Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Here is a Shawanese hunting-shaft,” I said, startled, “and — and this — this is a strange arrow to me!”

  I held up a slender, delicate arrow, beautifully made and tipped with steel.

  “That,” said Mount, gravely, “is a Delaware arrow.”

  “The Lenape!” I cried, astonished. Suddenly the terrible significance of these blackened arrows came to me like a blow. The Lenni-Lenape had risen, the Senecas and Shawanese had joined the Cayugas. The Long House was in revolt.

  “Mount,” I said, quietly, “does Colonel Cresap know this?”

  The Weasel nodded.

  “We abandon the fort to-night,” he said. “We can’t face the Six Nations — here.”

  “We make for Pittsburg,” added Mount. “It will be a job to get the women and children through. Cresap wishes to see you, Mr. Cardigan. You will find him laying fuses to the magazine.”

  They piloted me to the casemates and around the barracks to the angle of the fort, where a stockade barred the passage to the magazine. The sentry refused us admittance, but Corporal Cloud heard us and opened the stockade gate, where we saw Cresap on his hands and knees, heaping up loose powder into a long train. He glanced up at us quietly; his thin, grave face was very pale.

  “Am I right about those arrows?” he asked Mount.

  “Mr. Cardigan says there’s a Seneca war-arrow among ‘em, too,” replied Mount.

  Cresap’s keen eyes questioned me.

  “It’s true,” I said. “The Senecas guard the western door of the Long House, and they have made the Cayugas’ cause their own.”

  “And the eastern door?” demanded Cresap, quickly.

  “The eastern door of the Long House is held by our Mohawks and Sir William Johnson,” I said, proudly. “And, by God’s grace! they will hold it in peace.”

  “Not while Walter Butler lives,” said Cresap, bitterly, rising to his feet and turning the key of the magazine. “Throw that key into the moat, corporal,” he said. “Mount, get some riflemen and roll these kegs of powder into the casemates.”

  “You know,” he observed, turning to me, “that we abandon the fort to-night. It means the end of all for me. I shall receive all the blame for this war; the disgrace will be laid on me. But let Dunmore beware if he thinks to deprive me of command over my riflemen! I’ve made them what they are — not for my Lord Dunmore, but for my country, when the call to arms peals out of every steeple from Maine to Virginia.”

  Cloud lifted his hat. “Please God, those same bells will ring before I die,” he said, serenely.

  “They’ll ring when the British fleet sights Boston,” observed the Weasel.

  “They’ll ring loud enough for Harrod and Dan Boone to hear ’em on the Kentucky,” added Mount.

  I said nothing, but looked down at the powder trail, which led into the magazine through a hole under the heavy double door. Cresap pushed the heap of powder with his foot.

  “Ah, well,” he said, “it’s liberty or death for all save human cattle — liberty or death, sure enough, as the Virginian puts it.”

  “Patrick Henry is in Pittsburg,” began Mount; but Cresap went on without heeding him: “Patrick Henry has given my riflemen their watchword; and the day that sees them marching north will find that watchword lettered on the breast of every hunting-shirt — Liberty or Death.”

  Turning his clear eyes on me, he said, “You will be with us, will you not, sir?”

  “My father fought at Quebec,” I answered, slowly.

  “And my father yonder at Fort Pitt, when it was Fort Duquesne, not under Braddock, but in ‘58, when the British razed the French works and built Fortress Pitt on the ruins. What of it? Your father and my father fought for England. They were Englishmen. Let us, who are Americans, imitate our fathers by fighting for America. We could do their memory no truer honour.”

  “I have not made up my mind to fight our King,” I answered, slowly. “But I have determined to fight his deputy, Lord Dunmore.”

  “And all his agents?” added Mount, promptly.

  “You mean Dunmore’s?” I asked.

  “The King’s,” said Cloud.

  “Yes, the King’s, too, if they interfere with my people!” I blurted out.

  “Oh, I think you will march with us when the time comes,” said Cresap, with one of his rare smiles; and he led the way out of the stockade, cautioning us to step clear of the powder.

  “Cut a time-fuse for the train and bring it to me at the barracks,” he said to Cloud; and, saluting us thoughtfully, he entered the casemates, where the women and children were gathered in tearful silence.

  I heard him tell the poor creatures that their homes had gone up in smoke; that, for the moment, it was necessary to retire to Fort Pitt, and that each family might take only such household implements and extra clothing as they could carry in their arms.

  There was not a whimper from the women, only quiet tears. Even the children, looking up solemnly at Cresap, bravely stifled the sobs of fear that crowded into every little throat.

  The day wore away in preparation for the march. I had nothing to prepare; I had lost my rifle and ammunition when a prisoner among the Cayugas, and my spare clothing and provisions when Boyd’s Inn was burned. Fortunately, Boyd had buckled on my money-belt for safe keeping, and the honest old man delivered it to me, condoling with me for the loss of my clothing and food; and never a word of complaint for his own loss of home and bed and everything he owned in the world, nor would he accept a shilling from me to aid him towards a new beginning in life.

  “I am only seventy-three,” he said, coolly; “when these arms of mine cannot build me a home, let them fashion my coffin!”

  And he picked up his long rifle and walked away to help load the ox-teams with powder, ball, and provisions.

  One thing that Mount told me aroused my anger and contempt: there was now not a Tory left among Cresap’s people; all had fled when Greathouse fled, proving clearly that, if all had not aided in the slaughter of Logan’s children, they at least had been informed of the plot and had probably been warned that the murderous deed would be laid at Tory doors.

  Towards dusk our scouts began to come in, one by one, with sad stories concerning the outlying settlements and lonely farms. One had seen a charred doorway choked with dead children, all scalped; another, lying hid, saw a small war-party pass with eighteen fresh scalps, three of them taken from women and little girls; a third vowed that the Oneidas had joined in, and he exhibited a moccasin that he had found, as proof. But when I saw the moccasin, I knew it to be Mohawk, and it troubled me greatly, yet I did not inform Cresap, because I could not believe our Mohawks had risen.

  At nine o’clock the postern was opened quietly, and the first detachment of riflemen left the fort, stealing out into the starlight, weapons at a trail. When the scouts returned to say that the coast was clear, the column started in perfect silence. First marched a company of Maryland riflemen; after them filed the ox-teams, loaded with old women and very small children, the wagons rolling on muffled wheels; then followed a company of Virginia militia, and after them came more ox-teams piled with ammunition and stores, and accompanied by young women and grown children. The rear was covered by the bulk of the militia and riflemen, with our brass cannon dragged by the only horse in the ill-fated town.

  When the rear-guard had disappeared in the darkness, Cresap, Mount, Cade Renard, and I bolted the gates, drew up the drawbridge, locked it, and dropped the keys into the moat. Then Cresap and Mount ran across the parade towards the magazine, while we tied a knotted rope to the southern parapet and shook it free so that it hung to the edge of the counter-scarp below.

  Presently Mount came hurrying back across the parade and up the scarp to where we stood, bidding us hasten, for the fuse was afire and might burn more quickly than we expected.

  Down the rope, hand over hand, tumbled the Weasel, and then Mount motioned me to go. But just as I started, up above my head in the darkness I heard the flag flap
ping; I paused, then stepped towards the pole.

  “The flag,” I said. “You have forgotten it—”

  “It’s only the damned British flag!” said Mount. “Down the rope with you, lad! Do you want to keep us till the fort blows up?”

  “I can’t leave the flag,” I said, doggedly.

  “To hell with it!” retorted Mount, fiercely, and pushed me towards the rope.

  “Let me alone!” I flashed out, backing towards the flag-pole.

  “Oh, go to the devil your own way,” growled Mount, but I saw he did not leave the rampart while I was lowering the flag and ripping it from the halyards.

  Cresap came rushing up the scarp as I stuffed the flag into the breast of my hunting-shirt.

  “Are you mad?” he cried. “Down the rope there, Cardigan! Follow him for your life, Jack Mount!”

  And down I scrambled, followed by Mount and Cresap, and we all ran as though the Six Nations were at our heels.

  In the dark we passed a rifleman who scampered on ahead to pilot us, and after ten minutes at top speed we joined the rear-guard and fell in with the major, panting.

  “A slick trick you played,” grunted Mount, “with that bloody British flag.”

  “It was mine, once,” I retorted, hotly.

  “Oh, you would blow us all up for it, eh?” asked the big fellow, pettishly. “Well, you be damned, and your flag, too!”

  His voice was blotted out in a roar which shook the solid forest; a crimson flame shot up to the stars; then thunderous darkness buried us.

  Half-smothered cries and shrieks came from the long convoy ahead, but these were quickly silenced, the frightened oxen subdued, and the column hastened on into the night.

  “Now that the fort’s exploded, look out for the Iroquois,” said Mount, steadying his voice with an effort.

  Cresap had given me a rifle. I halted to load it, then ran on to join Mount and Renard. We plodded on in silence for a while. Presently Mount asked me what I meant to do in Pittsburg.

  “I mean to see Lord Dunmore,” I replied, quietly.

  Mount pretended to fear for his Lordship’s scalp, but I was in no humour for jesting, and I said no more.

  “What are you going to do to old Dunmore?” urged the big fellow, curiously.

  “See here, my good man,” said I, “you are impertinent. I am an accredited deputy of Sir William Johnson, and my business is his.”

  “You need not be so surly,” grumbled Mount.

  “You’ve hurt his feelings,” observed the Weasel, trotting at my heels.

  “Whose? Mount’s?” I asked. “Well, I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you, Mount.”

  “That’s all very well, but you did,” said Mount. “I’ve got feelings, too, just as much as the Weasel has.”

  “No, you haven’t,” said the Weasel, hastily. “I’m a ruined man, and you know it. Haven’t I been through enough to give me sensitive feelings?”

  Mount nudged me. “He’s thinking of his wife and baby,” he said. “Talk to him about them. He likes it. It harrows him, doesn’t it, Cade?”

  “It hurts fearful,” replied the Weasel, looking up at me hopefully.

  “You had a lovely wife, didn’t you, Cade?” inquired Mount, sympathetically.

  “Yes — oh yes. And a baby girl, Jack — don’t forget the baby girl,” sniffed the Weasel, trotting beside me.

  “The baby must be nigh fifteen years old now, eh, Cade?” suggested Mount.

  “Sixteen, nigh sixteen, Jack. The cunning little thing.”

  “What became of her?” I asked, gently.

  “Nobody knows, nobody knows,” murmured the Weasel. “My wife left me and took my baby girl. Some say she went with one of Sir Peter Warren’s captains, some say it 211 was an admiral who charmed her. I don’t know. She was gone and the fleet was gone when they told me.”

  He laid his hard little hand on my arm and looked up with bright eyes.

  “Since that,” he said, “I’ve been a little queer in my head. You may have noticed it. Oh yes, I’ve been a little mad, haven’t I, Jack?”

  “A little,” said Mount, tenderly.

  “I have not noticed it,” said I.

  “Oh, but I have,” he insisted. “I talk with my baby in the woods; don’t I, Jack? And I see her, too,” he added, triumphantly. “That proves me a little mad; doesn’t it, Jack?”

  “The Weasel was once a gentleman,” said Mount, in my ear. “He had a fine mansion near Boston.”

  “I hear you!” piped the Weasel. “I hear you, Jack. You are quite right, too. I was a gentleman. I have ridden to hounds, Mr. Cardigan, many a covert I’ve drawn, many a brush fell to me. I was master of fox-hounds, Mr. Cardigan. None rode harder than I. I kept a good cellar, too, and an open house — ah, yes, an open house, sir. And that was where ruin came in, finding the door open — and the fleet in the downs.”

  “And you came home and your dear wife had run away with an officer from Sir Peter Warren’s ships — eh, Cade, old friend?” said Mount, affectionately.

  “And took our baby — don’t forget the baby, Jack,” piped the Weasel.

  “And if you could only find the man you’d slit his gullet, wouldn’t you, Cade?” inquired Mount, dropping one great arm over the Weasel’s shoulder.

  “Oh, dear, yes,” replied the Weasel, amiably.

  I had been looking ahead along the line of wagons, where a lanthorn was glimmering. The convoy had halted, and presently Mount, Cade Renard, and I walked on along the ranks of resting troops and loaded wains until we came to where the light shone on a group of militia officers and riflemen. Cresap was there, wrapped in his heavy cloak; and when he perceived me he called me.

  As I approached, followed naïvely by Mount and Renard, 212 I was surprised to see a tall Indian standing beside Cresap, muffled to the chin in a dark blanket.

  “Cardigan,” said Cresap, “my scouts found this Indian walking ahead in the trail all alone. He made no resistance, and they brought him in. He seems to be foolish or simple-minded. I can’t make him out. You see he is unarmed. What is he?”

  I glanced at the tall, silent Indian; a glance was enough.

  “This man is a Cayuga and a chief,” I said, in a low voice.

  “Speak to him,” said Cresap; “he appears not to understand me. I speak only Tuscarora, and that badly.”

  I looked at the silent Cayuga and made the sign of brotherhood. His dull eyes regarded me steadily.

  “Brother,” I said, “by the cinders on your brow you mourn for the dead.”

  “I mourn,” he replied, simply.

  “A son?”

  “A family. I am Logan.”

  Shocked, I gazed in pity on the stern, noble visage. So this was Logan, the wretched man bereft of all his loved ones by Greathouse!

  I turned quietly to Cresap.

  “This is the great Cayuga chief, Logan, whose children were murdered,” I said.

  Cresap turned a troubled face on the mute savage.

  “Ask him where he journeys.”

  “Where do you journey, brother?” I asked, gently.

  “I go to Fort Pitt,” he answered, without emotion.

  “To ask justice?”

  “To ask it.”

  “God grant you justice,” I said, gravely.

  To Cresap I said, “He seeks justice at Fort Pitt from Lord Dunmore.”

  “Bid him come with us,” replied Cresap, soberly. “He may not get justice at Fort Pitt, but there is a higher Judge than the Earl of Dunmore. To Him I also look for the justice that men shall deny me on earth.”

  I took Logan by the hand and led him into a space behind the wagons. Here we waited in silence until the slow convoy 213 moved, and then we followed as mourners follow a casket to the grave of all their hopes.

  Hour after hour we journeyed unmolested; the stars faded, but it was not yet dawn when a far voice cried in the darkness and a light moved, and we knew that the warders of the fortress were hailing our vanguard at the gate
s of Pittsburg.

  CHAPTER XIII

  I awoke in a flood of brightest sunshine which poured over the walls of my chamber and bathed the sweet lavender-scented sheets on my bed.

  The water in the washing-bowl reflected the sunlight, and the white ceiling above me wavered with golden-netted ripples. A gentle wind moved the curtains to and fro, a brisk breeze, yet saturated with the disquieting taint of unknown odours, odours of a town whose streets are thronged with strange people. Those bred within the strip which runs along the borders of a wilderness find the air of towns confusing, as a keen hound, running perdu, enters a vast runway where a thousand pungent trails recross.

  Reconnoitring the room from my sunny couch, I poked my sun-warmed muzzle out of the sheets, sniffing and inspecting the unfamiliar surroundings. Then I cautiously stretched my limbs, and finding myself supple and sound, leaped lightly onto the rag-carpet in my bare feet and stood looking out of the window.

  This lodging whither Mount and Renard had piloted me when our convoy passed the ramparts of Fortress Pitt, was an inn called the “Virginia Arms,” a most clean and respectable hostelry, though sometimes suspected as a trysting-place for rebels. James Rolfe, a Boston man, was our host, a thin-edged, mottled, shrewd-eyed fellow, whose nasal voice sounded continually through the house from tap-room to garret, in sarcastic comment on his servants. I heard him now as I stood at the window:

  “Oh, Hiram, yew dinged sack o’ shucks, the gentleman in 27 is knocking on the floor! Jonas! A pot o’ small-beer for the gentleman in 17! Land o’ Goshen, yew run like a frost-nipped spider! The gentleman in 6 is waiting for his wig! What’s that? Waal, yew go right ‘round tew the hairdresser’s 215 and tell him tew bring that wig! Hey? Yes, the wig dressed a-lar-Francy! Don’t set there rubbing yewr chin like a dumned chipimunk, Simon, while Mister Patrick Henry is waiting for them queue ribbons from Corwin’s. Eh? You fetched ‘em? Well, why in the name o’ Virginy can’t you say so? Clean them buckles for the gentleman in 20, yew darned clam!”

  His penetrating, half-fretful, half-humorous voice died away towards the stables in the rear, and I parted the dainty curtains and peeped out into the streets of Pittsburg. Our inn stood on the corner of the town square, opposite the village green. Across the square rose some well-made barracks, painted white; I could see red-coated sentinels posted at the gates and walking their beats along the west stockade. A few handsome mansions faced the square, two churches and a public house completed the north side of the quadrangle. East and west shops and smaller houses lined the streets; the green bush hung in the sunshine, the barber’s basin swung and glittered among a forest of gayly painted sign-boards.