“Where is my own money?” I asked.
Sir John passed me a letter, sealed, which he said would recommend me to the lawyer in Albany who administered my fortune until I became of legal age. Then he resumed his study of the will.
“Read from the beginning,” I said. I had a curious feeling that it was indecent to ignore anything Sir William had written, in order to hurry to that clause relating only to my own selfish profit.
Sir John glanced at me across the table, then read aloud, in his cold, passionless voice:
“In the name of God, Amen! I, Sir William Johnson, of Johnson Hall, in the County of Tryon and Province of New York, Bart., being of sound and disposing mind, memory, and understanding, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will and Testament in manner and form following:
“First and principally, I resign my soul to the great and merciful God who made it, in hopes, through the merits alone of my blessed Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, to have a joyful resurrection to life eternal—”
He stopped abruptly, saying that he saw no necessity for reading all that, and turned directly to the clause concerning me. Then he read:
“And as to the worldly and temporal estate which God was pleased to endow me with, I devise, bequeath, and dispose of in the following manner: Imprimis. I will, order and direct that all such just debts as I may owe, at the time of my decease, to be paid by my son Sir John Johnson, Baronet....
“Item. To my dearly beloved kinsman and ward, Michael Cardigan, I give and bequeath the sum of three thousand pounds, York currency, to him or the survivor of him. Also my own horse Warlock.”
Sir John turned several pages, found another clause, and read:
“To the aforesaid Michael Cardigan I devise and bequeath that lot of land which I purchased from Jelles Fonda, in the Kennyetto Patent; also two hundred acres of land adjoining thereto, being part of the Perth Patent, to be laid out in a compact body between the sugar bush and the Kennyetto Creek; also four thousand acres in the Royal Grant, now called Kingsland, next to the Mohawk River, where is the best place for salmon fishing; also that strip of land from the falls or carrying-place to Lot No. 1, opposite to the hunting-lodge of Colonel John Butler, where woodcocks, snipes, and wild ducks are accustomed to be shot by me, within the limits and including all the game-land I bought from Peter Weaver.”
Sir John folded the paper and handed it to me, saying, “It is strange that Sir William thought fit to bequeath you such a vast property.”
“What provision was made for Felicity?” I asked, quietly.
“She might have had three thousand pounds and a thousand acres adjoining yours in the Kennyetto Patent,” replied Sir John, coldly. “But under present circumstances — ahem — she receives nothing.”
I thought a moment. In the hallway I heard the officers returning with Colonel Guy Johnson from their inspection.
“Where is Felicity?” I asked, suddenly.
He looked up in displeasure at my brusqueness, but did not reply. I repeated the question.
“She is near Boston,” he said, with a frown of annoyance. “Her lawyer is Thomas Foxcroft in Queen Street.”
“When will she return here?”
“She will not return.”
“What!” I cried, springing to my feet.
Sir John eyed me sullenly.
“I beg you will conduct in moderation,” he said.
“Then tell me what you have done with my cousin Felicity!”
“She is not your cousin, or any kin to you or to us,” he said, coldly. “I have had some correspondence with Sir Peter Warren, which, I may say, does not concern you. Enough that Felicity is not his niece, nor the daughter of his dead brother, nor any kin whatever to him, to us, or to you. Further than that I have nothing to say, except that the young woman is now with her own kin, and will remain there, because it is her proper legal residence. Better for you,” he added, grimly, “and better for us if you had not meddled with what did not concern you, and had allowed Lord Dunmore to take her—”
“Dunmore! Wed Felicity!” I burst out.
“Wed? Who said he meant to wed her? He did not; he knew from Sir Peter Warren who Felicity is; he knew it before we did, and informed Sir Peter. Wed her? Ay, with the left hand, perhaps.”
I rose, trembling in every limb.
“The damned scoundrel!” I stammered. “The damned, foul-fleshed scoundrel! God! Had I known — had I dreamed—”
“You will control your temper here at least,” he said, pointing to the card-room, where Colonel Guy Johnson and 346 the Border officers were staring at us through the open doors.
“No, I will not!” I cried. “I care not who hears me! And I say shame on you for your indecency! Shame on you for your callous, merciless judgment, when you, God knows, require the mercy you refuse to others, you damned hypocrite!”
“Silence!” he said, turning livid. “You leave this house to-night for your regiment.”
“I leave it in no service which tolerates such blackguards as Dunmore or such bloodless criminals as you!” I retorted, tearing my sword from my belt. Then I stepped forward, and, looking him straight in the eyes, slammed my sheathed sword down on the table before him.
“You, your Governors, and your King are too poor to buy the sword I would wear,” I said, between my teeth.
“Are you mad?” he muttered, staring.
I laughed.
“Not I,” I said, gayly, “but the pack o’ fools who curse my country with their folly, like that withered, half-witted Governor of Virginia, like that pompous ass in Boston, like you yourself, sir, though God knows it chokes to say it of your father’s son!”
“Major Benning,” cried Sir John, “you will place that lunatic under arrest!”
My major started, then took a step towards me.
“Try it!” said I, all the evil in me on fire. “Go to the devil, sir! — where your own business is doubtless stewing. Hands off, sir! — or I throw you through the window!”
“Good Gad!” muttered Benning. “The lad’s gone stark!”
“But I still shoot straight,” I said, picking up Sir William’s favourite rifle and handling it most carelessly.
“Mind what you are about!” cried Sir John, furiously. “That piece is charged!”
“I am happy to know it,” I replied, dropping it into the hollow of my arm so he could look down the black muzzle.
And I walked out of the room and up the stairs to my own little chamber, there to remove from my body the livery of my King, never again to resume it.
I spent the day in packing together all articles which were 347 rightly mine, bought with my own money or given me by Sir William: my books, my prints, some flutes which I could not play, my rods and fowling-pieces, all my clothing, my paper and Faber pencil — all gifts from Sir William.
I wished also for a memento from his room, something the more valuable to me because valueless to others, and I found his ivory cane to take and his leather book, the same being a treatise on fishing by a certain Isaac Walton, who, if he tells the truth, knew little about the habits of trout and salmon, and did write much foolishness in a pretty manner.
However, Sir William loved to read from Isaac Walton his book, and I have oft heard him singing lustily the catches and ballads which do abound in that same book — and to its detriment, in my opinion.
Laden with these, and also with a scrap of sleeve-ribbon, all I could find in Silver Heels’s chamber, I did make two bundles of my property, done neatly in blankets. Then, to empty my purse and strong-box and fill my money-belt, placing there also my letter of recommendation to the lawyer, Peter Weaver, Esquire, who administered my investments.
Gillie Bareshanks I hailed from the orchard, bidding him saddle Warlock with a dragoon’s saddle, and place forage for three days in the saddle-bags, dropping at the same time my riding-coat from the window, to be rolled and buckled across the pommel.
I dressed me once more in new buckskins, with
Mohawk moccasins and leggings, this to save the wear of travel on my better clothing, of which I did take but one suit, the same being my silver-gray velvet, cut with French elegance, and hat to match.
Now, as I looked from the windows, I could see Sir John, Colonel Guy, and their guests, mounting to ride to the village, doubtless in order that they should be shown Sir William’s last resting-place. So I, being free of the house, wandered through it from cellar to attic, because it was to be my last hour in the only home I had ever known.
Mercifully, though the heart be full to breaking, youth can never fully realize that the old order has ended forever; else why, even in bitterest sorrow, glimmers that thread of light through darkness which we call the last ray of hope? 348 It never leaves us; men say it flees, but it goes out only with the life that nourished it.
Deep, deep in my heart I felt that I should look upon these familiar walls once more, when, in happier days, my dear love and I should return to the hills we must always love for Sir William’s sake.
And so I strayed through the silent, sunny rooms, touching the walls with aching heart, and bidding each threshold adieu. Ghosts walked with me through the dimmed sunbeams; far in the house, faintest familiar sounds seemed to stir, half-heard whispers, the echo of laughter, a dear voice calling from above. Over these floors Silver Heels’s light feet had passed, brushing every plank, perhaps the very spot I stood on. Hark! Over and over again that fading echo filled my ears for an instant, as though somebody had just spoken in a distant room.
Passing the stocks where Silver Heels had so often sat to pout and embroider, or battle with us to protect her helpless feet from torment, I came to the school-room once more.
Apparently nobody had entered it since I had written my verses on Eurydice — so long, so long ago. There were traces of the verses still — smeared from my struggle with Silver Heels when I had written:
“Silver Heels toes in like ducks.”
Heaven save the libel!
And here on a bench was my tattered mythology, thumbed and bitten, and the fly-leaf soaked with ink where Peter had made a scene of battle in Indian fashion, the English being scalped on all sides by himself, Esk, and Joseph Brant, all labelled.
I took the book, turning to where I had written my bequest to Silver Heels on the inside cover, and then carried it to my chamber, there to add this last link of childhood to the others in my packets.
I do not exactly understand why, but I also carried with me the flag I had taken from Cresap’s fort, and rolled it up in my uniform which was given me by Sir William.
Neither flag nor uniform were any longer mine, yet I ever 349 have found it impossible to neglect that which I once loved. So I rolled the bunting and my scarlet clothes with my best silver-gray velvet, and tied all together.
When young Bareshanks came to announce that Warlock waited, I bade him carry my two packets down, following, myself, with Sir William’s long rifle, and otherwise completely equipped with hatchet, knife, powder and ball, flint and tinder, and a small stew-pan.
With these Warlock was laden like a pack-horse, leaving room in the saddle for me. Bareshanks held my stirrup; I mounted, shook hands with him, not daring to attempt a word, and, with tears blinding me, turned my horse’s head south on the Albany post-road.
Mr. Duncan, standing near the stables, gazed at me in astonishment.
“Ho!” he called out. “More wood-running, Mr. Cardigan? Faith, the scalp-trade must be paying in these humming days of peace!”
I tried to smile and gave him my hand.
“It’s good-bye forever,” I said, choking. “I cannot use the same roof that shelters my kinsman, Sir John Johnson.”
He looked at me very gravely, asking me where I meant to go.
“To Boston,” I replied. “I have affairs with one Thomas Foxcroft.”
There was a silence, he still holding my hand as though to draw me back.
“Why to Boston?” he repeated, gently.
“To wed Miss Warren,” I replied, looking him in the eyes.
He stared, then caught my hand in both of his.
“God bless her!” he said, again and again. “I give you joy, lad! She’s the sweetest of them all in County Tryon!”
“And in all the world beside!” I muttered, huskily.
And so rode on.
CHAPTER XXI
My journey to Albany was slow, easy, and uneventful; I spared Warlock because of his added burdens, though he would gladly have galloped the entire distance, for the poor fellow was bitterly ashamed of playing pack-horse and evinced the greatest desire to finish and have done with it as soon as convenient.
His mortification was particularly to be noticed when he met other horses: he would turn his head away when he passed a pretty mare, he would hang his head when gay riders cantered past, and, when he met a peddler’s horse, he actually shuddered.
But Warlock need not have taken it so to heart: he was the peer of any horse we met, which truly is no great recommendation, for the people of Albany do exhibit the most sorry horseflesh I have ever seen, and so Sir William had always said, laughing frequently at the patroons’ nags until Sir Peter Warren wrote him to be careful else he might offend the entire town.
As for Albany itself I found it very large, though smaller than New York or Boston, they said, and I marvelled to see so many troops in various bright uniforms hitherto unfamiliar to me. The people themselves were somewhat stupid, being full o’ Dutch blood and foodstuffs, and appeared somewhat mean in their dealings with strangers, though they call this penny-clipping thrift. Still, gentle blood never yet warmed at the prospect of under-feeding a stranger to save a shilling, and I found myself out of touch with those honest burghers of Albany who crowded the sleepy tap-room of the “Half-Moon Tavern” where I lodged.
I had no great difficulty in finding Peter Weaver, or in recommending myself to his good offices. He informed me that my uncle, Sir Terence Cardigan, was dying o’ drink in 351 Ireland, and wished me to go to him. I politely declined, and told him why. He was a pleasant, kindly, over-fed man, somewhat given to long and pointless discourse, yet a gentleman in bearing and a courteous friend. In his care I deposited my childish treasures for safe-keeping, taking with me only three extra articles, namely, my silver-gray clothes with underwear befitting, Sir William’s leather book, and the knot of ribbon from Silver Heels’s sleeve.
In Albany I bought a ring of plain gold to fit half-way on my little finger, judging Silver Heels’s finger to be of that roundness. I also purchased a razor, though I had no present use for such an article. Still, I could not tell how soon my cheeks might require it, and it would not do to be caught unawares.
I stayed but one day in Albany, paying dearly for bait at the “Half-Moon Tavern,” but my joy in my freedom and my happiness in expectancy left no room for rancour against these stolid, thrifty people who, after all, were but following the instincts of their breed.
Sir William was the most liberal man I had ever known, always cautious in condemnation, though he unknowingly did poor Cresap injustice; but I have often heard him say that to choose between the Dutch and the French for thrift and ferocity was totally beyond his power.
What I have seen of the Dutch or of those in whose veins runs Dutch blood confirms this. Since the Spaniards perpetrated their crimes in the New World, no people have ever been guilty of such shocking savagery towards the Indians as have the Dutch. Placid, honest in their own fashion, cleanly, sober, almost passionless, they yet have, deep within them, a ferocity and malignity scarcely conceivable — scarcely credible unless one has read that early history of their occupation here, of which little of the truth now remains on record.
The Albany people appear to have little sympathy to spare for unfortunate Boston. However, of that I cannot speak with authority, seeing that the whole town is soldier-ridden, and Tories everywhere holding forth in tap-room and marketplace. Besides, a company of Colonel John Butler’s irregulars and a body of ne’er-
do-well Onondagas were camped 352 across the river, and their behaviour to the country people is drunken and scandalous.
Before I left Albany to set out on the Boston high-road, I visited Mr. Livingston’s house, knowing that such a courtesy I owed for Sir William’s sake, yet scarcely pleased at the prospect of again meeting Mrs. Hamilton. However, I had my journey for my pains, Mr. Livingston being lately deceased, and Mrs. Hamilton having left the day before to visit in Boston. Thus free of further obligation, Warlock and I took the Boston road at dawn; and how the dear fellow did gallop, though he carried but a buckskin dragoon without company or colours or commission to bear arms!
The first two days of my travel were almost without incident, lovely, calm October days through which sunlit clouds sailed out of the west, and the wild ducks drifted southward like floating banners in the sky.
In the yellow sunlight of the fields the quails were whistling, the heath-hens thundered through the copse, the crested partridge, with French ruff spread, stepped dainty as a game-cock through the briers, with his breathless menace: “Quhit! Quhit! Quhit!”
Once, riding on a treeless stretch of sandy road under the hot sun, a vast company of wild pigeons began to pass high overhead, thousands on thousands, thicker and ever thicker, till as far as the eye could reach from east to west they covered the sky in millions and millions, while the sun went out as in a thunder-cloud, and the air whistled and rang with their wings.
Their passage lasted some twenty minutes; a fine flight, truly, yet in Tryon County, near Fonda’s Bush, Sir William and I had marked greater flights, lasting more than an hour.
This and Warlock’s narrow escape from being bitten by one of those red snakes which pilot the rattlesnake and go blind in September were the only two noteworthy incidents of the first two days’ journey on the Boston highway.
On the third day Warlock cast both hind shoes, and I was obliged to lead him very carefully, mile after mile, until, towards sundown, I entered a little village, where in a smithy a forge reddened the fading daylight.
The smith, a gruff man, gave me news of Boston, 353 that the Port Bill was starving the poor and driving all decent people towards open rebellion. As for himself, he said that he meant to march at the first drum-beat and carry his hammer if firelocks were lacking.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 118