Perhaps I would smile at her — yes, I certainly should speak to her — not with familiarity. But I would be magnanimous; she should receive gifts, spoils from wars, and I would select a suitable husband for her from the officers of my household who adored me! No, I would not be hasty concerning a husband. That would be foolish, for Silver Heels must remain heart-whole and fancy-free to concentrate her envious admiration upon me.
In a sort of ecstasy I paraded the school-room, the splendour of my visions dulling eyes and ears, and it was not until he had called me thrice that I observed Mr. Butler standing within the doorway.
The unwelcome sight cleared my brains like a dash of spring-water in the face.
“It is one o’clock,” said Mr. Butler, “and time for your 20 carving lesson. Did you not hear the bugles from the forts?”
“I heard nothing, sir,” said I, giving him a surly look, which he returned with that blank stare of the eyes, noticeable in hawks and kites and foul night birds surprised by light.
“Sir William dines early,” he said, as I followed him through the dim hallway, past the nursery, and down stairs. “If he has to wait your pleasure for his slice of roast, you will await his pleasure for the remainder of the day in the school-room.”
“It is not true!” I said, stopping short in the lower hallway. “I am free of that ratty pit forever! And of the old ferret, too,” I added, insolently.
“By your favour,” said Mr. Butler, “may I ask whether your erudition is impairing your bodily health, that you leave school so early in life, Master Cardigan?”
“If you were a real schoolmaster,” said I, hotly, “I would answer you with a kennel lash, but you are an officer and a gentleman.” And in a low voice I bade him go to the devil at his convenience.
“One year more and I could call you out for this,” he said, staring at me.
“You can do it now!” I retorted, angrily, raising myself a little on my toes.
Suddenly all the hatred and contempt I had so long choked back burst out in language I now blush for. I called him a coward, a Huron, a gentleman with the instincts of a pedagogue. I heaped abuse upon him; I dared him to meet me; nay, I challenged him to face me with rifle or sword, when and where he chose. And all the time he stood staring at me with that deathly laugh which never reached his eyes.
“Measure me!” I said, venomously; “I am as tall as you, lacking an inch. I am a man! This day Sir William freed me from that spider-web you tenant, and now in Heaven’s name let us settle that score which every hour has added to since I first beheld you!”
“And my honour?” he asked, coldly.
“What?” I stammered. “I ask you to maintain it with rifle or rapier! Blood scours tarnished names!”
“Not your blood,” he said, with a stealthy glance at the dining-room door; “not the blood of a boy. That would rust my honour. Wait, Master Cardigan, wait a bit. A year runs like a spotted fawn in cherry-time!”
“You will not meet me?” I blurted out, mortified.
“In a year, perhaps,” he said, absently, scarcely looking at me as he spoke.
Then from within the dining-hall came Sir William’s roar: “Body o’ me! Am I to be kept here at twiddle-thumbs for lack of a carver!”
I stepped back in an instant, bowing to Mr. Butler.
“I will be patient for a year, sir,” I said. And so opened the door while he passed me, and into the dining-hall.
“I am sorry, sir,” said I, but Sir William cut me short with:
“Damnation, sir! I am asking a blessing!”
So I buried my nose in my hollowed hand and stood up, very still.
Having given thanks in a temper, Sir William’s frown relaxed and he sat down and tucked his finger-cloth under his neck with an injured glance at me.
“Zounds!” he said, mildly; “hell hath no fury like a fisherman kept waiting. Captain Butler, bear me out.”
“I am no angler,” said Mr. Butler, in his deadened voice.
“That is true,” observed Sir William, as though condoling with Mr. Butler for a misfortune not his fault. “Perhaps some day the fever may scorch you — like our young kinsman Micky — eh, lad?”
I said, “Perhaps, sir,” with eyes on the smoking joint before me. It was Sir William’s pleasure that I learn to carve; and, in truth, I found it easy, save for the carving of a goose or of those wild-ducks we shot on the great Vlaie.
We were but four to dine that day: Sir William, Mr. Butler, Silver Heels, and myself. Mistress Molly remained in the nursery, where were also Peter and Esk, inasmuch as they slobbered and fouled the cloth, and so fed in the play-room.
Colonel Guy Johnson remained at Detroit, Captain John Johnson was on a mission to Albany, Thayendanegea in Quebec, and Colonel Claus, with his lady, had gone to Castle 22 Cumberland. There were no visiting officers or Indians at Johnson Hall that week, and our small company seemed lost in the great dining-hall.
Having carved the juicy joint, the gilly served Sir William, then Mr. Butler, then Silver Heels, whom I had scarcely noticed, so full was I of my quarrel with Mr. Butler. Now, as Saunders laid her plate, I gave her a look which meant, “I did not tell Sir William,” whereupon she smiled at her plate and clipped a spoonful from a dish of potatoes.
“Good appetite and good health, sir,” said I, raising my wine-glass to Sir William.
“Good health, my lad!” said Sir William, heartily.
Glasses were raised again and compliments said, though my face was sufficient to sour the Madeira in Mr. Butler’s glass.
“Your good health, Michael,” said Silver Heels, sweetly.
I pledged her with a patronizing amiability which made her hazel-gray eyes open wide.
Now, coxcomb that I was, I sat there, dizzied by my new dignity, yet carefully watching Sir William to imitate him, thinking that, as I was now a man, I must observe the carriage, deportment, and tastes of men.
When Sir William declined a dish of jelly, I also waved it away, though God knew I loved jellies.
When Sir William drank the last of the winter’s ale, I shoved aside my small-beer and sent for a mug.
“It will make a humming-top of your head,” said Sir William. “Stick to small-beer, Micky.”
Mortified, I tossed off my portion, and was very careful not to look at Silver Heels, being hot in the face.
Mr. Butler and Sir William spoke gravely of the discontent now rampant in the town of Boston, and of Captain John Johnson’s mission to Albany. I listened greedily, sniffing for news of war, but understood little of their discourse save what pertained to the Indians.
Some mention, indeed, was made of rangers, but, having always associated militia and rangers with war on the Indians, I thought little of what they discussed. I even forgot my new dignity, and secretly pinched a bread crumb into the shape of a little pig which I showed to Silver Heels. She 23 thereupon pinched out a dog with hound’s ears for me to admire.
I was roused by Sir William’s voice in solemn tones to Mr. Butler: “Now, God forbid I should live to see that, Captain Butler!” and I pricked up my ears once more, but made nothing of what followed, save that there were certain disloyal men in Massachusetts and New York who might rise against our King and that our Governor Tryon meant to take some measures concerning tea.
“Well, well,” burst out Sir William at length; “in evil days let us thank God that the fish still swim! Eh, Micky? I wish the ice were out.”
“The anchor-ice is afloat, and the Kennyetto is free, sir,” I said, quickly.
“How do you know?” asked Sir William, laughing.
I had, the day previous, run across to the Kennyetto to see, and I told him so.
He was pleased to praise my zeal and to say I ran like a Mohawk, which praise sounded sweet until I saw Silver Heels’s sly smile, and I remembered the foot-race and the jack-knife.
But I was above foot-races now. Others might run to amuse me; I would look on — perhaps distribute prizes.
�
�Some day, Sir William, will you not make me one of your deputies?” I asked, eagerly.
“Hear the lad!” cried Sir William, pushing back his chair. “On my soul, Captain Butler, it is time for old weather-worn Indian commissioners like me to resign and make way for younger blood! And his Majesty might be worse served than by Micky here; eh, Captain Butler?”
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Butler, in his dead voice.
Sir William rose and we all stood up. The Baronet, brushing Silver Heels on his way to the door, passed his arm around her and tilted her chin up.
“Now do you go to Mistress Mary and beg her to place you in the stocks for an hour; and stay there in patience for your body’s grace. Will you promise me, Felicity?”
Silver Heels began to pout and tease, hooking her fingers in Sir William’s belt, but the Baronet packed her off with his message to Mistress Molly, and went out to the portico 24 where one of his damned Scotch gillies attended with gaff, spear, and net-sack.
“Oho,” thought I, “so it’s salmon in the Sacondaga!” And I fell to teasing that he might take me, too.
“No, Micky,” he said, soberly; “it’s less for sport than for quiet reflection that I go. Don’t sulk, lad. To-morrow, perhaps.”
“Is it a promise, sir?” I cried.
“Perhaps,” he laughed, “if the cards turn up right.”
That meant he had some Indian affair on hand, and I fell back, satisfied that his rod was a ruse, and that he was really bound for one of the council fires at the upper castle.
So he went away, the sentry at the south block-house presenting his firelock, and I back into the hall, whistling, enchanted with my new liberty, yet somewhat concerned as to the disposal of so vast an amount of time, now all my own.
I had now been enfranchised nearly three hours, and had already used these first moments of liberty in picking a mortal quarrel with Mr. Butler. I had begun rashly; I admitted that; yet I could not regret the defiance. Soon or late I felt that Mr. Butler and I would meet; I had believed it for years. Now that at last our tryst was in sight, it neither surprised nor disturbed me, nor, now that he was out of my sight, did I feel impatient to settle it, so accustomed had I become to waiting for the inevitable hour.
I strolled through the hallway, hands in pockets, whistling “Amaryllis,” a tune that smacked on my lips; and so came to the south casement. Pressing my nose to the pane, I looked into the young orchard where the robins ran in the new grass; and I found it delicious to linger in-doors, knowing I was free to go out when I chose, and none to cry, “Come back!”
In the first flush of surprise and pleasure, I have noticed that the liberated seldom venture instantly into that freedom so dearly desired. Open the cage of a thrush that has sung all winter of freedom, and lo! the little thing, creeping out under the sky, runs back to the cage, fearing the sweet freedom of its heart’s desire.
So I; and mounted the stairway, seeking my own little chamber. Here I found Esk and Peter at play, letting down 25 a string from the open window, baited with corn, and the pullets jumping for it with great outcry and flapping of wings.
So I played with them for a while, then put them out, and bolted the door despite their cries and kicks.
Sitting there on my cot I surveyed my domain serenely, proud as though it had been a mansion and all mine.
There were my books, not much thumbed save Roderick Random and the prints of Le Brun’s Battles of Alexander. Still I cherished the others because gifts of Sir William or relics of my honoured father — the two volumes called An Introduction to Sir Isaac Newton’s Philosophy; two volumes of Chambers’ Dictionary; all the volumes of The Gentleman’s Magazine from 1748; Titan’s Loves of the Gods — an immodest print which I hated; my beloved “Amaryllis,” called A New Musical Design, and well bound; and last a manuscript much faded and eaten by mice, yet readable, and it was a most lovely song composed long since by a Mr. Pepys, the name of which was “Gaze not on Swans!”
My chamber was small, yet pleasing. Upon the walls I had placed, by favour of Sir William, pictures of the best running-horses at Newmarket, also four prints of a camp by Watteau, well executed, though French. Also, there hung above the door a fox’s mask, my whip, my hunting-horn, my spurs, and two fish-rods made for me by Joseph Brant, who is called Thayendanegea, chief of the Mohawk and of the Six Nations, and brother to Aunt Molly, who is no kin of mine, though her children are Sir William’s, and he is my kinsman.
In this room also I kept my black lead-pencil made by Faber, a ream of paper from England, and a lump of red sealing-wax.
I had written, in my life, but two letters: one three years since I wrote to Sir Peter Warren to thank him for a sum of money sent for my use; the other to a little girl named Marie Livingston, whom I knew in Albany when Sir William took me for the probating of papers which I do not yet understand.
She wrote me a letter, which was delivered by chance, the express having been scalped below Fonda’s Bush, and signed 26 “your cozzen Marie,” Mr. Livingston being kin to Sir William. I had not yet written again to her, though I had meant to do so these twelve months past. She had yellow hair which was pleasing, and she did not resemble Silver Heels in complexion or manner, having never flouted me. Her father gave me two peaches, some Salem sweets called Black Jacks, and a Delaware basket to take home with me, heaped with macaroons, crisp almonds, rock-candy, caraways, and suckets. These I prudently finished before coming again to Johnson Hall, and I remember I forgot to save a sucket for Silver Heels; and her anger when I gave her the Delaware basket all sticky inside; and how Peter licked it and blubbered while still a-licking.
Thus, as I sat there on my cot, scenes of my life came jostling me like long-absent comrades, softening my mood until I fell to thinking of those honoured parents I had never seen save in the gray dreams which mazed my sleep. For the day that brought life to me had robbed my honoured mother of her life; and my father, Captain Cardigan, lying with Wolfe before Quebec, sent a runner to Sir William enjoining him to care for me should the chance of battle leave me orphaned.
So my father, with Wolfe’s own song on his lips:
“Why, soldiers, why
Should we be melancholy boys?
Why, soldiers, why?
Whose business ’tis to die—”
fell into Colonel Burton’s arms at the head of Webb’s regiment, and his dying eyes saw the grenadiers wipe out the disgrace of Montmorency with dripping bayonets. So he died, with a smile, bidding Webb’s regiment God-speed, and sending word to the dying Wolfe that he would meet him a minute hence at Peter’s gate in heaven.
Thus came I naturally by my hatred for the French, nor was there in all France sufficient wampum to wipe away the feud or cover the dear phantom that stood in my path as I passed through life my way.
Now, as I sat a-thinking by the window, below me the robins in all the trees had begun their wild-wood vespers — hymns 27 of the true thrush, though not rounded with a thrush’s elegance.
The tree-shadows, too, had grown in length, and the afternoon sun wore a deeper blazonry through the hill haze in the west.
Fain to taste of the freedom which was now mine, I went out and down the stairs, passing my lady Silver Heels strapped to a back-board and in a temper with her sampler.
“Oh, Micky,” she said, “my bones ache, and Mistress Molly is with the baby, and the key is there on that brass nail.”
“It would be wrong if I released you,” said I, piously, meaning to do it, nevertheless.
“Oh, Micky,” she said, with a kind of pitiful sweetness which at times she used to obtain advantages from me.
So I took the key and unlocked the stocks, giving her feet a pinch to let her know I was not truly as soft-hearted as she might deem me, nor too easily won by woman’s beseeching.
And now, mark! No sooner was she free than she gave me a slap for the pinch and away she flew like a tree-lynx with the pack in cry.
“This,” thought I, “is a woman’s gratitude,�
�� and I locked the stocks again, wishing Silver Heels’s feet were in them.
“Best have it out at once with Mistress Molly,” thought I, and went to the nursery. But before I could knock on the door, Mistress Molly heard me with her ears of a Mohawk, and came to the door with one finger on her lips.
Truly the sister of Thayendanegea was a stately and comely lady, and a beauty, too, being little darker than some French ladies I have seen, and of gracious and noble presence.
Bearing and mien were proud, yet winning; and, clothed always as befitted the lady of Sir William Johnson, none who came into her presence could think less of her because of her Mohawk blood or the relation she bore to Sir William — an honest one as she understood it.
She ruled the Hall with dignity and with an authority that none dreamed of opposing. At table she was silent, 28 yet gracious; in the nursery she reigned a beloved and devoted mother; and if ever a man’s wife remained his sweetheart to the end, Molly Brant was Sir William’s true-love while his life endured.
“Why did you release Felicity from the stocks, Michael?” said she, in a whisper.
So her quick Indian ear had heard the click of that lock!
“I had come to tell you of it, Aunt Mary,” said I.
She looked at me keenly, then smiled.
“A sin confessed is half redressed. I had meant to release Felicity some time since, but the baby had fretted herself to sleep in my arms and I feared to put her down. But, Michael, remember in future to ask permission when you desire to play with Felicity.”
“Play with Felicity!” I said, scornfully. “I am past the playing age, Aunt Molly, and I only released her because I thought her back ached.”
Mistress Molly looked at me again, long and keenly.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 83