CHAPTER XVITHE OLD JOHNSON HOUSE
In the Mohawk Valley, about four miles north of Fonda, stands to this day the first baronial mansion ever erected in the state of New York. Its present proprietor, Mr. Eleazer Wells, has, with unusual good taste, preserved the old mansion with all its historical associations undisturbed, and even in this age of republican palaces, the old Johnson House would be considered a noble mansion. Its broad front, flanked at each end by massive block-houses of stone, perforated near the roof with holes for musketry, has an imposing appearance. The broad entrance hall, with heavy balustrades winding up the stairs, all hacked by savage tomahawks; its high ceilings; its rooms wainscoted with panel work, and ornamented with elaborate carving—all speak of former wealth and power.
In 1775–6 this mansion was occupied by Sir John Johnson, the heir of Sir William, its first proprietor, whose loyalty to the crown, and cruelty to the patriots of the Revolution, are on record forever in the history of the great period of our national struggles. Then the hall was surrounded with forests, deep, broad, and seemingly boundless as the ocean. Sir William had hewed an estate out of this wilderness, which lay upon a gentle slope, like a beautiful glimpse of Arcadia, surrounded and framed in by the woods.
The season had deepened since the Indians were encamped in the Wyoming Valley. The cultivated trees, then in blossom all over the country, had set their fruit; Indian corn was half a foot high; and the wheat fieldslooked like meadows ready for the scythe. The thickets around Johnson Hall had cast off their flowers, and were now heavy with leaves and swelling nuts. The whole region was beautiful, as if no war existed in the world.
It was just after dusk on one of these late spring days, when a horseman, with two or three Indians in his train, rode up to the front of this mansion, inquired for Sir John Johnson, and dismounted, like a person well acquainted with the premises, and certain of a cordial reception. The Indians followed him to the front portico, and sat down on the steps, waiting in solemn patience for his return.
Walter Butler entered the hall unannounced, and opening a side door, stood some moments on the threshold before its inmates became aware of his presence. It was after dusk; but Sir William Johnson had carried all the aristocratic arrangements of his European life into the wilderness, and those habits were strictly followed up by his son. Thus, late as the hour was, Sir John remained at table with a guest who shared his hospitality, and as the wine passed sluggishly between them, the two men conversed together with more earnestness than is usual at the dinner table.
Butler was well acquainted with Sir John—a handsome youngish-looking man, who sat at the head of the table, a little flushed either with wine or some excitement of suppressed temper, and apparently doing the honors of his own house with unusual constraint. The other person, who sat quietly picking over the nuts on his plate—for the meal was evidently at its conclusion—was a tall man, a little past middle age, and of a calm, lofty presence, difficult to describe, except by its contrast with the restless and somewhat coarse manner of the frontier baronet. The repose of his appearance was perfect; yet there was a faint red on his cheek, and a scarcely perceptible curve of the lip, that betrayeddeep though well curbed emotions, which had received some shock.
Butler had never seen this man before, and his presence was by no means agreeable; the interview which he desired with Sir John was of a kind which rendered witnesses unpleasant, and for an instant he paused in the door, hesitating to enter. Sir John supposed it was a servant, and went on with his conversation.
“No,” he said, a little roughly, “you on the other side can hardly be expected to understand the necessity of these measures. It is easy enough making speeches in the House of Lords or Commons—humanity serves well to round off an eloquent period with, I dare say—but we live in the midst of dangers; the war is a real thing to us; we do not study it out on a parchment map, while lolling in a cushioned easy-chair, but tramp after the rebels through swamps and over mountains. If we burn their cabins, they retaliate on our halls—nothing is safe from them. Why, the very plate off which you are dining will be stowed away in the block-house, under a guard of muskets, for safe keeping, the moment it leaves the table.”
“The loss of your plate, Sir John, costly as it is, would be a trifle, compared to one burning cabin, where the bones of women and children are found in the ashes,” said the stranger, casting a careless glance at the gold and silver plate glittering on every part of the board. “I would consent to dine upon a wooden trencher, all the days of my life, if that could save one of these innocent families from destruction. I repeat it, Sir John, the savage warfare commenced in this neighborhood is shocking to humanity. If the rights of our king can only be maintained by hordes of savages, let them go; the loyalty of an enlightened people will never be secured by barbarisms, at which even the better educated savage revolts. This league with theSix Nations is inhuman, nay, a statesman would say, worse—it is bad policy.”
“It holds the traitors in fear, at any rate. They dare not be insolent when the war reddens their hearths.”
“As a Commissioner of the King, Sir John, I protest against the introduction of savage tribes into His Majesty’s army. It may be carried out in violence to this opinion, for in war men become ruthless; but so far as I have influence with the Ministry this odious policy shall not prevail.”
Butler, regardless of the low breeding exhibited by the act, stood in the door, and listened to this conversation; but as the stranger ceased speaking, Sir John looked up, and called out cheerfully, like one who gets a much-needed ally:
“Ha, Butler, is it you? Come in—come in; we are just discussing a subject with which you are more familiar than I am. Mr. Murray, this gentleman belongs to the king’s army—Capt. Walter Butler, of the Tryon Rangers. As half his father’s forces are Indians, he will be able to speak advisedly on the question we were discussing, or, I am afraid, almost disputing.”
The two gentlemen saluted each other rather distantly. Then Butler turned to his host and said, with a dash of offhand impudence:
“No war or politics for me, Sir John. I came on a very different errand; so cut the field and give me some dinner, unless your negroes in the kitchen are hacking away at the venison and roast-beef as usual, before the master is through with his dessert.”
Sir John laughed, knocked on the table with the handle of his knife, and ordered the black slave, who obeyed the summons, to see that something was sent up from the kitchen fit for a gentleman to eat.
The slave grinned till his white teeth glittered again, and went lazily towards the kitchen. Meantime Butlerwent into the hall, threw his hat and whip on a table, and strode back with his spurs ringing on the sanded floor, and his fine hair half escaping from the crimson ribbon that gathered it in a queue behind.
“I beg ten thousand pardons,” he said, throwing himself on a seat, and leaning his elbow on the table, with his back half turned upon the stately guest. “Pray, congratulate me, Sir John. I forgot to tell you that it is a married man you have the honor of entertaining.”
“Hallo, Butler, what is this? Married—what—you? Nonsense!”
“True as the Gospel, upon my honor.”
“But the bride—where on earth did you find the bride?”
“Among the wigwams. Like your honored father, Sir John, I have a fancy for picturesque women. My wife is a half-breed—no, I am too deep—she is a white on her mother’s side, and half Indian in the paternal line, but bright as a hawk, sharp as steel, and moves like a panther.”
“And you have married an Indian girl—absolutely and lawfully married her?”
“Absolutely and lawfully married her,” answered Butler, taking a knife from the table, tapping the cloth with its silver handle, and nodding his head, as if he were beating time to music. “Handcuffed for life. No jumping the broomstick in this affair; none of that Indian hospitality which your father installed, but a downright, honest marriage, done to a turn, by an ordained minister of the church, and served up with this order, which you will please countersign or cash without delay.”
Sir John took the document extended to him, and read it with evident surprise.
“Catharine Montour; it is her signature and secret mark. In Heaven’s name, where did you get this document, Butler?”
“From the lady’s own fair hand. You recognize her writing, it seems, and I hope hold possession of the needful mentioned. Rather a good speculation for a clasp of the hands, locked by a dozen words of nonsense, ha!”
“I do not comprehend.”
“You understand the draft, and that is the most important thing just now, Sir John; as for the rest, it is a pill which I can swallow without the help of friends.”
Sir John laid the draft down upon the table, and began to smooth the paper with both his hands, regarding it with a puzzled, doubtful look, like one who cannot make up his mind how to act.
“There is no doubt regarding the funds, I hope,” said Butler, growing meanly anxious at this hesitation.
“No,” was the hesitating reply; “but have you any knowledge of the position in which a marriage with Catharine Montour’s daughter places you?”
Now, Butler had no information on this subject, nor had he ever heard it mentioned; but he saw by Sir John’s manner that some mystery was kept from him, and, with characteristic cunning, hinted at a knowledge which he did not possess.
“Have I any knowledge of my position? Now, that is too good, Sir John; can you possibly suppose me fool enough to marry the girl with anything unexplained?”
“Then you know who Catharine Montour really was, and to what her daughter is heiress?”
“Know? of course. Do I look like buying a pig in a poke?”
“Complimentary to your bride, at any rate; but I am glad Lady Granby has been frank at last.”
Butler started, but his surprise was nothing to the effect the announcement of that name made upon the king’s commissioner. He started from his chair with the sharp spasmodic movement of a man shot throughthe heart. His forehead contracted, his lips grew white as marble. Sir John shrunk from the terrible expression of that face.
“Lady Granby—Lady Granby!”
The words dropped from his lips like hail-stones when a storm is spent. He began to shake and quiver in all his limbs, then fell into his chair, with one elbow on the table shrouding his face. Sir John and Butler looked at each other in dumb astonishment; the sudden passion of that man was like the burst of a volcano which gives forth no warning smoke. The silence became oppressive.
“Did you ever know the lady?” inquired Butler, who respected no man’s feelings, and never allowed laws of etiquette to interfere with his curiosity.
Murray withdrew the hand slowly from his face, and looked at his questioner with dull, dreamy eyes for some moments. The eager curiosity in that face brought back his thoughts; he was not a man to expose his heart long under a gaze like that.
“Yes,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “The Granby title is among the most ancient in our country, and the more remarkable because the entail extends to females of the blood as well as males.”
“Ha!—is that so, Johnson?” inquired Butler, quickly.
“Yes. This fact was among the secrets entrusted to my father, and transmitted to me.”
“And the estates must be very large to allow of accumulations like the deposits in your custody,” said Butler, keenly alive to his own interests.
“I believe they are among the finest in England,” said Sir John, drily.
Butler started up, and walked the room, urged into action by selfish excitement. Murray again shaded his face with one hand, while Sir John examined the draft once more.
“Are you sure,” inquired Butler, at last, “are yousure, Sir John, that this lady was legally married to Queen Esther’s son? for, after all, everything depends on that.”
Sir John smiled a little sarcastically. Butler was too coarse in his selfishness not to be understood. Murray again looked up. He evidently felt a keen interest in the question.
“She was legally married, I fancy. Whatever might have been the cause which drove her to the wilderness, Lady Granby was not a person to degrade herself knowingly.”
“You fancy, Sir John! I should like to have some security besides a man’s fancy where an inheritance like this is concerned. You are certain, sir, that the property is entailed—that female heirs come in, in short——”
“In short,” interrupted Sir John, with cutting sarcasm, “I have no fear that your interests are in peril, unless there is some informality in her mother’s marriage; your wife is the legal heiress of the Granby estates.”
Butler sat down again, struck breathless by this unexpected good fortune, so far beyond his wildest hopes.
“You mistook my meaning,” he said, even his coarse nature becoming conscious of the revolting light in which his conduct must appear to any observer; “I was thinking of Tahmeroo—she is too lovely a flower to waste her bloom in the wilderness.”
“You grow poetical, sir,” said Sir John, laughing; “your wife’s perfections are dawning upon you with new force.”
Butler did not appear to notice this remark, but went on with his own train of reflection.
“Then were Catharine Montour dead, no power could deprive Tahmeroo of the Granby estates and titles?”
“None, sir; the daughter of Gi-en-gwa-tah, the Shawnee chief, will be Countess of Granby.”
Murray started anew at that name so rudely uttered, his hand clenched itself on the arm of his chair, and a spasm of wounded pride contracted his forehead. With a powerful effort he mastered himself once more, and leaned back in his seat, with his face turned from the light, and listening with apparent calmness to their conversation.
“And the rents,” said Butler, “the income—you have an idea of its amount?”
“Have you never ascertained?” asked Sir John.
“Not exactly—you see, Catharine Montour dislikes to speak of anything connected with her past life, and it is difficult to get a clear answer from her concerning the actual amount of the property.”
“Then, sir, I, of course, am not at liberty to betray anything which she sees fit to keep secret.”
“But there can be no treason in asking a question concerning a fortune which will one day be my own?”
“There may be none in your asking, if you think it proper,” returned Sir John; “but it certainly would be treachery in me to expose anything which the lady desires to remain untold.”
“You inherit all of your father’s chivalry,” retorted Butler, insolently. “Doubtless he had good reason for keeping the lady’s secrets.”
A flush shot up to Sir John’s forehead, and his lips compressed themselves suddenly; but, restraining his anger, he replied, with unmoved courtesy:
“I trust that I possess the chivalry which should be the birthright of every true gentleman. As for my father, no man trifles with his name or memory here.”
“Well, that is vastly fine; but plain speech in these days helps a man along faster than the chivalry of all the old crusaders could do,” said Butler, carelessly. “Out in the woods here, fine speeches and poetic sentiments are thrown away.”
“That depends entirely upon the person with whomone chances to come in contact. I have seen as true gentlemen in the wilds of this new world as I ever met at the court of a European sovereign.”
“Of course,” returned Butler, laughing; “you and I live here, you know, following your grand old father’s example.”
Sir John’s lip curled, for this attempt at playfulness was even more distasteful to him than the man’s previous conversation had been, and without reply he resumed the scrutiny of the document which Butler had placed in his hands.
“What the deuce could have put it into Catharine Montour’s head to come out here and marry my dusky father-in-law?” continued the young man. “She must have been mad—or worse——”
“Doubtless she is a better judge of her own actions than either you or I,” replied Sir John, losing all patience with his guest.
“Oh, I’ll wager that she had some good reason,” sneered Butler, irritated by the other’s haughtiness, and his own failure at discovering the amount of fortune which he hoped one day to claim. “Women don’t do those out-of-the-way things unless they are forced. Now, be honest, Sir John, and tell me why this woman left a high position and great wealth in her own country, and came here to act the part of a Shawnee squaw in the valley of the Mohawk.”
“There are many good motives which might have prompted an act like that,” said Sir John, gravely; “the good which she could do among those ignorant savages—the forbearance and cessation from cruelty which she is able to teach them——”
“Stuff and nonsense! Catch an old bird with chaff, if you can! No, no, I’m not fool enough to believe that Catharine Montour came over here for any such reason! There’s some confounded mystery somewhere, and sooner or later I’ll get to the bottom of it. Take my head for atarget, if you don’t find that my Lady Granby had played out her game in England, and found it convenient to disappear from among the haughty dames of England.”
“Stop, sir!” exclaimed a low voice, that made both listeners start, as if a thunder-clap had burst over their heads. “Couple the Lady Granby’s name with insult again, and it is to me that you must answer for it!”
Murray had risen from his seat, and stood before the astonished man with burning eyes and a brow of iron.
“What the deuce have I said?” muttered Butler.
“You have said that which I cannot allow to remain unanswered, Captain Butler,” answered Sir John, with more dignity than he had yet assumed. “One portion of your question I can answer without betraying confidence which was sacred with Sir William, and rests so with me. You ask why a high-born English lady forsook her own land to become the wife of an Indian chief? Why she left England, I am not at liberty to say; but, upon the honor of a gentleman, it was from no unworthy act or motive—her career had been a proud and blameless one, as this gentleman can, doubtless, testify; but the deeper reasons which influenced this expatriation no human being except herself has ever possessed the power to explain.”
“Nor why she took up with a swarthy Indian, when she got here—that is one of her delicate mysteries also, I dare say,” retorted Butler, growing insolent under the stern glances turned upon him by the English Commissioner. “Come, come, Johnson, it’s hardly worth while exhausting eloquence on the subject; the whole affair has given me a picturesque little wildcat of a wife, who loves me like a tempest. Better than this, she promises to make me a potentate one of these days, unless the lady-mother outlives her, which may happen after all, for she has the vigor and health of a tigress. As for disinheritingher child, or anything of that sort, she hasn’t the power, thank my stars! But the main question is left out, after all: how and where was Catharine Montour married to the Shawnee chief? Was it a ceremony which our English laws hold valid? If not, my wild bird has nothing but her pretty plumage after all.”
“Do you consider this nothing?” said Sir John, holding up the draft.
“Faith, I don’t know. It seemed a good deal when I presented it; but now that I have learned how much remains behind, it seems as if my queenly mamma had treated me rather shabbily.”
“Sir John, forgive me, but you have not answered Captain Butler’s question: by what train of circumstances was a lady so delicate in all her tastes as Lady Granby led into a union with a savage? Surely it could not have been of her own free will,” said the commissioner.
“If a martyr ever went to the stake of his own will—if self-abnegation of any kind is free—this lady did voluntarily marry the Indian chief. It was a sublime sacrifice, which every true man must regard with homage—an act of chivalric humanity of which few women, and scarcely a man on earth, would have been capable.”
“I can well believe it,” exclaimed Murray, with kindling eyes.
“Then she was decidedly married,” cried Butler, faithful to his mercenary instincts, and hunting that one fact down like a hound.
“I saw her married myself, on the steps of this very mansion, where she stood like a priestess between two races—for the hall was crowded with whites, of which my father, Sir William, was the head; while on the lawn, in the thickets, and all around, belting the forest, three thousand warriors were gathered. The whole Six Nations were represented by their bravest chiefs. It was a sight to remember one’s lifetime. The red sunsetstreamed through the forest trees, only a little more gorgeous than the savage groups that camped under them. The windows of the Hall blazed with gold; the whole interior was illuminated. In the flower-beds and thickets the Indians grouped themselves like flocks of orioles, flamingos, and restless ravens. It was the most picturesque sight I ever beheld.”
“But Caroline—Catharine Montour—what of her?” exclaimed the commissioner, losing his self-control; “was all this savage pomp assembled to witness the sacrifice of that noble creature?”
“Yes; in the midst of it all she stood, white as death and firm as stone, her hand in that of the chief—a fine, noble-looking fellow he was, too, with just enough of white blood in his veins to save the whole thing from being repulsive. Indeed, in my whole life, I have seldom seen a man of nobler presence. On the mother’s side, you are already informed, he was nearly white; from her he had learned many of the gentler graces, both of manner and costume, which made his appearance rather picturesque than savage. Instead of a blanket or skin robe he wore a hunting-shirt of some rich color, heavy with fringes and embroidery; his hair was long to the shoulders, black and glossy as a crow’s wing. After all, a woman of good taste might have been excused for admiring the fellow for his own sake.”
The commissioner writhed in silence under this description; his eyes burned with deep fire; his very fingers quivered with suppressed excitement.
“And she was married thus?” he questioned, in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes, it was done bravely before the whites assembled in my father’s hall; before the Six Nation, swarming upon the grounds. Her lips were white as snow when the vow passed them; her eyes burned like a she-eagle’s when her young is threatened; she clenched the chief’shand till even he must have felt the pain. Yes, it was bravely done; she had promised, and no entreaty could move her to reconsider the matter. Sir William, who was not much given to sentiment, besought her with tears in his eyes to desist; the women who crowded the hall wept like children; but she stood firm; I can almost hear her deep, ringing voice now, as she answered the priest.”
“Then it was a marriage by the priest!” almost shouted Butler, dashing the handle of his knife down on the table, till the plate rang again.
“She had pledged herself to become the chief’s wife, and was a Christian—how could she keep her vow, except by Christian rites. He had honorably fulfilled her conditions—she as honorably redeemed her promise.”
“What were those conditions?” inquired the commissioner, and his voice became lower and hoarser each moment.
“The redemption of three white prisoners from torture.”
“Three prisoners—three?”
“Yes, a gentleman, his wife, and child, taken on the Canada frontier.”
“And when was this?”
Sir John mentioned the date rather carelessly; he was pouring out a glass of wine, and did not observe the wild anxiety with which his guest awaited this answer.
“Oh, my God—my God!”
His arms spread themselves on the table, his face fell between them, while a terrible burst of passion shook him from limb to centre.
“Oh, my God—my God!”
It was all he could say; the words were suffocating him as they rose.
The host and Butler looked at each other in silent amazement. An earthquake could not have surprised them more. Even Butler was awed by an outbreak offeeling, the more impressive because of the apparent composure that had preceded it.
At last Murray lifted his head; every feature was quivering with emotion—joy, regret, sharp pain, and wild triumph struggled there.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “it was I—it was my wife and child whose lives Lady Granby bought by the horrible sacrifice. Till to-night I was ignorant of all this—ignorant that she yet lived. You will not wonder that I am unmanned.”
“But she never mentioned your name, Mr. Murray,” said Sir John.
“Perhaps she did not know. She might have done as much for strangers even; upon the broad earth there does not exist a woman so capable of great sacrifices.”
Butler laughed, and looked meaningly at his host.
“I dare say it was no great sacrifice, after all,” he said. “By Sir John’s account, the Indian was as handsome as a young Apollo——”
“Stop!”
The word flew from Murray’s lips like a hot bolt, his eyes flashed fire.
“Another word against that lady, here or elsewhere, and I will hold you to a sharp account, young man!”
Murray passed around the table as he spoke, laid his hand with a heavy pressure on Butler’s shoulder, and bowing to Sir John, passed from the room and the house. Before either of the gentlemen left behind had recovered from their surprise, the sound of a horse’s hoofs galloping down the hard carriage road warned them of Murray’s abrupt departure from the Hall.
“Well, upon my word, this is high tragedy!” exclaimed Butler, recovering from his stupor of cowardly astonishment. “What the deuce did I say that need have aroused a tempest like that?”
“Common decency, sir,” said Sir John, for a momentyielding to his better feelings, “should have prevented your expressing such doubt of any woman; least of all, of one who is the mother of your wife.”
“Well, well, let it rest—we won’t quarrel. I have no reason to think hardly of the Countess of Granby. Relations should agree,” he continued, uttering the name with pompous pride, as if feeling that the title reflected honor upon him. “Come, Sir John, let’s talk seriously.”
“Concerning what, sir?”
“This fortune, of course—these estates.”
“I can give you no farther information, Mr. Butler; any future knowledge that you may desire must be obtained from Catharine Montour herself.”
Butler pushed back his chair with a muttered oath, then remembering how impolitic a quarrel with Sir John might prove, he drew towards the table again and smoothed his forehead, endeavoring to fall into a more friendly and familiar style of conversation, an effort in which he was not at first seconded by his companion.
“Well, let the wigwam rest for once; we have talked about these things long enough,” he said, with a great effort, wrenching his thoughts from the Granby estates. “What does this crusty Don want at Johnson Hall, when he leaves it with so little ceremony?”
“Oh,” answered Sir John, firing up, and draining glass after glass of wine while he was speaking; “he is a sort of commissioner from the king, sent to keep us all in order—our mode of warfare does not suit his taste, he was just making an eloquent protest against bringing Indians into the service, as you came in.”
“And be hanged to him!” cried Butler, filling his glass. “Why, we might as well strike our tents at once; the savages work beautifully—besides they make capital scapegoats when we wish to indulge in a little of their amusements; upon my word, Johnson, there’s a sort of relish in their way of scalping and roasting a traitorwhen he comes in, that has its charm; do away with the savages! why, that would be throwing aside buckler and cloak, too.”
“I told him so plainly enough,” said Sir John, whom the wine was making more and more social. “Why, Schuyler himself could not have preached mercy with more eloquence; he a king’s commissioner. I wish the Indians had roasted him when they had the chance—to come here lecturing me, a Johnson, of Johnson Hall; as if I had not been outraged and insulted enough by General Schuyler and his minions at Guy Park.”
“Is it true, Sir John, that Schuyler forced you into giving up the stores and ammunition which had been gathered here at the Hall?”
“Forced is a strong word, captain,” answered Sir John, turning red with the humiliating remembrances brought up by the rough question; “he required my word of honor not to act against Congress, and demanded the arms, stores, and accoutrements held by our friends, and the Indians. I refused to comply, and he marched upon the Hall; I sent for our Indian allies, and for you. My messenger found Queen Esther almost alone in the Seneca Lake encampment. The whole tribe were gone to hold a council-fire in Wyoming. You were away, no one could guess where. After this fashion, Captain Butler, was I sustained by my friends.”
“Faith, I had no idea of Schuyler’s movement till the escort came in with Catharine Montour, who would force me to stay and get my hands tied; but the very day after our wild wedding I was on the road,” said Butler.
Sir John grew more and more excited.
“I could have driven the traitors back with my brave Highlanders, without going beyond the estate, for he started with only seven hundred men, but the Tryon county militia turned out like wasps, and increased his force to three thousand; with no hopes of reinforcementfrom you or your father, my Indian allies absent, and no time for preparation, I was compelled to negotiate, and to a certain extent succumb, but it was only for a time; to-morrow you must ride over to Fonda and collect our forces. Brant is hard at work among the Senecas. Where have you left Gi-en-gwa-tah with his warriors?”
“They are on the lake by this time.”
“That is good news, we will soon have them at work; my tenants are all under arms; I expect Brant to join us in a few days, with an account of his organization. We will give the rebels a hot reception the next time they venture into this county, or——”
Sir John broke off with a quick exclamation; the loud gallop of a horse approaching the house brought both the baronet and his guest to their feet.
“What is that?” said Sir John, listening; “surely not the Hon. Mr. Murray returning—no, no, he would keep the road; but this fellow rides over everything. Now that hoof strikes the turf, now the gravel; it can be no good tidings that bring any one here in such hot haste at this hour. I must learn at once what it means.”
He rose hurriedly from his seat, and Butler followed, but before they reached the door it opened, and one of Sir John’s slaves, a faithful and confidential old servant, entered the room, evidently in great agitation and fear.
“What is it, Pompey?” Sir John asked.
“There is a man wants to speak to massar right off; something very ’portant: them consarned Whigs is up again.”
“Call him in—be quick, Pomp!” exclaimed Sir John. “What can these traitors be at now?” he continued, as the servant left the room to execute his order.
“I thought you would get into difficulty with them about this time,” replied Butler; “they begin to suspect that you haven’t kept that extorted promise very faithfully—yourHighlanders have come out too boldly, and begun to worry the enemy—they are sure of re-enforcements.”
“A promise made to a set of traitors!” said Sir John, scornfully; “only wait till the time comes that I can crush them like so many vipers; miserable rebels!”
Before Butler could answer, the door was opened again, and Pompey ushered into the room a man whose disordered garments betrayed the haste in which he had arrived.
“Your errand?” cried Sir John, imperiously—“don’t waste words, but speak out!”
“The rebel Congress has taken measures against you,” returned the man, bluntly, “and a company of soldiers are on their way here to take you prisoner.”
“This does look like earnest,” said Butler, with a prolonged whistle; “what is the cue now, Sir John?”
“How near are they?” inquired the baronet.
“They will reach here in an hour, at the farthest—you have no time to spare.”
“An hour—so, so! We shall see—they haven’t caught the fox yet! Where is Mr. Murray, Pomp?”
“Gone, massar; the commissioner rode off half an hour ago; said he wasn’t gwine to come back.”
“Confound him!” muttered Butler; “he’d be little help, I fancy. What shall you do, Sir John—no chance to stand a fight.”
“Fight—no! Curse them, they have left me neither arms nor ammunition; there’s nothing for it but to decamp in double-quick time, and take our revenge after.”
“Who has command?” asked Butler.
“Congress ordered General Schuyler to take measures, and he commissioned Colonel Dayton with the command of the expedition.”
“Which will prove a fruitless one, unless my lucky star has deserted me,” said the baronet. “Here, Pomp,I can trust you. Collect all the plate, and put it in the iron chest that stands in my office.”
“What are you going to do with it?” inquired Butler.
“Bury it deep, as I wish these infernal rebels were. You don’t think I intend to leave it for them, do you? Be alive Pomp; I’ll bring you the papers and valuables out of my chamber, and do the work yourself quietly, without saying a word to any one.”
“Yes, massar—trust old Pomp for that.”
“I know I can, you sooty villain; you are one of the few men, black or white, in whom one can place confidence.”
“Tank yer, massar,” and the old slave grasped his hand with fervor. “Now, do yer get off, and leave me to manage eberyting; dem rebels ain’t cute enough for dis yer chile, I’se willin’ to bet; ha, ha!”
“Take care of yourself, Pomp—I must leave you behind. What’s that, now?” he cried, breaking off hurriedly.
“Another swift rider,” said Butler. “Can it be the rebels?”
“Quick, massar—don’t lose a minute!”
“It isn’t them,” interrupted the messenger; “I rode like the wind—they cannot have so nearly overtaken me.”
“See who it is, Pomp—some friend, perhaps—if it only proves so, I should like to give them a hot welcome.”
Before the negro could obey, the door was flung open, and a muscular, powerful man strode into the room.
“Brant!” exclaimed both gentlemen at once.
“Yes, Brant,” returned the man, in a deep, stern voice. “Like a fool, I left the Indians to follow me, or we would give the rascals down yonder hot work.”
“Then you have brought me no help, Colonel?”
“Not fifty men; you must run for it this time.”
The savage uttered the words in a tone of sullen wrath which betrayed his deep hatred of the Whigs. His hand clutched unconsciously over the hilt of his knife, and a terrible frown settled upon the heavy darkness of his forehead. He was a picturesque object in spite of the evil expression of his features. Like his manner, the dress that he wore was a singular mingling of the Indian costume and the attire of the whites. Under his frock of deer-skin was buttoned a military vest, doubtless the spoil taken from some one of his numerous victims, and over his shoulders was flung an Indian blanket, worn with the grace of a regal mantle. His long, black hair fell in dull masses about his neck, and from under his shaggy brows blazed his unquiet eyes with a deadly fire from which the bravest might well have recoiled.
“Do you go with me, Brant?” asked Sir John.
“Yes, Brant will be your guide. Queen Esther is not many miles away with a portion of her tribe; you will find protection among them.”
“Is Catharine Montour there?” interrupted Butler.
“No, she rests at Seneca Lake; the young woman whom you have made your wife is with her. Sir John, you have no time to lose in useless questions—is all ready?”
“In one moment. Here, Pomp, come to my chamber.”
They went out; and in a few moments Sir John returned, prepared for flight.
“Choose your best horse,” said Brant; “we must take to the forest at once, for there we have friends.”
They followed him into the hall, through the open door of which were visible their horses, ready for a start.
“Stop!” exclaimed Brant, “I must leave a sign behind.”
He mounted the stairs, and brandishing his tomahawk, began making deep gashes in the balustrade at a distance of about a foot apart.
“What the deuce are you doing?” exclaimed the men, in astonishment.
The renegade made no reply, but continued his work to the top of the staircase.
“The house is safe now,” he said, as he came down again. “Should it be attacked by the Indians during your absence, they will leave it uninjured.”
“You leave a stern mark, Colonel,” said Butler, glancing up at the hacked wood.
“That Brant always does—he will leave a more lasting one, though, on these rebels before long.”
The party hurried into the open air and mounted their horses, but before they could gallop away, Pompey rushed out and grasped his master’s bridle.
“It’s all safe, Massar John,” he whispered; “let ’em come now as soon as they like; this chile has matched ’em.”
“That’s a fine fellow—hold them at bay, Pompey—I shall see you again—keep a good heart.”
“Good-by, massar—come back ’fore long—old Pompey’ll keep dem ’ere silver platters, and milk-jugs, and all de cetras safe as de dead folks in ’em graves—you can ’pend on dat, massar.”
“Good-by, Pomp—good-by!”
They put their horses into a gallop, and rode away through the forest. For many moments no one spoke, and the only sound that arose was the smothered beat of their horses’ hoofs on the turf, and the mournful shiver of the leaves, as the wind sighed through them. Brant took the lead, tracking the narrow path as unerringly as if it had been a highway. Suddenly he checked his horse, and made a signal to his companions to halt.
“The rebels are coming,” he said; “they have got on our traces.”
They listened; the heavy tramp of steeds came up from the distance.
“They will overtake us!” exclaimed Sir John; “what are we to do, Brant?”
“Let them pass—we will baffle them yet—follow me—we know the woods, at any rate.”
He turned aside from the path, and urged his horse through the underbrush, followed by his companions, until he reached a little dell, through which a brook crept with a pleasant gurgle.
“They will go on, and so miss us,” he said, reining in his horse. “If we had only our guns now!”
Nearer and nearer came the tramp of the horses—rushing past the dell in hot pursuit, and growing fainter in the distance.
“They have gone by,” said Butler. “Oh, for a good rifle—I’d have one shot!”
“We must take another path,” said Brant; “keep a tight rein, gentlemen.”
While he was glancing around in the starlit gloom for some trace to guide his course, there came up a sudden cry from the depths of the forest; the trees were illuminated by torches, and in an instant they were surrounded by their pursuers.
“This way,” shouted Brant; “they are upon us!”
He urged his horse through the woods, closely followed by his companions. Butler was last; his horse slipped in ascending the bank, rolled over, carrying his rider with him. The rest fled, ignorant of his misfortune, and before he could free himself from his saddle the pursuers had surrounded him.
“Is it the baronet?” asked one.
They flashed a torch in his face, and at the sight of those features a simultaneous cry went up:
“The Tory Butler! Tie him fast!”
Butler struggled and attempted to draw back; he was speedily overpowered by numbers; his hands tied, and himself bound upon a horse. After a brief consultation,they resigned the pursuit of Sir John, and turned to retrace their steps, with the prisoner in their midst.
When the fugitives drew rein, to breathe their horses, they perceived for the first time that Walter Butler was missing.
“They have caught him!” exclaimed Sir John.
“Fool!” said Brant, contemptuously. “He deserves hanging, but I am sorry it happened; Queen Esther likes him, and I would rather encounter a troop of fiends than her tongue, when she learns what has happened.”
“But we are not to blame—we were powerless to assist him, and——”
“As if that would change her mind! No, no; I can promise you a hot welcome. But it is not for her interest to risk a serious quarrel with us, and her majesty looks to that, I can tell you.”
They rode on for another hour in security, and on reaching a break in the forest, the camp-fires of the Indians became visible in the valley below.
“Here we are,” said Brant; “now for Queen Esther.”
They rode into the camp, and Brant was received by the savages with demonstrations of joy.
“Where is the queen?” he asked, in the Shawnee dialect.
“Yonder is her tent—she is still watching.”
“Follow me, Johnson,” said Brant; “we must pacify the old tigress before she shows her teeth.”
“But I am not in fault.”
“Make her believe it then!”
“But she will not dare——”
“She would dare everything! But you are in no danger—only be ready to receive every sort of invective that a woman’s tongue can invent, or the fury of a she-panther give birth to.”
They moved towards the tent; Brant seized his companion by the arm and drew back, for that moment theheavy matting which fell before the tent was flung suddenly aside, and Queen Esther stood before them—not fierce and wild, as Sir John had expected to find her, but with the sharp, cool look of a person so used to adventure that nothing could surprise her. Though a tall woman, she was scarcely imposing in her person, for a life of sharp action had made her nerves steel, and her muscles iron; of flesh she had only enough to bind these tough threads of vitality together. The rest was all intellect and stern passion.
As if in scorn of all those wild or gentle vanities, which are beautiful weaknesses in the sex, both in the wigwam and drawing-room, Esther allowed no bright color or glittering ornament to soften the grey of a stern old age, which hung about her like a garment; her doe-skin robe, soft, pliant, and of a dull buff color, had neither embroidery of wampum or silk; her leggings were fringed with chipped leather; and over her shoulders was flung a blanket of fine silver-grey cloth, gathered at the bosom by a small stiletto, with a handle of embossed platina, and a short, keen blade that glittered like the tongue of a viper, and worn as a Roman woman arranged her garments in the time of the Cæsars. Her hair was white as snow, silvery as moonlight, and so abundant, even at eighty years of age, that it folded around her head in a single coil, like a turban. The high, narrow forehead, the aquiline nose, curved with time, like the beak of an eagle, and the sharp, restless eyes, stood out from beneath this woof of hair stern and clear, as if chiselled from stone. The very presence of old age rendered this woman majestic.
She paused a moment in the entrance of her tent; a torch burnt within, sending its resinous smoke around her, as she appeared clearly revealed, with a background of dull crimson—for the tent was lined with cloth of this warm tint, and she stood against it, likea grey ghost breaking out from the depths of a dusky sunset.
“Are you friends or enemies?” she inquired, shading her eyes from the smoky torch-light with a hand that looked like a dead oak-leaf.
“Who but friends would dare to enter Queen Esther’s camp at night?” answered Brant, stepping forward. “You and I are on the same hunt; our warpaths cross each other here, that is all.”
“Ha, Colonel Brant, this is well! I had dispatched a swift runner in search of you. Schuyler has sent a force of armed men into Tryon County, and the settlements are astir. Gi-en-gwa-tah was away when the news came, but I have brought his warriors forward. Our spies send word that they threaten the master of Johnson Hall.”
“He is here,” said Brant, pointing to Sir John; “we got news of Dayton’s approach just in time to fly.”
“In time to fly! Were there no armed men upon the estate, that you should sneak away from your ancestral hall, like a dog which fears the lash? This was not the way that your father defended himself, young man.”
“There were but three of us, besides the servants,” said Brant, laying his hand heavily on Sir John’s arm, to prevent the sharp reply which sprang to the baronet’s lips; “there was no time to summon the tenants; even your new grandson, Walter Butler, counselled escape to the forest, where we can organize at leisure and sweep down upon the rebels when they least expect us.”
“Walter Butler—the husband of my granddaughter—and is he with you?”
Esther spoke without emphasis, and with an intonation sharp as the ring of steel; there was neither softness, anger nor surprise in that voice. She turned her keen glance from Brant to Johnson, questioning them both.
“He was with us a few minutes ago,” answered Sir John, whose indignation was aroused by this cutting composure, “but an ambush scattered us in the woods, and he has not come in yet.”
A cold glitter shot into Queen Esther’s eyes; her lips sunk with a quick pressure, and almost lost themselves between the contracted nostrils and the protruding chin. She beckoned to the Indian who had stood sentinel before her tent, uttered a few words of his own language in a whisper, that sounded like the suppressed hiss of a snake, and, with a slow sweep of the hand, passed from before her guests suddenly and softly, as a cloud precedes the tempest.
“A cold reception this,” said Sir John, when his hostess was swallowed up in the night. “Is her serene highness about to grill us for the loss of her cub?”
“From her quietness I should think it likely,” said Brant. “When her majesty grows polite and silky, it is a sure proof that she intends to strike. Like a leopard, she never shows her nails in earnest till the paw falls. She is a wonderful woman—the only person in all the Six Nations whose influence can oppose mine!”
“But you cannot really think she intends us any harm,” said Sir John, whose bravery was not always bullet-proof.
“Don’t trust her! If she finds out, or fancies that we have got Butler into this scrape she will make smooth work of it. I have seen her shave off a head, as if it had been an over-ripe thistle, with her own hand. Her tomahawk is sharp, and quick as lightning. It is the only thing she is dainty about: the head is burnished with gold, and the ebony handle worn smooth as glass is richly veined with coral and mother-of-pearl. That which other women lavish on their persons she exhausts upon her arms. But for your comfort, Sir John, if Queen Esther ornaments them like a woman, she wieldsthem like a man. No warrior of her tribe strikes so sure a blow.”
“But she will not dare!”
“I should not wonder if the Earl of Essex said as much when he lay in the Tower; but his faith did not prevent Elizabeth, whom I can’t help thinking a good deal like our savage queen here, chopping off his head.”
“But you are powerful—more powerful among the savages than she can be—and I——”
“Yes, with three thousand warriors at my back; but just now my body-guard is scattered, and if this lady-tiger chooses to tie us up to the next tree, and give her people a human barbecue, I could only fight single-handed like yourself.”
“Hark! they are gathering now,” said Johnson, turning pale. “How quietly she does her work!”
Brant listened, and cast a sharp glance around the encampment. A low, humming noise came from its outer margin, like that of a hive of bees swarming; he began to be really alarmed.
“Surely she is not so mad!” he muttered, grasping the handle of his tomahawk. “A man would not dare—but this creature has enough of her sex to be uncertain, if nothing more.”
The noise that had startled him, instead of increasing, died away. He looked keenly forward; a train of human beings swept out from the heart of the camp, headed by a single horse, whose tramp echoed harshly back from the mellow sound of a hundred pair of retreating moccasins.
“By the great Medicine, she has left the camp!” almost shouted Brant. “I tell you, Sir John, that woman would shame the bravest officer in your king’s army.”
As he spoke a savage came forward and addressed Brant. A tent had been pitched near that of Queen Esther, and she had politely left an invitation that heand the baronet would take possession of it, and rest after their journey.
“This does not look likeauto-da-fe,” said Sir John, preparing to accept the invitation.
“The more for this politeness,” was the answer, “as I told you. Queen Esther carries the etiquette of her father’s court even into her son’s camp. The daughter of a French governor, the widow and mother of savages, is always courteously cruel. We shall see what all this means when she returns.”
“Why wait for that? Supposing we take to the woods again. My cousin Guy must be in force somewhere in the district; I have no fancy for hospitality like this.”
“Take to the woods!” cried Brant, with a scornful laugh—“what, run from a woman? Not I; besides, Sir John, just look at this fellow—with all his sullen civility, he is nothing more nor less than a guard set to watch us. So make the best on’t; till the fate of that scoundrel Butler is ascertained, we are nothing more nor less than prisoners.”
“But what if the rebels have killed him?”
“No danger,” cried Brant, with a scornful lift of the shoulder, which made all the fringes on his hunting-shirt rattle again; “the fellow wasn’t born to be killed in honest battle! he’ll turn up somewhere, depend on’t. So as the tent is ready, and our guard of honor set, let’s take a little rest while the old silver headed dame settles our fate.”
Brant strode off to the tent as he spoke, followed by Sir John, who was not a little crestfallen and apprehensive. Up to this time he had met the Indians as a monarch musters his vassals, on the steps of his father’s hall, with wealth, power, and a vast tenantry to back him. Now he was a fugitive, separated from his followers, in the hands of a woman exasperated by the loss ofher favorite, and evidently filled with scorn of his cowardly desertion both of the home of his ancestors, and the companion of his flight. It was an unpleasant position, and one which Brant maliciously rendered more distressing by his cool review of the dangers that surrounded them. The crafty and brave Indian gloated over the cowardly fears of his companion, for in the depths of his heart he both hated and despised his white allies. It was his happiness to torment them whenever the opportunity arose. Though a willing tool in their hands, he was not a blind one.
Meantime Queen Esther swept on with her train of warriors into the forest. A savage ran before her horse, searching out the trail with his keen eyes. He was one of the Indians that had followed Brant from the Hall. As she rode along, Queen Esther questioned this man in a cautious voice till she had gathered all the information he possessed.
“So you took shelter in the deep cut, and he was lost? Wheel to the left; there is a shorter cut—they will return to the Hall. On!”
Quick and sinuous as a serpent might alter his course, the train of savages swept on one side, and darted off in a run, following their stern leader. For a full hour they kept forward, steady, silent, and swift, threading the wilderness as a flash of lightning cuts through a storm cloud.
“Hist!”
It was the Indian scout who came running back with one hand uplifted.
“Hist—hist!” The word ran like a serpent’s hiss through the whole train, and every moccasin rested in its track.
Queen Esther dismounted, and a savage tied her horse to a tree. Again that low hiss ran through the line, and it swept forward. Scarcely a branch swayed,scarcely a stick of brushwood crackled: the wind sighing in the tree-tops made a louder noise than all that band of fierce human beings.
Crash, tramp, crash—the sound which the scout had detected came sharp and clear now. Hoofs beat the turf, oaths rang on the air. The rush of a quick progress swept back louder and louder. In the oath, Queen Esther detected the voice of Butler.
“Ha!” she said, sharply, “he is alive. Faster, faster; but more silently. Are your rifles ready?”
She was answered by the sharp click of flints. Again that silent sweep of human beings. They moved more boldly now for the close beat of hoofs bore down the faint noise of their moccasins.
Again Esther whispered the word of command. The cavalcade were in sight. One horseman, carrying a lantern on his saddle-bow, revealed the rest. With a sudden manœuvre a detachment of savages, headed by Queen Esther, threw themselves in front of the party. Quick as thought, the rest fell into place, surrounding the enemy with a triple hedge of men—a wall of rifles bristled around the doomed group.
The leader was taken by surprise and reined back his horse. The motion exposed his left side; crack! a bullet passed through him. The horse reared, plunged, and fell dead, striking against his nearest companion. Before the revolutionists could reach their holsters, it was too late. Some turned to fly, but the flash of muskets, shedding lurid fire among the green leaves, met them everywhere. A few broke the lines, and rushed away, wounded and bleeding. Three or four escaped unhurt, and fled like madmen into the deep forest. Queen Esther took no prisoners, but shot down her enemies in their track. Shrieks of pain and sharp cries of defiance answered to the storm of her bullets. Her blood rose, the fiery serpent in that woman’s heart crested itself. She shrieked to her followers, urging them on,and flinging her scalping-knife into the melée, called aloud for trophies.
Stern and terrible was that conflict, the more terrible because it occupied but a few minutes. The candle that burned in that lantern where it had dropped, was not the fraction of an inch shorter, and yet more than twenty souls had been torn out of life in that brief time.
“Now,” cried Queen Esther, cutting the thongs that bound Butler’s wrists, and sheathing her red scalping-knife, “catch their horses, mount and follow me to the camp. Some few stay behind, and kill those who are not quite dead. Remember, every rebel’s scalp is worth a piece of silver and a bottle of firewater—on!”
She took the stiletto from her bosom, pricked her black steed on the shoulder, and was carried away, with Butler by her side, sweeping that train of red warriors like a whirlwind through the darkness.
A few hours after, they came thundering into the camp; Queen Esther dismounted, without a flush on her cheek or a quickened breath to tell of the dreadful work she had done. Just as gravely and coldly as she had left the camp, she preceded Butler to the tent provided for her guests. Brant stood in the entrance with exultation in his eyes.
“I expected as much,” he said. “In the whole Six Tribes there is no warrior like Queen Esther. You see, Sir John, our heads are safe; the victorious are always generous. Well, Butler, I did not expect to see you again to-night.”
“And so left me to be rescued by a woman. I thank you,” said Butler sullenly.
Brant’s massive features broke into a smile.
“Tush,” he said; “a man who suffers himself to be taken prisoner by a handful of rebels deserves no better. I am not leagued with your white troopers to pick up the fools that drop off in a skirmish; men who surrenderwithout even a blow of the fist should be left to the women.”
“Take care!” answered Butler, fiercely; “you have indulged in these taunts more than is wholesome for you. At any rate, you are not hired to insult the king’s officers.”
“Hired!” said Brant; “hired!”
“Yes, hired; do your people bring in a scalp which is not paid for in so much gold or silver? It is a better business than trapping mink, and so you take it.”
Not another word passed between those two men, but their fierce eyes met as Butler turned upon his heel and left the tent, and that glance told of the mortal enmity which must henceforth exist between them. Still they slept under the same blanket for an hour or two before the day broke that morning.