“Come over here and we’ll drum the rogue’s march on you!” shouted the little ranger, planting his legs wide apart and drawing the ramrod from his long rifle.
A watchman with rattle, pike, and lanthorn came hobbling up, threatening to sound his call. A group of towns-people gathered behind him, protesting against the disturbance.
But the two rangers flourished their ramrods and taunted the soldiers with inquiries which I did not understand at the time, such as: “How’s Bully Tryon and his blood-pudding?” “I learn that Tommy Gage has the gout; too much Port-Bill; he needs bleeding, does Tommy Gage!”
Then the big ranger, addressing soldiers, watchman, and towns-people as “bloody-backs,” “cow-rumps,” and “scratch-wigs,” advised them all to pickle their heads and sell them in Albany, where cabbage was much esteemed among the Dutchmen.
“Come up to the barracks and we’ll show you what pickling is,” shouted the soldiers, wrathfully.
“Come out in the woods and I’ll show you something to beat pickled pig!” replied the little ranger, cheerfully.
Behind me I heard the trample of hoofs; the smith was backing Warlock out into the street. I paid him; he held my stirrup, and I mounted, walking my horse out between the soldiers, the people, and the two rangers.
“Come, boys,” said I, pleasantly, “this town is no place for brawls. Let it end here — do you understand? — or Sir William shall learn of it!”
The soldiers had stepped forward to salute, the two rangers laughed scornfully, flung their rifles over their shoulders, 76 and passed on into the darkness with noiseless, moccasined stride.
Waiting to see that the crowd dispersed without disorder, far down the dim street I heard the two rangers break out into a foolish catch:
“Who comes here?
A grenadier!
What d’ye lack?
A pot o’ beer!
Where’s your penny?
I forgot —
Get you gone, you red-coat sot!”
A most uncomfortable sensation came over me, although I did not fully understand that “red-coat” was a reproach. But the loose laughter, the disrespectful tone, the devil-may-care swagger of these fellows disturbed me. What had they meant by “lobster-back” and “Tommy Gage” and “Bully Tryon?” Surely they could not have referred to General Gage of Boston or to our Governor! Did they mean Sir William’s son, John, by their “diddle dumpling?” What quarrel had they with the King’s soldiers? They had been courteous enough to me, unless they intended their song as an insult.
The blood stung my face; I put Warlock to a gallop and overtook the pair. They were arm in arm, swaggering along, ogling the towns-people, jostling the crowd, sometimes mocking the bare shanks of a Highlander, sometimes hustling an Indian, or tweaking the beard of a Jew peddler, now doffing their caps to some pretty maid, now digging the ribs of a sober Quaker, and ever singing of “diddle diddle dumpling” or of the grenadier and his pot of beer.
Such license and freedom displeased me. I had never before observed it in our town or among those who came to the Hall. However, I now saw that I could not with dignity notice either their boorish gallantry, their mischief, or the songs they were pleased to bawl out in the street.
I therefore passed them in silence, and, loosening bridle, set Warlock at a gallop for home.
I did not comprehend it at the time; indeed, the whole matter 77 passed from my mind ere the lights of the Hall broke out in the blue night. Yet the scene I had witnessed was my first view of the unrest which tormented the whole land, the first symptom of that new fever for which no remedy had yet been found.
CHAPTER VI
It was not yet dawn, though a few birds sang in the darkness around us, as Sir William and I set off for the Cayuga’s lodge, which stood beyond the town on a rocky knoll, partly cleared of trees.
The air was cold and without fragrance, for in our country it is the sun that draws the earth’s sweetness in early spring.
The stars lighted us through the streets of Johnstown, empty of life save for the muffled watchman dozing in his own lanthorn glow, who roused as he heard us, and shook his damp cloak. And far behind us we heard his sing-song:
“Four o’clock! A cold, fair morn, and all well!”
One inn there was, where the dim bush swung wet and sleek as a clinging bat, and where stale embers of the night’s revelry still flickered; for, behind the lighted windows, men were singing, and we heard them as we passed:
“Oh, we’re all dry
Wi’ drinking on’t —
We’re all dry
Wi’ drinking on’t.
The piper kissed
The fiddler’s wife;
And I can’t sleep
For thinking on’t!”
“Starbuck’s Inn,” muttered Sir William, grimly. “He’s a Boston man; they drink no tea there.”
And, as we strode on in the darkness, behind us, from the lighted hostelry, came a husky echo of that foolish catch:
“Diddle diddle dumpling,
My son John—”
So I knew that my buckskin birds were still chirping among us.
But now we were on the stony way and the town sank below us as we climbed towards Quider’s lodge, knee-deep in dewy thistles.
The spark of a tiny council fire guided us. Coming nearer we smelled black birch burning, and we saw the long thread of aromatic smoke mounting steadily to the paling stars.
We passed a young basswood-tree from which hung a flint, symbol of the Mohawks. From another chestnut-sapling dangled the symbol of the Cayugas, a pipe. All at once we saw Quider, standing motionless before his lodge.
Sir William drew flint and tinder from his pouch, and sent a spark flying into the dry tobacco of his pipe. He drew it to a long glow, twice, and passed it, through the smoke of the fire, to Quider.
I saw the Cayuga’s face then. It was a strange red, yet it was not painted. He seemed ill; his eyes glittered like the eyes of a lynx.
And now, as the Indian sank down into his blanket before the fire, Sir William produced a belt from the folds of his cloak and held it out. The belt was black with two figures woven in white on it. The hands of the figures were clasped together. It was a chain-belt.
“Brother,” he said, slowly: “The clouds which hang over us prevent us from seeing the sun. It is, therefore, our business, with this belt, to clear the sky. And we also, with this belt, set the sun in its proper course, so that we may be enabled to see the narrow path of peace.”
(Gives the belt.)
“Brother: We have heard what you have said about Colonel Cresap; we believe he has been misled, and we have rekindled the council fire at Johnstown with embers from Onondaga, with embers from the Ohio, with coals from our proper fireplace at Mount Johnson.
“We uncover these fires to summon our wisest men so that they shall judge what word shall be sent to Colonel Cresap, to secure you in your treaty rights which I have sworn to protect by these strings!”
(A bunch of strings.)
“Brother: By this third and last belt I send peace and love to my brethren of the Cayuga; and by this belt I bid 80 them be patient, and remember that I have never broken my word to those within the Long House, nor yet to those who dwell without the doors.”
(A large black belt of seven rows.)
Then Sir William drew from his girdle a belt of wampum, so white that, in the starlight, it shimmered like virgin silver.
“Who mourns?” asked Sir William, gently, and the Indian rose and answered: “We mourn — we of the Cayuga — we of three clans.”
“What clans shall be raised up?” asked Sir William.
“Three clans lie stricken: the Wolf, the Plover, the Eel. Who shall raise them?”
“Brother,” said Sir William, gravely. “With this belt I raise three clans; I cleanse their eyes, their ears, their mouths, their bodies with clean water. With this belt I clear their path so that no longer shall the dead stand in your way or in ours.”
&nb
sp; (The belt.)
“Brother: With these strings I raise up your head and beg you will no longer sorrow.”
(Three strings.)
“Brother: With this belt I cover the graves.”
(A great white belt.)
In the dead stillness that followed the northern hill-tops slowly turned to pink and ashes. The day had dawned.
When again we reached the village cocks were crowing in every yard; the painted weather-vanes glowed in the sun; legions of birds sang.
From Starbuck’s Inn stumbled forth a blinking, soiled, and tipsy company, linking arms, sidling, shoving, lurching, and bawling:
“Oh, we’re all dry
Wi’ drinkin’ on’t!”
And I plainly saw my two coureurs-de-bois, boozy as owls, a-bussing the landlord’s greasy wench while mine host pummelled them lustily, foot and fist.
So on through the cold shadowy street and out into the sun-warmed road again, and at last to the Hall where, on the sunny porch, stood Silver Heels, hair in her eyes, her naked white feet in moccasins, washing her cheeks in the dew.
“Tut! tut!” cried Sir William, sharply. “What foolishness is this, Felicity? Off to bed! with your bare legs!”
“Betty said that beauty grew with dew-baths at dawn,” said Silver Heels, coolly. “I have bathed my limbs and my body in the grass and I’m all over leaves.”
“Betty’s a fool! Be off to bed! — you little baggage!” cried Sir William. And away up-stairs scampered Silver Heels, dropping both moccasins in her flight.
“Betty! Betty!” fumed Sir William. “I’ll Betty her, the black witch!” And he stamped off to the nursery, muttering threats which I knew would never be fulfilled.
That day Sir William sat in his library writing with Mr. Butler, so there was no school, and Peter, Esk, Silver Heels, and I went a-fishing in the river. And I did not wear my uniform, for fear of soiling.
All day long, as we sat in the grass to watch our poles a-quiver, horsemen from our stables passed us, galloping east and south, doubtless bearing letters from Sir William to Albany and New York — and farther south, perchance — for there came one rider with six soldiers in escort, and two led horses well packed, all trotting and clattering away towards the Fort Pitt trail.
That day was the last of the old days for us; but how could we suspect that, as we waded in the shallows there, laughing, chattering, splashing each other, and quarrelling to our hearts’ content. The familiar river, which every freshet changed just enough to sharpen our eyes for new pools, slipped over its smooth golden stones, inviting our dusty feet. Up to our knees we moved in the ice-cold stream, climbing out on the banks at times to warm our legs in the sun, and lie deep in the daisies, winking at the swallows in the sky.
We played all our old games again — but that we played them for the last time, none of us suspected. I held a buttercup under Silver Heels’s snowy chin to prove her love for cheese; I played buzzing bee-songs on grass-blades; I whittled 82 whistles for Peter and Esk; I skipped flat stones; I coloured Silver Heels’s toes yellow with dandelion juice so she should ever afterwards wade in gold — this at her own desire.
Twice those tiny spotted lady-beetles perched on my hand, and Silver Heels, to ward off threatening evil, took them on the pink tip of her little finger, repeating:
“Lady-bird, Lady-bird, fly away home!
Thy lodge is afire! thy babies will burn!”
Which she said would save me from torture at the stake some day.
The late sun settled in the blue ashes of the western forests as we pulled on our stockings and moccasins and gathered up our strings of silvery fish.
For a whole day I had carefully forgotten that I was anything but a comrade to these children; but I did not know how wise I had been to lay by, in my memory, one more perfect day ere the evil days came and the years drew nigh wherein, God wot! I found no pleasure.
Silver Heels and I walked back together through the evening glow, and I remember that the windows of our house were all on fire from the sun as we climbed the hill under the splendour of the western sky.
As we came through the orchard I saw Sir William sitting on the stone seat near the bee-hives. His chin had fallen on his chest, both hands rested on his cane, and over his body fell the glory of the red sky.
He heard us as we came through the orchard, and he raised his head to smile a welcome. But there was that in his eyes which told me to stay there with him after the others had trooped in to be fed, and I waited.
Presently he said: “Quider is sick. Did you discover anything in his face that might betoken — a — a fever?”
“His eyes,” I said.
“Was he blotched? My sight is dim these years.”
“His face was over-red,” I answered, wondering.
Sir William said nothing more. After a little while he rose, leaning on his cane, and passed heavily under the fruit-trees towards the house.
That night came our doctor, Pierson, galloping from the 83 village with an urgent message for Sir William. Later I saw soldiers set out with bayonets on their muskets, and, with them, the doctor, leading his horse.
In the morning we knew that the small-pox had seized the Cayuga, and that our soldiers patrolled Quider’s lodge to warn all men of the black pest.
The days which followed were busy days for us all — days fraught with bustle and perplexity — hours which hurried on, crowding one on another like pages turning in a book — turning too swiftly for me to cipher the ominous text.
All Sir William’s hopes of averting war were now centred in the stricken Cayuga. He and I haunted the neighbourhood of Quider’s lodge, staring for hours at the silent hut in the clearing, or, rambling by starlight, we watched the candle burning in the lodge door as though it were the flame of life, now flaring, now sinking in its socket.
On such rambles he seldom spoke, but sometimes he leaned on my shoulder as we walked, and his very hand seemed burdened with the weight of his cares.
Once, however, when from the sentinels we learned that Quider might live, Sir William appeared almost gay, and we walked to a little hill, all silvery in the light of the young moon, and rested on a rock.
“Black Care rides behind the horseman, but — I have dismounted,” he said, lightly. “Quider will live, I warrant you, barring those arrows of outrageous fortune of which you have doubtless heard, Michael.”
“What may those same arrows be marked with?” I asked, innocently.
“With the totem of Kismet, my boy.”
I did not know that totem, and said so, whereupon he fell a-laughing and pinched my cheek, saying, “Are there no people in the world but the Six Nations of the Long House?”
I answered cautiously: “Oe-yen-de-hit Sar-a-ta-ke,” meaning, “there are favourable signs (of people) where the tracks of (their) heels may be seen. I have not travelled; there may be other tracks in the world.”
“Ten-ca-re Ne-go-ni,” replied Sir William, gravely. “He scatters His people everywhere, Michael. The world lies outside of the Long House!”
“I shall say to the world I come from Ko-lan-e-ka, and that I am kin to you, sir,” said I, dropping easily into that intimate dialect we children often used together, or in the family circle.
“The world will say: ‘He comes from Da-o-sa-no-geh, the place without a name; let him return to The-ya-o-guin, the Gray-Haired, who sent him out so ignorant.’”
“Do you say that, sir, because I am ignorant of the poets?” I asked.
“Even women know the poets in these days,” he said, smiling. “You would not wish to know less than your own wife, would you?”
“My wife!” I exclaimed, scornfully.
“Why, yes,” said Sir William, much amused; “you will marry one day, I suppose.”
After a moment I said:
“Is Silver Heels going to marry Mr. Butler?”
“I hope so,” replied Sir William, a little surprised. “Mr. Butler is a gentleman of culture and wealth. Fel
icity has no large dower, and I can leave but little if I provide for all my children. I deem it most fortunate that Captain Butler has spoken to me.”
“If,” said I, slowly, “Silver Heels and I are obliged to marry somebody, why can we not marry each other?”
Sir William stared at me.
“Are you in love with Felicity?” he asked.
“Oh no, sir!” I cried, resentfully.
“Is she — does she fancy she is in love with you?” insisted Sir William, in growing astonishment.
“No! no!” I said, hastily, for his question annoyed and irritated me. “But I only don’t want her to marry Mr. Butler; I’d even be willing to marry her myself, though I once saw a maid in Albany—”
“What the devil is all this damned nonsense?” cried Sir William, testily. “What d’ye mean by this idiot’s babble? Eh?”
The expression of my face at this outburst first disconcerted, then sent him into a roar of laughter. Such startled and injured innocence softened his impatience; he carefully explained to me that, as Felicity had no fortune, and I barely 85 sufficient to sustain me, such a match could but prove a sorry and foolish one for Silver Heels and for me.
“If you were older,” he said, “and if you loved each other, I should, perhaps, be weak enough not to interfere, though wisdom prompted. But it is best that Felicity should wed Mr. Butler, and that as soon as may be, for I am growing old very fast, older than I care to confess, older than I dare believe. This I say to you, for I have come to trust you and to lean on you, Michael; but you must never hint to others that I complain of age or feebleness. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered, soberly.
“Besides,” said Sir William, with a forced smile, “I have much to do yet; I mean to accomplish a deal of labour before I — well, before many weeks. Come, lad; we must not grope out here seeking unhappiness under these pretty stars. We are much to each other; we shall be much more — eh? Come, then; Quider will live, spite of those same slings and arrows of which you know not the totem marks.”
As we descended the hill through shadowy drifts of spice-fern, Sir William looked long and hopefully at the candle burning in Quider’s hut.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 89