He spoke gently, but there was a sting in the tail of his speech which I certainly deserved for my impertinent prying into his past, and I very promptly asked his pardon for my thoughtlessness.
“I am certain it was nothing more than that,” he said, cheerfully; “pray you, my dear sir, believe me that I took no offence. Sometimes my tongue is sharp; my infirmity is my poor apology. I do not wonder at your amusement to hear a shabby forest-runner stammer Latin. But I shall forget my Latin, too; I shall forget all save what I pray to forget.”
With his forefinger he quietly obliterated a tear in each eye.
“You know I had a wife?” he asked.
“And baby,” I added, mechanically.
“Exactly, sir; a wife and baby girl — the sweetest little maid—”
And, following his mania, to which I lent myself out of pity, he repeated the fragments of the tale I had come to know so well, adding nothing new, nor casting any light on anything he said.
Mount came in noisily while the Weasel was speaking, but, though the big fellow was impatient and burning to exhibit the new clothes which he wore, he sat down quietly until Renard had finished the familiar tale. Heaven alone knows how many times Mount had heard it, but his sympathy never failed, and now he looked so tenderly and lovingly at the Weasel that I almost loved him for it, swaggering, tippling, graceless purse-taker that he was.
However, after maintaining for a full minute that sober silence which decency as well as his loyal affection for the Weasel required, he ventured to call our attention to his new buckskins, fitted, cut, and stitched in twenty-four hours by four tailor-women, whom he described as modest and yet no bigots, as they had appreciated the kiss apiece which he had joyously bestowed upon them.
“No saucy maid durst call me pottle-pot now!” he said, triumphantly, smoothing his soft, new garments with his fingers, and regarding his deeply fringed legs with naïve delight. “Which brings to mind that I have drunk no morning draught this day,” he added, clacking his tongue and winking at the Weasel.
“Mr. Cardigan is in some trouble,” observed the Weasel, hesitating.
“Oh, then we won’t drink while a friend is in trouble,” said Mount, sitting down on the bed.
“It is only that I have no letter from Dunmore or from Miss Warren,” I muttered, looking out into the street to spy if a messenger were coming our way.
We sat there in silence, gnawing our knuckles, and it did not please me to wait Lord Dunmore’s pleasure like a servant.
That Silver Heels had not yet written also displeased me, for I was not then habituated to the ways of a maid.
“Do you think the runner I hired to carry my letter to Sir William will be scalped?” I asked, turning to look at Mount.
“He has been scalped,” said Mount, quietly.
Thunderstruck, I sprang to my feet, and finally found tongue to ask how he had heard such news.
“Why, lad,” he said, modestly, “I followed your runner last night when he left you abed here, and he had not gone ten paces from this inn ere a man left the shadow of the trees yonder to dog us both. It was what I feared; but, Lord! — I caught the fellow by the market yonder, and trounced him till he could neither stand nor sit. I was a fool; I should have followed your runner and brought him back. I did follow, but he had struck a fast pace, and besides they delayed me at the fortress gate with questions about my business. When I cleared the sentries I started to run; but my journey was short enough, God knows!”
He paused, looking down at the fur cap he was slowly twirling on his thumb.
“Your messenger lay dead by the wood’s edge,” he added, abruptly.
“I had not dreamed the savages were so near,” said I, horrified.
“Some savages are,” he observed.
“Was he scalped?” I asked.
“In Mohawk style, lad.”
“Impossible!” I cried.
“Not at all. I say he was scalped in Mohawk fashion, leaving the raw strip over the forehead, but I did not say that Mohawks scalped him.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, huskily.
“I mean that Walter Butler’s men did this, and that your letter is now in Dunmore’s hands.”
Rage blinded me. Doubtless I made some noise and talked wildly of seeking Dunmore, and I know I found myself struggling with Mount to leave the room. But I was an infant in his grasp, and presently I sat down again, perforce, while Mount and Renard reasoned with me somewhat sternly.
“The sooner you leave Pitt the safer for you,” said Mount. “The town talks of little but your accusation of Dunmore last night. You may think yourself safe because you are Sir William Johnson’s deputy, but I know that Dunmore and 263 Butler will treat you as they did your messenger if you give them half a chance. What’s to prove that the Cayugas be not your murderers? Tush, lad! This is no time for boyish fury. Get your kinswoman, Miss Warren, out of this town. Get her out to-night. Are you waiting for Dunmore’s escort and horses? You will see neither, save perhaps in pursuit of you. Why, lad, the Governor is crazed with the disgrace you have brought upon him! Trust me, he will stop at nothing where he can strike unseen.”
“You mean he will not answer my letter or accord me escort?” I asked, astonished.
“If he furnished you escort, it would be an escort of murderers who would take care you never saw Johnstown,” said the Weasel.
“Can’t you feel that you are in a trap?” asked Mount. “Gad! it should pinch you ere this!”
“And you leave it to us to open it for you,” added the Weasel, sagely. “We are none too safe here ourselves. Mayhap some of those same pamphlets and ballads and books may be sold hereabouts to our discredit.”
“I also think that Cade and I have outstayed our welcome,” said Mount, with a grin. “If we meet your friend Butler, run we must.”
At that moment Rolfe came up from below, bearing in his hand a letter for me, and saying that it had been brought hither by a servant in Lady Shelton’s livery.
I took the letter; the seal had already been broken, and I glared at Rolfe and pointed to it.
“Ay,” he observed, shaking his head; “the slavering servant fetched it so. It may be accident; it may be design, Mr. Cardigan. You best know, sir, who may be your foes in Pittsburg town, and what they might gain by a knowledge of your letters.”
“The inn, here, is closely spied,” observed Mount, coolly. “Doubtless my lady Shelton’s lackeys can be bribed as well as the King’s ministers.”
“The sooner we leave the happier we shall be,” said the Weasel, cheerfully. “Jimmy Rolfe, that stout post-chaise, well provisioned, and four strong horses might help us to-night — eh, friend?”
“I cannot pay for that,” I said, blankly, looking up from my letter.
“The chaise is yours,” said Rolfe, resentfully. “Pay when you can, sir; I trade not with friends in need.” And he went out, disrespectfully slamming the door.
“A rare man,” said Mount, “but touchy, lad, touchy. Give the devil his due and Jim Rolfe would wear shillings on his coat-tails.”
“He is a loyal friend,” I said, reddening. “I have much to learn of men.”
“And men have much to learn of you, lad!” said Mount, heartily. “Come, sir, read your nosegay, and may it bring you happiness! Weasel, turn thy back and make pretence to catch flies.”
I went over to the window, and, leaning against the bars, opened the violated letter and read it carefully:
“Dear Cozzen Michael, — I am not permitted to accompany you today to Johnstown it being a racing day and I pledged to attend with Lady Shelton and divers respectable ladies and gentlemen.
“And oh Micky why did you say such things to Lord Dunmore last night? I have been ill of it all night and in a fever for fear they may harm you, though Lady Shelton assures me your person is safe, being a deputy of Sir William, and further says that you are an unmannerly and bold rebel and desires not your presence in her house, and desires me to inform
you. Oh Micky what have you done? I do not desire any longer to wed Lord Dunmore and be a Countess, but I had not thought to have you speak so to Lord Dunmore. He came here last evening in a white fury and showed me the letter you had written to him. He says that you are not the messenger he expected, though you may be a deputy, and he vows he will not be so vilely used, and he will not give me up but will publish the banns to-day in Pitt, come what may. Which has frightened me so I write to you that I do not wish to be a countess any more and would be glad to go to Aunt Molly and Sir William.
“I will rise from bed at eleven o’clock to-night and go out into the orchard with Black Betty. Pray you cozzen, greet me with a post-chaise and take me away from these dreadful, dreadful people.
“Your cozzen,
“Felicity.
“Postscriptum
“To witt, I will not wed you though we be affianced, and I will wed no man upon your recommendation. With your own affairs I pray you be dilligently active and concern yourself not with mine hereafter.”
265 When I had again read the letter I examined the wax. The paper had been carelessly folded and more carelessly sealed; and I called to Mount and the Weasel, pointing out that, though the letter was unsealed, the wax itself had not been broken.
“I do not think,” said I, “that this letter has deliberately been tampered with. This is only carelessness.”
“It was certainly sealed and folded in haste,” remarked the Weasel, poking at the wax with his forefinger.
Mount also pretended to believe that negligence or haste accounted for the open letter, and, satisfied, we sat down to discuss the measures to be taken for a fortnight flight.
I had a mind to follow Silver Heels to the races, trusting that I might find a moment to warn her most solemnly not to fail us. Mount thought the idea most wise, offering to bear me company, and the Weasel agreed to remain and assist Rolfe to equip and furnish our post-chaise with the necessaries for a long journey.
It was understood between us that Silver Heels and Black Betty were to ride in the chaise, and I with them; that Mount and the Weasel would sit the horses as postilions, and that Shemuel should ride atop. It was further decided that, as the northern and western frontier were impassable in view of the border war, we should take the post-road to the Virginia border, make for Williamsburg, and from there turn north across Maryland and the Jerseys, reaching Johnstown through New York and Albany.
I gave the Weasel money to purchase powder and ball, which we all lacked, and to buy for me a silver watch and a rifle or firelock to replace the loss of my own. Also, I charged him to purchase pistols for me and for Shemuel, with flint and ball for the same, and to sharpen our knives and hatchets against need.
“You waste breath,” observed Mount, yawning. “The Weasel never neglects to file his claws for battle.”
“Very well,” said I, wincing; “it seems that of us all I alone know nothing of my own affairs.”
“You will learn,” said the Weasel, kindly, and I was obliged to swallow their well-meant patronage and follow Mount to the street.
“If I had my way,” said I, resentfully, “I would take Miss Warren from the races and set out by noon.”
“If I had my way,” observed Mount, “I should not try to escape to-night at all.”
“Why not?” I asked, in surprise.
“Because of that unsealed letter.”
“But we agreed it was accident!”
“Ay, we agree, but mayhap there are others yet to disagree.”
“Nonsense!” I said.
“Doubtless,” said Mount, with the faintest trace of irony, enough to flavour his mild smile with that mockery which hurts the pride of very young men.
Offended, I strode on beside him, and neither he nor I offered to speak again until Mount suddenly stopped in the middle of the King’s Road and looked back.
“What’s amiss?” I asked, forgetting my sulks.
“Oh, we are followed again,” said Mount, wearily.
I stared about but could see nobody who appeared to be observing us. There were numbers of people on the King’s Road, trudging through the dust as were we, and doubtless also bound for the races on Roanoke Plain. I saw no vehicles or horsemen: the quality in their chairs and coaches would go by the fashionable Boundary; the fox-hunting horsemen met at the “Buckeye Tavern,” a resort for British officers and gentlemen; unpretentious folk must foot it by the shortest route, which was to pass the fortress by the King’s Road.
“Are you sure we are followed?” I asked.
“Not quite,” said Mount, simply. “I shall know anon. Trust me in this, lad, and take pains to do instantly what I do. Perhaps my life may pay for this day’s pleasure.”
“I will take care to imitate you,” said I, anxiously. “You know how deeply in your debt I stand confessed.”
“Good lad,” he said, gravely; “I do not doubt you, friend Michael. As for any debt, your courtesy has long cancelled it.”
The quaint compliment had a pretty savour, coming from one whose world was not my own.
We were now passing that angle of the fortified works through which the King’s Road passes between two block-housen. 267 The sentries, standing in the shadow of the stockade, watched us without visible interest, turning their idle heads to scan the next comer, and stare impudently if it were some petticoat.
So, unquestioned, we passed out into the country, where a few heavily stockaded farms flanked the road, always built on heights, and always free from trees or any cover that might shelter an attacking enemy. Beyond these farms the road became a turnpike, and we stopped at the toll-gate to pay tuppence to the keeper’s wife, who sat nursing a baby, one hand on a rifle, which she never let go until the evening brought her husband to keep his perilous vigil there all night.
“No,” she said, listlessly, “no Indians have troubled us. Yet, God knows I sleep not while my man is out here in the night, though they send a patrol from the fortress every hour.”
Mount earnestly advised her to give up the toll-gate until the border had quieted; but she only stared, saying, “How, then, are we to live?” And we passed on in silence, side by side.
Beyond the toll-gate a broad road curved out from the turnpike, running south, and Mount pointed it out as the road we were to travel that night.
“It crosses the Virginia border by that blue hill yonder,” he said, then suddenly jerked his head over his shoulder.
“I think I am right; I think I know the jade,” he said, calmly.
“Is it a woman who follows us?” I asked, amazed.
“Ay, a bit of a lass, maybe eighteen or thereabouts.”
“You know her?”
“And she me,” said Mount, grimly. “Harkee, friend Michael, if you must needs know the truth, her father is — Gad! I can scarce say it to you, but — well — her father is what they call a thief-taker.”
“What has that to do with us?” I asked.
Mount spoke with an effort: “Because I have stopped some few purse-proud magistrates upon the highway, they say evil things o’ me. That lass behind us means to follow me and tell her lout of a father where I may be found.”
I was horrified, and he saw it and stopped short in his tracks.
“You are right,” he said, simply; “a gentleman cannot be found in such company. Go on alone, lad; it is right, and I shall bear no malice.”
“Jack!” I said, hotly; “do you believe I would cry quits now? Damnation! Come on, sir! I would as soon take the King’s highway myself!”
His firm mouth relaxed and quivered a little; he hesitated, then walked forward beside me with a touch of that old swagger, muttering something about gentle blood and what’s bred in the bone.
“It’s all very well,” he said; “it’s all very well for some of our people to say that we men are created equal. There’s no truth in it. A broodhound never cast whippets, let them say what they will!”
We were now in sight of the flag-covered pavilion on
Roanoke Plain, and on either side of us the road was lined with those drinking-booths and peddler-stands and cheap-jack tents which had pitched camps here for the day rather than pay the tax required to sell their wares within the racing-grounds.
Around them the townspeople clustered, some munching gingerbread and pies, some watching the gilded wheel of fortune spin their pennies into another man’s pockets, some paying for a peep into a dark shed where doubtless wonders were to be seen for a penny. Ragged children sold colours and cards for the races; peddlers assailed our ears at every step; fortune-tellers followed us, predicting unexpected blessings, which turned to curses when we passed along unheeding; acrobats, tumblers, jugglers, strong men, and merry-andrews hailed us as their proper prey. And, in sooth, had it not been for the sickening knowledge of Mount’s peril, I should have found keen pleasure in spending all I had, to see everybody and everything at this show; for I do dearly love strange sights, and in Johnstown I have always viewed them all, with Silver Heels and Esk and Peter, when the season of racing brought these gay folk to our town.
But now I had no stomach for pleasure, nor had Mount, for he scarcely glanced at the booths as we passed, though 269 there was ale there, and sweet Virginia wines, which drew the very honey-bees themselves.
Suddenly Mount said, “This will not do; I have been hunted long enough!”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Hunt in my turn,” he said, grimly.
“Hunt — what?”
“The lass who hunts me. Follow, lad. On your life, do as I do. Now, then! Gay! Gay! Ruffle it, lad! Cut a swagger, cock your cap, and woe to the maid who is beguiled by us!”
The change in him was amazing; his airs, his patronage, his chaff, his lightening wit! — it was the old Mount again, quaffing a great cup of ale, pledging every pretty face that passed, hammering his pewter to emphasize his words, talking with all who would answer him; glorious in his self-esteem, amusing in his folly, a dandy, a ruffler, a careless, wine-bibbing, wench-bussing coureur-de-bois, and king of them all without an effort.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 109