," I said, slowly.
"I, too," said Silver Heels.
"Almost a year ago," I said.
"A year ago," said Silver Heels.
"You little wild-cat thing!" I whispered, tenderly, and took her by the waist so that her face lay upturned on my shoulder.
"Stupid," she said, "I loved you that very day."
"What day?"
"The day we both are thinking on: when you met me in the hall with your fish-rod like a guilty dunce—"
"You wore a skirt o' buckskin and tiny moccasins and stockings with scarlet thrums; and you were a-nibbling a cone of maple-sugar," said I.
"And you strove to trip me up!"
"And you pushed me!"
"And you thrust Vix at me!"
"And you kicked my legs and ran up-stairs like a wild-cat thing."
There was a silence; she looked up into my face from my shoulder.
"This, for a belt of peace betwixt those two children who live in memory," said I, and kissed her.
"Oonah! All is lost," she said; "he does with me as he will!" and she rendered me my kiss, saying, "Bearer of belts, thy peace-belt is returned."
So was perfect peace established, not only for the shadowy children of that unforgotten past, but for us, and for all time betwixt us; and our belts were offered and returned, and the sign was the touching of her lips and mine.
For Shemuel's sake, and because we would not desert him, we continued in Albany until near the end of April.
Taking counsel together, we had determined to build a mansion, when the times permitted, midway on the road 'twixt Johnstown and Fonda's Bush, our lands joining at that place. But I feared much that the war which now flamed through Massachusetts Bay might soon creep northward into our forest fastness and set the border ablaze from the Ohio to Saint Sacrement. Much, too, I feared that the men of the woods whose skin was red would league with the men whose coats were red. All his later days Sir William had striven to avert this awful pact; Dunmore played against him, Butler betrayed him, Cresap was tricked, and Sir William lost. Now, into his high place sneaked a pygmy, slow, uncertain, sullen, treacherous—his own son, who would undo the last knot which bound the Indians to a fair neutrality. Perhaps he himself would even lead them on to the dreadful devastation all men dreaded; and, if he, men must also count on the Butlers, father and son, to carry terror through our forests and hunt to death without mercy all who stood for freedom and the rights of man.
One of these I had held in my hand and released. Yet still that old certainty haunted me, the belief that one day I was to meet and kill him, not in honourable encounter, now, for he had lost the right to ask such a death from me; but in the dark forest, somewhere among the corridors of silentpines, I would slay him as sachems slay ferocious beasts that track men through ghost-trails down to hell.
Then should we be free at last of this fierce, misshapen soul, we People of the Morning, Tierhansaga, and the shrinking forest should straighten, and Oya should be Oyabanh, and the red witch-flower should wither to a stalk, to a seed, and sprout a fair white blossom for all time, Ahwehhah.
That night, as I stood on the steps of Peter Weaver's red brick house, turning to look once more into the coals of the setting sun ere I entered the door, a hand twitched at my coat-skirt, and, looking down, I saw below me on the pavement an Indian dressed in the buckskins of a forest-runner.
"Peter!" I cried, for it was he, my dusky kinsman on the left hand; then my eyes fell on his companion, a short, squat savage, clad in red, and painted hideous with strange signs I could not read.
"Red Jacket," said Peter, calmly.
I looked hard at Peter; he had grown big and swart and fat like a bear-cub in November; Red Jacket raised his sullen eyes, then dropped them.
Suddenly, as I stood there, at a loss what next to say, came a heavy man, richly clothed, flabby face bent on the ground. Nor would he have discovered me, so immersed in brooding reverie was he, had not Peter touched his elbow.
A bright flush stained his face; he looked up at me where I stood. Then I descended the steps, shoving Peter from between us, and Sir John Johnson, for it was he, moved back a pace and laid his heavy hand on his sword-belt as I came close to him, looking into his cold eyes.
"Liar!" I said; "liar! liar!" And that was all, for he gave ground, and his hand fell limply from his dishonoured hilt.
So I left him, there in the darkening street, the Indians watching him with steady, kindling eyes.
We started next day at dawn, Silver Heels riding Warlock in her new kirtle and little French three-cornered hat with its gilt fringe, to which she had a right, as she was now My Lady Cardigan, if she chose.
I rode a bay mare, bought in Albany, yet a beauty, anddoubtless the only decent horseflesh in all that town of rusty rackers and patroons' sorry hacks. Mount and the Weasel, leather-clad, and gay with quilled moccasins and brilliant thrums, journeyed afoot, on either side o' Shemuel, who bestrode a little docile ass.
His noddle, neatly mended and still bound up, he had surmounted with a Quaker hat so large that it rested on his large flaring ears; peddlers' panniers swung on either flank, crammed deep with gewgaws; he let his bridle fall on the patient ass's neck, and, thumbs in his armpits, joined lustily the chorus raised by Mount and Renard:
"Come, all ye Tryon County men,And never be dismayed;But trust in the Lord,And He will be your aid!"
"Come, all ye Tryon County men,
And never be dismayed;
But trust in the Lord,
And He will be your aid!"
Roaring the rude chorus, Jack Mount marched in the lead, his swinging strides measured to our horses' steady pacing; beside him trotted the little Weasel, his hand holding tightly to the giant's arm; and sometimes he took three steps to Mount's one, and sometimes he toddled, his little, leather-bound legs twinkling like spokes in a wheel, but ever he chanted manfully as he marched:
"O trust in the Lord,And He will be your aid!"
"O trust in the Lord,
And He will be your aid!"
And Shemuel's fervent whine from his lowly saddle rounded out the old route-song.
An hour later I summoned Jack Mount, and he fell back to my stirrups, resting his huge hand on my saddle as he walked beside me.
"Jack," I said, "is poor Cade cured o' fancy and his mad imaginings?"
"Ay, lad, for the time."
"For the time?"
"A year, two years, three, perhaps. This is not the first mad flight o' fancy Cade has taken on his aged wings."
"You never told me that," I said, sharply.
"No, lad."
"Why not?"
"Do you spread abroad the sorry secrets of your kin, Mr. Cardigan?"
"He is not your kin!"
"He is more," said Mount, simply.
After a silence I asked him on what previous occasion the little Weasel had gone moon-mad.
"On many—every third or fourth year since I first knew him," said Mount, soberly. "But never before did he leave me to follow his poor mad phantoms—always the phantom of his wife, lad, in divers guises. He saw her in a silvery bush o' moonlight nights, and talked with her till my goose-flesh rose and crawled on me; he saw her mirrored in cold, deep pools at dawn, looking up at him from the golden-ribbed sands, and I have laid in the canoe to watch the trouts' quick shadows moving on the bottom, and he a-talking sweet to his dear wife as though she hid under the lily-pads like a blossom."
He glanced up at me pitifully as he walked beside my stirrup; I laid my hand on his leather-tufted shoulder.
"Sir, it is sad," he muttered; "a fair mind nobly wrecked. But grief cannot deform the soul, Mr. Cardigan."
"He knows you now?"
"Ay, and knows that he has dwelt for months in madness."
"Does he know that it was me he loved so deeply in his madness?" asked Silver Heels, gently.
"I think he does," whispered Mount.
Silver Heels turned her sorrowful eyes on poor Cade Renard.
Riding that afternoon near sunset, at the False Faces' Carrying-Place upon the Mohawk, we spoke of Johnson Hall and the old life, sadly, for never again could we hope to enter its beloved portals.
Naught that belonged to us remained in the Hall, save only the memories none might rob us of.
"If only I might have Betty," said Silver Heels, wistfully.
"Betty? Did she not attend you to Boston with Sir John?" I asked.
"Yes, but she was slave to Sir John. I could not buy her; you know how poor I awoke to find myself in Boston town."
"Would not that brute allow you Betty?" I asked, angrily.
"No; I think he feared her. Poor, blubbering Betty, how she wept and roared her grief when Sir John bade her pack up, and called her 'hussy.'"
That night we lay at Schenectady, where also was camped a body of Sir William's Mohawks, a sullen, watchful band, daubed in hunting-paint, yet their quivers hung heavy with triple-feathered war-arrows, and their knives and hatchets and their rifles were over-bright and clean to please me.
Some of them knew me, and came to talk with me over a birch-fire. I gave them tobacco, and we tarried by the birch-fire till the stars waned in the sky and the dawn-stillness fell on land and river; but from them I could learn nothing, save that Sir John and Colonel Guy had vowed to scalp their own neighbours should they as much as cry, "God save our country!" Evil news, truly, yet only set me firmer in my design to battle till the end for the freedom that God had given and kings would take away.
Silver Heels, quitting the inn with Mount, came to warn me that I must sleep if we set out at sunrise. Graciously she greeted the Mohawks who had risen to withdraw; they all knew her, and watched her like tame panthers with red coals in their eyes.
"But they are panthers yet; forget it not," muttered Jack Mount.
At sunrise we rode out into the blue hills. Homeless, yet nearing home at last, my heart lifted like a singing bird. Dew on the sweet-fern exhaling, dew on the ghost-flower, dew on the scented brake!—and the whistle of feathered wings, and the endless ringing chorus of the birds of Tryon! Hills of pure sapphire, streams of gems, limpid necklaces festooned to drip diamonds from crags into some frothing pool! Pendent pearls on vines starred white with bloom; a dun deer at gaze, knee-deep in feathering willow-grass; a hermit-bird his morning hymn, cloistered in the vaulted monastery where the great organ stirs among the pines!
Hills! Hills of Tryon, unploughed, unharrowed, save by the galloping deer; hills, sweet islands in the dark pine ocean, over whose waste the wild hawk's mewing answers thecry of its high-wheeling mate; hills of the morning, aromatic with spiced fern, and perfumed of the gum of spruce and balsam; hills of Tryon; my hills! my hills!
"The spring is with us," said Jack Mount, stooping to pluck a frail flower.
"Ka-nah-wah-hawks, the cowslip!" murmured Silver Heels.
"Savour the wind; what is it?" I asked, sniffing.
"O-neh-tah, the pine!" she cried.
"O-ne-tah, the spruce!" I corrected.
"The pine, silly!"
"The spruce!"
"No, no, the pine!"
"So be it, sweet."
"No, I am wrong!"
And we laughed, and she stretched out her slender hand to me from her saddle.
Then we galloped forward together, calling out greeting to our old friends as we passed; and thus we saluted Jis-kah-kah, the robin, and Kivi-yeh, the little owl, and we whistled at Koo-koo-e, the quail, and mocked at old Kah-kah, the watchful crow.
Han-nah-wen, the butterfly, came flitting along the roadside, ragged with his long winter's sleep.
"He should not have slept in his velvet robe for a night-shift," said Silver Heels; "he is a summer spendthrift, and Nah-wan-hon-tah, the speckled trout, lies watching him under the water."
Which set me thinking of my feather-flies; and then the dear old river flashed in sight.
"I see—I see—there, very far away on that hill—" whispered Silver Heels.
"I see," I muttered, choking.
Presently the sunlight glimmered on a window of the distant Hall.
"We are on our own land now, dear heart," I said, choking back the sob in my throat.
I called out to Jack Mount and unslung my woodaxe. Hedrew his hatchet, and together we cut down a fair young maple, trimmed it, and drove a heavy post into the soil.
"Here we will build one day," said I to Silver Heels. She smiled faintly, but her eyes were fixed on the distant Hall.
I had leased, from my lawyer, Peter Weaver, a large stone mansion in Johnstown, which stood next to the church where Sir William lay; this until such time as I might return from the war and find leisure to build on my own land the house which Silver Heels and I had planned to stand on a hill, in full view of the river and of the old Hall where our childhood had been passed.
It was night when we rode into Johnstown. I could discover no changes in the darkness, save that a few new signs swung before lighted shops, and every fifth house hung out a lanthorn and a whole candle-light.
Our stone house was vast, damp, and scantily furnished, but Jack Mount lighted a fire in the hallway, and Silver Heels went about with a song on her lips, and Cade Renard sent servants from the nearest inn with cloth and tableware, and meats smoking hot, not forgetting a great bowl of punch and a cask of ale, which the scullions rolled into the great hall and hoisted on the skids.
So we were merry, and silent, too, at moments, when our eyes met in faint smiles or wistful sympathy.
Shemuel, with his peddling panniers, had strangely disappeared, nor could we find him high or low when Mount and Cade had set their own table by the fire and the room smelled sweet with steaming toddy.
"Thrift! Thrift!" muttered Mount, rattling his toddy-stick impatiently; "now who could have thought that little Jew would have cut away to make up time in trade this night!"
But Shemuel had traded in another manner, for, ere Mount had set his strong, white teeth in the breast-bone of a roasted fowl, I heard Silver Heels cry out: "Betty! Betty! Oh dear, dear Betty!" And the blubbering black woman came rolling in, scarlet turban erect, ear-rings jingling.
"Mah li'l dove! Mah li'l pigeon-dove! Oh Gord, mah li'l Miss Honey-bee!"
"You must keep her, lad," muttered Mount.
"I think Sir John will sell," I said, grimly.
And so he did, or would have, had not his new wife, poor Lady Johnson, whom I had never seen, writing from the Hall, begged me to accept Betty as a gift from her. And I, having no quarrel with the unhappy lady, accepted Betty as a gift, permitting Lady Johnson to secure from the incident what comfort she might.
All through the sweet May-tide, Jack Mount and Cade Renard sunned themselves under the trees in our garden, or sprawled on the warm porch like great, amiable wolf-hounds, dozing and dreaming of mighty deeds.
Ale they had for the drawing, yet abused it not, respecting the hospitality of the house and its young mistress, and none could point the shameful finger at either to cry: "Fie! Pottle-pot! Malt-worm! Painted-nose! Go swim!" At times, sitting together on the grass, cheek by jowl, I heard them singing hymns; at times strolling through the moon-drenched garden paths they lifted up their souls in song: