Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Through the falling rain I saw morning lurking behind the eastern hills, and I cursed it, for the shock and terror had driven me out of my senses. I remember hearing a voice calling on God, but for a long time I did not know the voice was mine. It was only when the same young girl who had struck me lighted a splinter of yellow pine and thrust it through my arm that my senses returned. I opened my eyes as from a swoon, seeing clearly the faces around me, red under the torches. And foremost among those in front stood Tamarack in his scarlet robes, just as I had seen him at dawn through the smoke of the sacred fire. Now my voice came back, seeking my lips; my parched tongue moved, and I called on Tamarack to hear me, but he shook his head, though I adjured him by the belts I had borne and received, by the sanctuary of the council-fire whose smoke I had sweetened, and by the three tribes I had raised u

  “Lies,” he said; “you come not from Johnstown! Your belts are lies; your words lie; your tongue is forked! You come from Cresap! Cresap shall see how you can die for him!”

  “I speak the truth!” I cried out, in my agony. “I am a belt-bearer! I have laid the ghosts of your slain ones! Who dares send my spirit to teach your dead that you betray their ashes?”

  There was a dead silence. Presently somebody in the throng said, distinctly: “If he speaks the truth, let him go. We honour our dead.” And other voices repeated:

  “We honour our dead.”

  “He lies,” said Tamarack.

  “I speak truth!” I groaned. “If you honour your dead, if you honour those whom I have raised up in their places, free me, brothers of the Cayugas!”

  “Free him!” cried many.

  For a space the throng was quiet, then a distant movement to my left made me turn hopefully. The throng wavered, parted, opened, and a white man came elbowing his way to the stake.

  He whispered to Tamarack; the aged sachem stretched out his arm, making a mystic sign.

  Eagerly the white man turned and looked at me, and I cried out with rage and horror, for I was face to face with Walter Butler.

  He spoke, but I scarcely heard him urging my death.

  Terror, which had gripped me, gave place to fury, and that in turn left me faint but calm.

  I heard the merciless words in which he delivered me to the savages; I heard him denounce me as a spy of Cresap and an agent of rebels. Then I lost his voice.

  I was very still for a while, trying to understand that I must die. The effort tired me; lassitude weighed on me like iron chains. To my stunned mind death was but a word, repeated vaguely in the dark chamber of life where my soul sat, listening. Thought was suspended; sight and hearing failed; there was a void about me, blank and formless as my mind.

  “‘THEY’VE HIT HIM,’ SAID MOUNT, RELOADING HASTILY”

  Presently I became conscious that things were changing 197 around me. Lights moved, voices struggled into my ears; forms took shape, pressing closer to me. An undertone, which I had heard at moments through my stupor, grew, swelling into a steady whisper. It was the ceaseless rustle of the rain.

  A torch blazed up crackling close in front. My eyes opened; a thrill of purest fear set every sense a-quiver. Amid the dull roar of voices, I heard women laughing and little children prattling. Faces became painfully distinct. I saw Sowanowane, the war-chief, thumb his hatchet; I saw Butler, beside him, catch an old woman by the arm. He told her to bring dry moss. It rained, rained, rained.

  They were calling to me from the crowd now; everywhere voices were calling to me: “Show us how Cresap’s men die!” Others repeated: “He is a woman; he will scream out! Logan’s children died more bravely. Oonah! The children of Logan!”

  Butler watched me coolly, leaning on his rifle.

  “So this ends it,” he said, with his deathly grimace. “Well, it was to be done in one way or another. I had meant to do it myself, but this will do.”

  I was too sick with fear, too close to death, to curse him. Pain often makes me weak; the fear of pain sickens me. It was that I dreaded, not death. Where my father had gone, I dared follow, but the flames — the thought of the fire —

  I said, faintly, “Turn your back to me when I die; I have much pain to face, Mr. Butler; I may not bear it well.”

  “No, by God! I will not!” he burst out, ferociously. “I’m here to see you suffer, damn you!”

  I turned my head from him, but he struck me in the face so that my mouth was bathed in blood; twice he struck me, crying: “Listen! Listen, I tell you!” And, planting himself before the stake, he cursed me, vowing that he could tear me with his bared teeth for hatred.

  “Know this before they roast you,” he snarled; “I shall possess your pretty baggage, Mistress Warren, spite of Sir William! I shall use her to my pleasure; I shall whip her to my feet. I may wed her, or I may choose to use her otherwise and leave her for Dunmore. Ah! Ah! Now you rage, eh?”

  I had hurled my trussed body forward on the cords, struggling, 198 convulsed with a fury so frantic that the blood sprayed me where the bonds cut.

  Indians struck me and thrust me back with clubs, for the great post at my back had been partly dragged out of its socket by my frenzy, but I did not feel the blows; I fixed my maddened eyes on Butler and struggled.

  But now the sachems were calling him sharply, and he backed away from me as the circle surged forward. Again the girl came out, bearing a flaming fagot. She looked up at me, laughed, and thrust the burning sticks into the moss and tinder which was stacked around me. A billow of black smoke rolled into my face, choking and blinding me, and the breath of the flames passed over me.

  Twice the rain quenched the fire. They brought fresh heaps of moss, laughing and jeering. Through the smoke I saw the fort across the valley, its parapets crowded with people. Jets of flame and distant reports showed they were firing rifles, hoping perhaps to kill me ere the torture began. It was too far. The last glimpse of the fort faded through the downpour; a new pile of moss and birch-bark was heaped at my feet.

  This time the girl was thrust aside and a young Indian advanced, waving a crackling branch of pitch-pine, roaring with flames. As he knelt to push it between my feet, a terrific shout burst from the throng — a yell of terror and amazement. Through the tumult I heard women screaming; in front of me the crowd shrank away, huddling in groups. Some backed into me, stumbling among the fagots; the young Indian let his blazing pine-branch fall hissing on the wet ground and stood trembling.

  And now into the circle stalked a tall figure, coming straight towards me through the sheeted rain — a spectre so hideous that the cries of terror drowned his voice, for he was speaking as he came on, moving what had once been a mouth, this dreadful thing, all raw and festering to the bone.

  Two blazing eyes met mine, then rolled around on the cringing throng; and a voice like the voice of the dead broke out:

  “I am come to the judgment of this man whom you burn!”

  “Quider!” moaned the throng. “He returns from the grave! Oonah! He returns!”

  But the unearthly voice went on through the whimper of the crowd:

  “From the dead I return. I return from the north. Madness drove me. I come without belts, though belts were given.

  “Peace, you wise men and sachems! Set free this man, my brother!”

  “Quider!” I gasped. “Bear witness.”

  And the dead voice echoed, hollow:

  “Brother, I witness.”

  Trembling fingers picked and plucked and tugged at my cords; the bonds loosened; the sky spun round; down I fell, face splashing in the mud.

  CHAPTER XII

  How I managed to reach the fort, I never knew. I do not remember that the savages carried me; I have no recollection of walking. When the gate lanthorn was set that night, a sentry noticed me creeping in the weeds at the moat’s edge. He shot at me and gave the alarm. Fortunately, he missed me.

  All that evening I lay in a hot sickness on a cot in the casemates. They say I babbled and whimpered till the doctor had finished cupping me, but
after that I rambled little, and, towards sunrise, was sleeping.

  My own memories begin with an explosion, which shook my cot and brought me stumbling blindly out of bed, to find Jack Mount firing through a loophole and watching me, while he reloaded, with curious satisfaction.

  He guided me back to my cot, and summoned the regiment’s surgeon; between them they bathed me and fed me and got my shirt and leggings on me.

  At first I could scarcely make out to stand on my legs. From crown to sole I ached and throbbed; my vision was strangely blurred, so that I saw things falling in all directions.

  I think the regiment’s surgeon, who appeared to be very young, was laying his plans to bleed me again, but I threatened him if he laid a finger on me, and Mount protested that I was fit to fight or feast with any man in Tryon County.

  The surgeon, saying I should lie abed, mixed me a most filthy draught, which I swallowed. Had I been able, I should have chased him into the forest for that dose. As it was, I made towards him on wavering legs, to do him a harm, whereupon he went out hastily, calling me an ass. Mount linked his great arm in mine, and helped me up to the parapet, 201 where the Virginia militia were firing by platoons into the forest.

  The freshening morning was lovely and sweet; the west winds poured into me like wine. I lay on the platform for a while, peering up at the flag flapping above me on its pine staff, then raised up on my knees and looked about.

  Bands of shadow and sunlight lay across the quiet forests; the calm hills sparkled. But the blackened clearing around the fort was alive with crawling forms, moving towards the woods, darting from cover to cover, yet always advancing. They were Cresap’s Maryland riflemen, reconnoitring the pines along the river, into which the soldiers beside me on the parapet were showering bullets.

  It was pretty to watch these Virginia militia fire by platoon under instructions of a tall, young captain, who lectured them as jealously as though they were training on the parade below.

  “Too slow!” he said. “Try it again, lads, smartly! smartly! ‘Tention! Handle — cartridge! Too slow, again! As you were — ho! When I say ‘cartridge!’ bring your right hand short ‘round to your pouch, slapping it hard; seize the cartridge and bring it with a quick motion to your mouth; bite off the top down to the powder, covering it instantly with your thumb. Now! ‘Tention! Handle — cartridge! Prime! Shut — pan! Charge with cartridge — ho! Draw — rammer! Ram — cartridge! Return — rammer! Shoulder — arms! Front rank — make ready! Take aim — fire!”

  Bang! bang! went the rifles; the parapet swam in smoke. Bang! The second rank fired as one man, and the crash was echoed by the calm, clear voice: “Half-cock arms — ho! Handle — cartridge! Prime!”

  And so it went on; volley after volley swept the still pines until a thundering report from the brass cannon ended the fusillade, and we leaned out on the epaulement, watching the riflemen who were now close to the lead-sprayed woods.

  The banked cannon-smoke came driving back into our faces; all was a choking blank for a moment. Presently, through the whirling rifts, we caught glimpses of blue sky and tree-tops, and finally of the earth. But what was that? — what men were those running towards us? — what meant that 202 distant crackle of rifles? — those silvery puffs of smoke fringing the entire amphitheatre of green, north, east, west — ay, and south, too, behind our very backs?

  “Down with your drawbridge!” thundered the officer commanding the gun-squad. I saw Cresap come running along the parapet, signalling violently to the soldiers below at the sallyport. Clank! clank! went the chain-pulleys, and the bridge fell with a rush and a hollow report, raising a cloud of amber dust.

  “My God!” shouted an officer. “See the savages!”

  “See the riflemen,” mimicked Mount, at my elbow. “I told Cresap to wait till dark.”

  Along the parapets the soldiers were firing frenziedly; the quick cannon-shots shook the fort, smothering us with smutty smoke. I had a glimpse, below me, of Cresap leading out a company of soldiers to cover the flight of his riflemen, and at intervals I saw single Indians, kneeling to fire, then springing forward, yelping and capering.

  A tumult arose below. Back came the riflemen pell-mell, into the fort, followed by the militia company at quick time. The chains and pulleys clanked; the bridge rose, groaning on its hinges.

  It was now almost impossible to perceive a single savage, not only because of the rifle-smoke, but also because they had taken cover like quail in a ploughed field. Every charred tree-root sheltered an Indian; the young oats were alive with them; they lay among the wheat, the bean-poles; they crouched behind manure-piles; they crawled in the beds of ditches.

  “Are all the settlers in the fort?” I asked Mount, who was leaning over the epaulement, waiting patiently for a mark.

  “Every man, woman, and child came in last night,” he said. “If any have gone out it’s against orders, and their own faults. Ho! Look yonder, lad! Oh, the devils! the devils!” And he fired, with an oath on his lips.

  A house and barn were suddenly buried in a cloud of pitchy vapour; a yoke of oxen ran heavily across a field; puffs of smoke from every rut and gully and bush showed where the Indians were firing at the terrified beasts.

  One ox went down, legs shot to pieces; the other stood 203 bellowing pitifully. Then the tragedy darkened; a white man crept out of the burning barn and started running towards the fort.

  “The fool!” said Mount. “He went back for his oxen! Oh, the fool!”

  I could see him distinctly now; he was a short, fat man, bare-legged and bare-headed. As he ran he looked back over his shoulder frequently. Once, when he was climbing a fence, he fell, but got on his legs again and ran on, limping.

  “They’ve hit him,” said Mount, reloading hastily; “look! He’s down! He’s done for! God! They’ve got him!”

  I turned my head aside; when I looked for the poor fellow again, I could only see a white patch lying in the field, and an Indian slinking away from it, shaking something at the fort, while the soldiers shot at him and cursed bitterly at every shot.

  “It’s Nathan Giles’s brother,” said a soldier, driving his cartridge down viciously. “Can’t some o’ you riflemen reach him with old Brown Bess?”

  The report of Mount’s rifle answered; the Indian staggered, turned to run, reeled off sideways, and fell across a manure-heap. After a moment he rose again and crawled behind it.

  And now, house after house burst into black smoke and spouts of flame. Through the spreading haze we caught fleeting glimpses of dark figures running, and our firelocks banged out briskly, but could neither hinder nor stay the doom of those poor, rough homes. Fire leaped like lightning along the pine walls, twisting in an instant into a column of pitchy smoke tufted with tongues of flame. Over the whirling cinders distracted pigeons circled; fowls fluttered out of burning barns and ran headlong into the woods. Somewhere a frightened cow bellowed.

  Under cover of the haze and smoke, unseen, the Indians had advanced near enough to send arrows into the parade below us, where the women and children and the cattle were packed together. One arrow struck a little girl in the head, killing her instantly; another buried itself in the neck of a bull, and a terrible panic followed, women and children fleeing to the casemates, while the maddened bull dashed about, 204 knocking down horses, goring sheep and oxen, trampling through bundles of household goods until a rifleman shot him through the eye and cut his throat.

  Soldiers and farmers were now hastening to the parapets, carrying buckets and jars of water, for Cresap feared the sparks from the burning village might fall even here. But there was worse danger than that: an arrow, tipped with blazing birch-bark, fell on the parapet between me and Mount, and, ere I could pick it up, another whizzed into the epaulement, setting fire to the logs. Faster and faster fell the flaming arrows; a farmer and three soldiers were wounded; a little boy was pierced in his mother’s arms. No sooner did we soak out the fire in one spot than down rushed another arrow whistling with
flames, and we all ran to extinguish the sparks which the breeze instantly blew into a glow.

  I had forgotten my bruises, my weakness, and fatigue; aches and pains I no longer felt. The excitement cured me as no blood-letting popinjay of a surgeon could, and I found myself nimbly speeding after the fiery arrows and knocking out the sparks with an empty bucket.

  Save for the occasional rifle-shots and the timorous whinny of horses, the fort was strangely quiet. If the women and children were weeping in the casemates, we on the ramparts could not hear them. And I do not think they uttered a complaint. We hurried silently about our work; no officers shouted; there was small need to urge us, and each man knew what to do when an arrow fell.

  All at once the fiery shower ceased. A soldier climbed the flag-pole to look out over the smoke, and presently he called down to us that the savages were falling back to the forest. Then our cannon began to flash and thunder, and the militia fell in for volley-firing again, while, below, the drawbridge dropped once more, and our riflemen stole out into the haze.

  I was sitting on the parapet, looking at Boyd’s inn, “The Leather Bottle,” which was on fire, when Mount and Cade Renard came up to me, carrying a sheaf of charred arrows which they had gathered on the parade.

  “I just want you to look at these,” began Mount, dumping the arrows into my lap. “The Weasel, he says you know more about Indians than we do, and I don’t deny it, seeing 205 you lived at Johnstown and seem so fond of the cursed hell-hounds—”

  “He wants you to read these arrows,” interrupted the Weasel, dryly; “no, not the totem signs. What tribes are they?”

  “Cayuga,” I replied, wondering. “Cayuga, of course — wait! — why, this is a Seneca war-arrow! — you can see by the shaft and nock and the quills set inside the fibres!”

  “I told you!” observed the Weasel, grimly nudging Mount.

  Mount stood silent and serious, watching me picking up arrow after arrow from the charred sheaf on my knees.