Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  He stared at me for a full minute, then gravely turned north, across the cleared land, drawing his scarlet blanket over his face.

  All that morning I waited patiently for Mount to come, believing that he might have some friend in the village who would give me a lodging where I could lie hid until Colonel Cresap returned to the fort.

  Whether Butler had gone on to Pittsburg or whether he still lay in ambush for me below Crown Gap, I did not know.

  One thing was clear: I could not remain at the fort without risk of arrest if Butler arrived in Cresap’s camp with a new warrant. Every moment I tarried here in the barracks might bring danger nearer; yet, where was I to go?

  Bitterly disappointed at the news that Cresap was in Pittsburg, I durst not, however, journey thither in search of him, for fear he might have started to return, and so risk passing him on the trails, of which there were seven that traversed the forest betwixt Pittsburg Fortress and Cresap’s camp. And on the morrow, too, must I needs deliver my belts to the Cayugas at their castle. This was even more important than intercepting Colonel Cresap; for I might gain Cresap by argument, even though he returned here with fresh instructions from Lord Dunmore, and his mind poisoned against me by Walter Butler; but I, personally, could hope to wield no influence with the Cayugas save by what authority was invested in me through Sir William’s wampum pledges.

  However, spite of my dangerous predicament, I was ravenously hungry, and made out to clean my platter and bowl as many times as they cared to replenish it. Then I thanked my host, the corporal, and we shook hands in friendly fashion, he inquiring when I expected my friend Mount to return for me, and I replying that I did not know, but would make ready to join him at once.

  The corporal, whose name was Paul Cloud, a New York man by birth, aided me to strap on my pack, conversing the while most agreeably, and finally, when I was prepared, he 169 accompanied me to the parade-ground, where two companies of Virginia militia were drilling on the grass.

  “My duties take me to the south stockade,” he said, once more offering his hand. And again I thanked him for his hospitality so warmly that he seemed a trifle surprised.

  “What friend of liberty could expect less?” he protested, smiling. “Are you a recent recruit, sir, that you marvel at the good-fellowship among us?”

  “Are you, too, of that fellowship?” I exclaimed, amazed to find rebels in uniform.

  He looked at me rather blankly.

  “You’ll scarce find a Tory in the regiment,” he said, beginning to be amused at my ignorance. “As for Colonel Cresap’s colonists yonder, I’ll warrant them all save some two score malignants like Greathouse, the store-keeper, and the company he keeps.”

  His unsuspicious assumption that I was a rebel placed me in a most delicate and unhappy position. I knew not what to say nor how to explain the misunderstanding without, perhaps, seriously damaging Jack Mount, who had vouched for me — as a friend, I supposed, not as a rebel comrade.

  “I am afraid I do not merit your confidence in matters touching the fellowship to which you and my friend Mount adhere,” I said, stiffly, determined not to wear false colours. “I am not a patriot, corporal, and Jack Mount meant only a kindness to a brother man in distress.”

  Cloud cut me short with a hearty laugh.

  “I guess Jack Mount knows what he is about,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Half our men are somewhat backward and distrustful, like you; but I’ll warrant them when the time comes! Oh, I know them! It’s your fawning, slavering, favour-currying Tory that I shy at! Ay, the man who snatches the very speech from between your teeth to agree with you. None o’ that kind for me. I know them.”

  He stood there, serene, smiling, with folded arms, his kindly eyes void of all distrust; and I thought to myself that such a man must needs have at least an honest grievance to oppose his King withal.

  “Well,” he said, abruptly, “time is on the wing, friend. So fare you pleasantly, and — God save our country!”

  “Amen,” I replied, before I realized that I had acknowledged the famous patriots’ greeting. He turned around to laugh significantly, then walked away towards the sallyport, swinging his hanger contentedly.

  Ill-pleased with my bungling in such a delicate situation, and greatly disturbed at having implied my adherence to this fellowship of which I yet knew nothing, I stood on the parade, biting my lips in vexation and wondering where in the world to go.

  The two companies of Virginia militia were marching and counter-marching at “support,” halberdiers guiding, drummers and fifers leading off, and a long, lean major pacing to and fro, and watching the two captains with keen, wrinkled eyes.

  The militia were mostly Virginians born, tall, stout fellows, smartly uniformed in drab and scarlet, and wearing the bugle on their cross-belts, indicating them to be light infantry. Truly, they wheeled and halted and marched and counter-marched most adroitly, carefully preserving distances and alignment; and I thought the major a martinet that he found nothing but fault with the officers and men. Certainly they paraded perfectly, their black knee-gaitered legs moving in unison, their muskets steady, their left arms swinging as one, which interested me because, in our militia of Tryon County, to swing the free arm is not allowed.

  But I had no business to linger here; I felt that every minute redoubled my danger. Yet again I asked myself where under heaven I could go, and I thought bitterly of Mount for leaving me here neglected.

  Plainly the first thing to be done was to get out of the fort. This I accomplished without the slightest trouble, nobody questioning me; and I shortly found myself in the road which appeared to be the main street of Cresap’s village.

  The fort, I now perceived, stood on a low hill in the centre of cleared ground. The road encircled the fort, then ran west through a roughly cultivated country, dotted with cabins of logs plastered over with blue clay. The circumference of the village itself appeared to be inconsiderable. Everywhere the dark circle of the forest seemed to crowd in the desolate 171 hamlet; I say desolate, for indeed the scene was grim, even for the frontier. The whole country had a black appearance from the thousands of charred roots and stumps which choked the fields. Dead trees lay in heaps, stark patches of dead pines stood like gray spectres, blasted hemlocks, with foliage seared rusty, lined the landscape, marking the zones doomed to cultivation. These latter were girdled trees, but I saw no attempt to preserve any trees for shade around the cabins, or for shade along the fences, or for beauty.

  We in Johnstown never girdled the bush without preserving rows of trees to ornament roads and fields, and this dismal destruction by fire and axe reacted on my sombre thoughts, depressing me dolefully.

  Under a leaden sky, through which a pale sun peered fitfully, the blackened waste about me seemed horrible and ominous of horrors to come; the very soil in the fields was black with charcoal, through which the young corn struggled up into the fading sunshine as though strangling.

  Cresap’s Maryland colonists were busy everywhere with harrow and plough and axe and spade. The encircling woods echoed and re-echoed with their chopping; their voices rang out, guiding the slow ox-teams among the stumps. At intervals the crack of a rifle signalled the death of some partridge or squirrel close by.

  There were men in the fields labouring half-naked at the unyielding roots; men in linen shirts and smalls, planting or weeding; men moving in distant fields, aimlessly perhaps, perhaps planning a rough home, perhaps a grave.

  Women sometimes passed along the paths, urging gaunt cattle to gaunter pasture; children peered from high door-sills, hung from unpainted windows, quarrelled in bare door-yards, half seen through stockades; some chopped fire-wood, some carried water, some played in the ditches or sailed chips in the dark, slow stream that crawled out across the land towards the Ohio.

  And here and there, on little knolls dotting the scene, tall riflemen stood, leaning on their weapons; sentinels mounting guard over flock and family below.

  I looked at the
flag on the fort; its dull folds hung dark and lifeless under a darkening sky. Below it paced a sentry 172 to and fro, to and fro, with the gray light on his musket shining dimly.

  I looked towards the black woods. They seemed to promise more protection than fort and flag; there was less gloom under their branches than under these sad cabin-roofs.

  Unconsciously I began to walk towards the forest, yet with no idea what I should do there. A child here and there saluted me from stockade gates; now and then an anxious woman’s face appeared at a window, watching me out of sight along the charred road. Presently I passed a double log-house, from the eaves of which dangled a green bush. The door bore a painted sign-board also, representing a large house with arms and legs like a man, at which I puzzled, but could not guess the significance.

  I needed salt, having for the last week used white-wood ashes to savour my corn withal, so I entered the tavern and made known my needs to a coarse-featured, thick-set fellow, who lay in a chair smoking a clay pipe.

  He rose instanter, all bows and smiles and cringing to my orders, begging me to be seated until he could find the salt sack in the cellar; and I sat down, after saluting the company, which consisted of half a dozen men playing cards by the window.

  They all returned my salute, some leaning clear around to look at me; and although they resumed their game I noticed that they began talking in whispers, pausing sometimes in a shuffle to turn their eyes on me.

  Presently the landlord came in with my small bag of salt, and set it on the scales with many a bow and smirk at me to beg indulgence for his delay.

  “You have travelled far, sir,” he said, pointedly; “there is northern mud on your hunting-shirt and southern burrs on your legging fringe. Ha! A stroke, sir! Touched, by your leave, sir! I have run the forests myself, sir, and I read as I run — I read as I run.”

  He was tying my sack up with grass, clumsily I thought for one who had lived as a forest-runner. But I waited patiently, he meanwhile conversing most politely. In fact, I could find no opportunity to courteously make an end to his garrulous chatter, and, ere I could refuse or prevent it, he 173 had persuaded me to a pewter of home-brew and had set it before me, brimming with good stout foam.

  “No water there, sir!” he observed, proudly; “body and froth hum like bee-hives in August! It is my own, sir, my own, barrel and malt and hops!”

  I could do no less than taste the ale, and he picked up his pipe and begged the honour of sitting in my presence: all of which ceremony revealed to me that my language and bearing were not at all in concord with my buckskin and my pack, and that he was quite aware of the discrepancy.

  “Perchance, sir, you have news from Boston?” he asked, with a jolly laugh.

  I shook my head. The company at the table by the window had paused to listen.

  “Well, well,” he said, puffing his long clay into a glow, “these be parlous times, sir, the world over! And, between ourselves, sir, begging your pardon for the familiarity, sir, I have been wondering myself whether the King is wholly right.”

  The stillness in the room was intense.

  “Doubt,” said I, carelessly, “is no friend to loyalty.”

  I was drinking when I finished this choice philosophy, but through the glass bottom of my pewter I surprised a very cunning squint in his puffy eyes.

  “Oho!” thought I, “you wish to know my politics, eh? Let us see how much you’ll find out!” And I set down my pewter with a sigh of contentment and tossed him a shilling for my reckoning.

  “But,” he suggested, “cannot even the King be deceived by unscrupulous counsellors?”

  “The King should know better than you whether his ministers be what you accuse them of being,” I said, seriously.

  “I meant no accusation,” he said, hastily; “but I voiced the sentiments of many honest neighbours of mine.”

  “Sentiments which smack somewhat of treason,” I interrupted, coldly.

  Through the bottom of my mug again I saw he was still far from satisfied concerning my real sentiments. I listened as I drank: the card-players behind me were not playing.

  “Landlord,” I asked, carelessly, cutting short another argument, 174 “what may your tavern sign mean with its house running loose on a pair o’ legs?”

  “It is my own name, sir,” he laughed, “Greathouse! I flatter me there is some small wit in the conceit, sir, though I painted yon sign myself!”

  So this was Greathouse, a notorious loyalist — this bloated lout who had been prying and picking at me to learn my sentiments? The slyness of the fellow disgusted me, and I could scarce control my open aversion, though I did succeed in leaving him with his suspicions lulled, and got out of the house without administering to him the kick which my leg was itching for.

  From the corner of my eye I could see the card-players watching me from the window; it incensed me to be so spied upon, and I was glad when a turn in the scurvy, rutted road shut me out of their vision.

  There were several houses just beyond me to the left; one displayed a holly-bush and wrinkled berries, a signal to me to avoid it, and I should have done so had I not perceived Jack Mount loafing in the doorway, and Shemuel seated on the horse-block, eating a dish of fish with his fingers.

  From the blotched face and false smile of Greathouse to the filthy company of Shemuel was no advantage. If these two creatures were representatives of their respective causes, I had small stomach for either them or their parties. Tory and patriot, pot-licker and Jew, they disgusted me; and I returned Mount’s cheery salute with a sullen nod, not pausing at the house as I passed by.

  He came out into the road after me, asking what had gone amiss; and I told him he had left me at the fort without advice or counsel, and that I had quitted the barracks, not caring to be caught there by Butler and his warrant.

  “Shame on you, lad, for the thought!” said Mount, angrily. “Do you think we do things by halves, Cade and I? The Weasel has been in touch with Butler’s men all night, ready to warn you the moment they started for this camp! He’s asleep in there, now,” jerking his huge thumb towards the inn, “and I’ve just returned from seeing Butler well on the trail towards Pittsburg.”

  Mortified and ashamed at my complaint, and deeply touched 175 by the quiet kindness of these two men who had, spite of fatigue, voluntarily set out to watch while I slept, I silently offered my hand to Mount. He took it fretfully, complaining that all the world had always misunderstood him as I had, and vowing he would never more do kindness to man or beast or good red herring!

  “Small blame if the world requites your generosity as stupidly as I do,” said I; whereat he fell a-laughing and drew me with him into the tavern, vowing we should wash out all bitterness in a draught of ale.

  The inn, which was called “The Leather Bottle,” appeared to be clean though rough. Tables and chairs were massive, hewn out of buckeye; horn instead of glass filled the tiny squares in the window frames, and a shelf ran around the tap-room just below the loopholes, whereon men could stand to fire in any direction.

  Mount presented me to a young man in homespun who had been sitting by the chimney, reading a letter — a quiet, modest gentleman of thirty, perhaps, somewhat travel-stained and spotted with reddish mud, which proclaimed him an arrival from the south.

  He gave me a firm, cool clasp of the hand and a curiously sharp yet not unkindly smile, promising to join us when he had finished the letter he was reading.

  I had meant to tell Mount of my conversations with Corporal Cloud and with Greathouse, but hesitated because the smallness of the room would carry even a whisper to the stranger by the chimney.

  Mount must have divined my intentions, for he said, in his hearty, deep-chested voice, “You may say what you please here, Mr. Cardigan, and trust this gentleman from Maryland as you trust me, I hope.”

  I had not caught the name of the young man from Maryland, and was diffident about asking. He looked up from his letter with a brief smile and nod at us, and we sat down b
eside one of the hewn buckeye tables and called upon the tap-boy for home-brew.

  I began by telling Mount very frankly that he had put me in a false position as a rebel. I retailed my conversation with Corporal Cloud, how I had felt it dishonourable to accept 176 hospitality under a misunderstanding, and how I had deemed it necessary to confess me. But this only appeared to amuse Mount, who laughed at me maliciously over his brown tankard and sucked in the frothy ale with unfeigned smacks of satisfaction.

  “Tiddle — diddle — diddle! Who the devil cares!” he said. “I wish half of our patriots possessed your tender conscience, friend Michael.”

  I swallowed a draught in silence, not at all pleased to feel myself forced into a position whither it appeared everybody was conspiring to drive me.

  “I’m loyal to the King,” I said, bluntly; “and when I am ready to renounce him, I shall do so, not before.”

  “Certainly,” observed Mount, complacently.

  “Not that I care for Tory company, either,” I added, in disgust, thinking of my encounter with Greathouse. And I related the affair to Mount.

  The big fellow’s eyes narrowed and he set his tankard down with a bang.

  “A sneak!” he said. “A sly, mealy-mouthed sneak! Look out for this fellow Greathouse, my friend. By Heaven, I’m sorry he saw you! You can depend upon it the news of your arrival here will be carried to Butler. Why, this fellow, Greathouse, is a notorious creature of Lord Dunmore, set here to spy on Colonel Cresap and see that the militia have no commerce with rebel emissaries from Boston. Gad, had I not believed you trusted me, and that you would sit snug in the fort yonder instead of paying calls of state on all the Tories in town—”

  He took a pull at the fresh tankard, set it down two-thirds empty, and lay back in his chair, licking his lips thoughtfully.

  “How long do you stay here?” he asked.