give me that fiddle and I’ll fiddle it, dammy if I don’t — ay,
and sing it, too!”
In a shower of gibes and laughter the fiddle was
fetched, and the Indian fighter seized the bow and drew
a most distressful strain, singing in a whining voice:
“Come hearken to a bloody tale,
Of how the soldiery
Did murder men in Boston,
As you full soon shall see.
It came to pass on March the fifth
Of seventeen-seventy,
A regiment, the twenty-ninth.
Provoked a sad affray!”
“Chorus!” shouted Captain Campbell, beating time:
“Fol-de-rol-de-rol-de-ray —
Provoked a sad affray!”
“That’s not in the song!” protested Colonel Claus, but everybody sang it in whining tones.
“Continue!” cried Captain Campbell, amid a burst of laughter. And Claus gravely drew his fiddle-bow across the strings and sang:
“In King Street, by the Butcher’s Hall
The soldiers on us fell,
Likewise before their barracks
(It is the truth I tell).
And such a dreadful carnage
In Boston ne’er was known;
They killed Samuel Maverick —
He gave a piteous groan.”
And, “Fol-de-rol!” roared Captain Campbell, “He gave a piteous groan!”
“John Clark he was wounded,
On him they did fire;
James Caldwell and Crispus Attucks
Lay bleeding in the mire;
Their regiment, the twenty-ninth,
Killed Monk and Sam I Gray,
While Patrick Carr lay cold in death
And could not flee away —
“Oh, tally!” broke out Sir John; “are we to listen to such stuff all night?”
More laughter; and Sir George Covert said that he feared Sir John Johnson had no sense of humor.
“I have heard that before,” said Sir John, turning his cold eyes on Sir George. “But if we’ve got to sing at wine, in Heaven’s name let us sing something sensible.”
“No, no!” bawled Claus. “This is the abode of folly to-night!” And he sang a catch from “Pills to Purge Melancholy,” as broad a verse as I cared to hear in such company.
“Cheer up, Sir John!” cried Betty Austin; “there are other slippers to drink from—”
Sir John stood up, exasperated, but could not face the storm of laughter, nor could Dorothy, silent and white in her anger; and she rose to go, but seemed to think better of it and resumed her seat, disdainful eyes sweeping the table.
“Face the fools,” I whispered. “Your confusion is their victory.”
Captain McDonald, stirring the punch, filled all glasses, crying out that we should drink to our sweethearts in bumpers.
“Drink ’em in wine,” protested Captain Campbell, thickly. “Who but a feckless McDonald wud drink his leddy in poonch?”
“I said poonch!” retorted McDonald, sternly. “If ye wish wine, drink it; but I’m thinkin’ the Argyle Campbells are better judges o’ blood than of red wine.
“Stop that clan-feud!” bawled the patroon, angrily.
But the old clan-feud blazed up, kindled from the ever-smouldering embers of Glencoe, which the massacre of a whole clan had not extinguished in all these years.
“And why should an Argyle Campbell judge blood?” cried Captain Campbell, in a menacing voice.
“And why not?” retorted McDonald. “Breadalbane spilled enough to teach ye.”
“Teach who?”
“Teach you! — and the whole breed o’ black Campbells from Perth to Galway and Fonda’s Bush, which ye dub Broadalbin. I had rather be a Monteith and have the betrayal of Wallace cast in my face than be a Campbell of Argyle wi’ the memory o’ Glencoe to follow me to hell.”
“Silence!” roared the patroon, struggling to his feet. Sir George Covert caught at Captain Campbell’s sleeve as he rose; Sir John Johnson stood up, livid with anger.
“Let this end now!” he said, sternly. “Do officers of the Royal Greens conduct like yokels at a fair? Answer me, Captain Campbell! And you, Captain McDonald! Take your seat, sir; and if I hear that cursed word ‘Glencoe’ ‘again, the first who utters it faces a court-martial!”
Partly sobered, the Campbell glared mutely at the McDonald; the latter also appeared to have recovered a portion of his senses and resumed his seat in silence, glowering at the empty glasses before him.
“Now be sensible, gentlemen,” said Colonel Claus, with a jovial nod to the patroon; “let pass, let pass. This is no time to raise the fiery cross in the hills. Gad, there’s a new pibroch to march to these days —
“Pibroch o’ Hirokôue!
Pibroch o’ Hirokônue!”
he hummed, deliberately, but nobody laughed, and the grave, pale faces of the women turned questioningly one to the other.
Enemies or allies, there was terror in the name of “Iroquois.” But Walter Butler looked up from his gloomy meditation and raised his glass with a ghastly laugh.
“I drink to our red allies,” he said, slowly drained his glass till but a color remained in it, then dipped his finger in the dregs and drew upon the white table-cloth a blood-red cross.
“There’s your clan-sign, you Campbells, you McDonalds,” he said, with a terrifying smile which none could misinterpret.
Then Sir George Covert said: “Sir William Johnson knew best. Had he lived, there had been no talk of the Iroquois as allies or as enemies.”
I said, looking straight at Walter Butler: “Can there be any serious talk of turning these wild beasts loose against the settlers of Tryon County?”
“Against rebels,” observed Sir John Johnson, coldly. “No loyal man need fear our Mohawks.”
A dead silence followed. Servants, clearing the round table of silver, flowers, cloth — all, save glasses and decanters — stepped noiselessly, and I knew the terror of the Iroquois name had sharpened their dull ears. Then came old Cato, tricked out in flame-colored plush, bearing the staff of major-domo; and the servants in their tarnished liveries marshalled behind him and filed out, leaving us seated before a bare table, with only our glasses and bottles to break the expanse of polished mahogany and soiled cloth.
Captain McDonald rose, lifted the steaming kettle from the hob, and set it on a great, blue tile, and the gentlemen mixed their spirits thoughtfully, or lighted long, clay pipes.
The patroon, wreathed in smoke, lay back in his great chair and rattled his toddy-stick for attention — an unnecessary noise, for all were watching him, and even Walter Butler’s gloomy gaze constantly reverted to that gross, red face, almost buried in thick tobacco-smoke, like the head of some intemperate and grotesquely swollen Jupiter crowned with clouds.
The plea of the patroon for neutrality in the war now sweeping towards the Mohawk Valley I had heard before. So, doubtless, had those present.
He waxed pathetic over the danger to his vast estate; he pointed out the conservative attitude of the great patroons and lords of the manors of Livingston, Cosby, Phillipse, Van Rensselaer, and Van Cortlandt.
“What about Schuyler?” I asked.
“Schuyler’s a fool!” he retorted, angrily. “Any landed proprietor here can become a rebel general in exchange for his estate! A fine bargain! A thrifty dicker! Let Philip Schuyler enjoy his brief reign in Albany. What’s the market value of the glory he exchanged for his broad acres? Can you appraise it, Sir John?”
Then Sir John Johnson arose, and, for the only moment in his career, he stood upon a principle — a fallacious one, but still a principle; and for that I respected him, and have never quite forgotten it, even through the terrible years when he razed and burned and murdered among a people who can never forget the red atrocities of his devastations.
Glancing slowly around the table, with his pale, cold eyes contracting in the candle’s glare, h
e spoke in a voice absolutely passionless, yet which carried the conviction to all that what he uttered was hopelessly final:
“Sir Lupus complains that he hazards all, should he cast his fortunes with his King. Yet I have done that thing. I am to-day a man with a price set on my head by these rebels of my own country. My lands, if not already confiscated by rebel commissioners, are occupied by rebels; my manor-houses, my forts, my mills, my tenants’ farms are held by the rebels and my revenues denied me. I was confined on parole within the limits of Johnson Hall. They say I broke my parole, but they lie. It was only when I had certain news that the Boston rebels were coming to seize my person and violate a sacred convention that I retired to Canada.”
He paused. The explanation was not enough to satisfy me, and I expected him to justify the arming of Johnson Hall and his discovered intrigues with the Mohawks which set the rebels on the march to seize his person. He gave none, resuming quietly:
“I have hazarded a vast estate, vaster than yours, Sir Lupus, greater than the estates of all these gentlemen combined. I do it because I owe obedience to the King who has honored me, and for no other reason on earth. Yet I do it in fullest confidence and belief that my lands will be restored to me when this rebellion is stamped on and trodden out to the last miserable spark.”
He hesitated, wiped his thin mouth with his laced handkerchief, and turned directly towards the patroon.
“You ask me to remain neutral. You promise me that, even at this late hour, my surrender and oath of neutrality will restore me my estates and guarantee me a peaceful, industrious life betwixt two tempests. It may be so, Sir Lupus. I think it would be so. But, my friend, to fail my King when he has need of me is a villainy I am incapable of. The fortunes of his Majesty are my fortunes; I stand or fall with him. This is my duty as I see it. And, gentlemen, I shall follow it while life endures.”
He resumed his seat amid absolute silence. Presently the patroon raised his eyes and looked at Colonel John Butler.
“May we hear from you, sir?” he asked, gravely.
“I trust that all may, one day, hear from Butler’s Rangers,” he said.
“And I swear they shall,” broke in Walter Butler, his dark eyes burning like golden coals.
“I think the Royal Greens may make some little noise in the world,” said Captain Campbell, with an oath.
Guy Johnson waved his thin, brown hand towards the patroon: “I hold my King’s commission as intendant of Indian affairs for North America. That is enough for me. Though they rob me of Guy Park and every acre, I shall redeem my lands in a manner no man can ever forget!”
“Gentlemen,” added Colonel Claus, in his bluff way, “you all make great merit of risking property and life in this wretched teapot tempest; you all take credit for unchaining the Mohawks. But you give them no credit. What have the Iroquois to gain by aiding us? Why do they dig up the hatchet, hazarding the only thing they have — their lives? Because they are led by a man who told the rebel Congress that the covenant chain which the King gave to the Mohawks is still unspotted by dishonor, unrusted by treachery, unbroken, intact, without one link missing! Gentlemen, I give you Joseph Brant, war-chief of the Mohawk nation! Hiro!”
All filled and drank — save three — Sir George Covert, Dorothy Varick, and myself.
I felt Walter Butler’s glowing eyes upon me, and they seemed to burn out the last vestige of my patience.
“Don’t rise! Don’t speak now!” whispered Dorothy, her hand closing on my arm.
“I must speak,” I said, aloud, and all heard me and turned on me their fevered eyes.
“Speak out, in God’s name!” said Sir George Covert, and I rose, repeating, “In God’s name, then!”
“Give no offence to Walter Butler, I beg of you,” whispered Dorothy.
I scarcely heard her; through the candle-light I saw the ring of eyes shining, all watching me.
“I applaud the loyal sentiments expressed by Sir John Johnson,” I said, slowly. “Devotion to principle is respected by all men of honor. They tell me that our King has taxed a commonwealth against its will. You admit his Majesty’s right to do so. That ranges you on one side. Gentlemen,” I said, deliberately, “I deny the right of Englishmen to take away the liberties of Englishmen. That ranges me on the other side.”
A profound silence ensued. The ring of eyes glowed.
“And now,” said I, gravely, “that we stand arrayed, each on his proper side, honestly, loyally differing one from the other, let us, if we can, strive to avert a last resort to arms. And if we cannot, let us draw honorably, and trust to God and a stainless blade!”
I bent my eyes on Walter Butler; he met them with a vacant glare.
“Captain Butler,” I said, “if our swords be to-day stainless, he who first dares employ a savage to do his work forfeits the right to bear the arms and title of a soldier.”
“Mr. Ormond! Mr. Ormond!” broke in Colonel Claus. “Do you impeach Lord George Germaine?”
“I care not whom I impeach!” I said, hotly. “If Lord George Germaine counsels the employment of Indians against Englishmen, rebels though they be, he is a monstrous villain and a fool!”
“Fool!” shouted Colonel Campbell, choking with rage. “He’d be a fool to let these rebels win over the Iroquois before we did!”
“What rebel has sought to employ the Indians?” I asked. “If any in authority have dreamed of such a horror, they are guilty as though already judged and damned!”
“Mr. Ormond,” cut in Guy Johnson, fairly trembling with fury, “you deal very freely in damnation. Do you perhaps assume the divine right which you deny your King?”
“And do you find merit in crass treason, sir?” burst out McDonald, striking the table with clinched fist.
“Treason,” cut in Sir John Johnson, “was the undoing of a certain noble duke in Queen Anne’s time.”
“You are in error,” I said, calmly.
“Was James, Duke of Ormond, not impeached by Mr. Stanhope in open Parliament?” shouted Captain McDonald.
“The House of Commons,” I replied, calmly, “dishonored itself and its traditions by bringing a bill of attainder against the Duke of Ormond. That could not make him a traitor.”
“He was not a traitor,” broke out Walter Butler, white to the lips, “but you are!”
“A lie,” I said.
With the awful hue of death stamped on his face, Walter Butler rose and faced me; and though they dragged us to our seats, shouting and exclaiming in the uproar made by falling chairs and the rush of feet, he still kept his eyes on me, shallow, yellow, depthless, terrible eyes.
“A nice scene to pass in women’s presence!” roared the patroon. “Dammy, Captain Butler, the fault lies first with you! Withdraw that word ‘traitor,’ which touches us all!”
“He has so named himself,” said Walter Butler, “Withdraw it! You foul your own nest, sir!”
A moment passed. “I withdraw it,” motioned Butler, with parched lips.
“Then I withdraw the lie,” I said, watching him.
“That is well,” roared the patroon. “That is as it should be. Shall kinsmen quarrel at such a time? Offer your hand, Captain Butler. Offer yours, George.”
“No,” I said, and gazed mildly at the patroon.
Sir George Covert rose and sauntered over to my chair. Under cover of the hubbub, not yet subsided, he said: “I fancy you will shortly require a discreet friend.”
“Not at all, sir,” I replied, aloud. “If the war spares Mr. Butler and myself, then I shall call on you. I’ve another quarrel first.” All turned to look at me, and I added, “A quarrel touching the liberties of Englishmen.” Sir John Johnson sneered, and it was hard to swallow, being the sword-master that I am.
But the patroon broke out furiously. “Mr. Ormond honors himself. If any here so much as looks the word ‘coward,’ he will answer to me — old and fat as I am! I’ve no previous engagement; I care not who prevails, King or Congress. I care nothing so they le
ave me my own! I’m free to resent a word, a look, a breath — ay, the flutter of a lid, Sir John!”
“Thanks, uncle,” I said, touched to the quick. “These gentlemen are not fools, and only a fool could dream an Ormond coward.”
“Ay, a fool!” cried Walter Butler. “I am an Ormond! There is no cowardice in the blood. He shall have his own time; he is an Ormond!”
Dorothy Varick raised her bare, white arm and pointed straight at Walter Butler. “See that your sword remains unspotted, sir,” she said, in a clear voice. “For if you hire the Iroquois to do your work you stand dishonored, and no true man will meet you on the field you forfeit!”
“What’s that?” cried Sir John, astonished, and Sir George Covert cried:
“Brava! Bravissima! There speaks the Ormond through the Varick!”
Walter Butler leaned forward, staring at me. “You refuse to meet me if I use our Mohawks?”
And Dorothy, her voice trembling a little, picked up the word from his grinning teeth. “Mohawks understand the word ‘honor’ better than do you, Captain Butler, if you are found fighting in their ranks!”
She laid her hand on my arm, still facing him.
“My cousin shall not cross blade with a soiled blade! He dare not — if only for my own poor honor’s sake!”
Then Colonel Claus rose, thumping violently on the table, and, “Here’s a pretty rumpus!” he bawled, “with all right and all wrong, and nobody to snuff out the spreading flame, but every one a-flinging tallow in a fire we all may rue! My God! Are we not all kinsmen here, gathered to decent council how best to save our bacon in this pot a-boiling over? If Mr. Ormond and Captain Butler must tickle sword-points one day, that is no cause for dolorous looks or hot words — no! Rather is it a family trick, a good, old-fashioned game that all boys play, and no harm, either. Have I not played it, too? Has any gentleman present not pinked or been pinked on that debatable land we call the field of honor? Come, kinsmen, we have all had too much wine — or too little.”
“Too little!” protested Captain Campbell, with a forced laugh; and Betty Austin loosed her tongue for the first time to cry out that her mouth was parched wi’ swallowing so many words all piping-hot. Whereat one or two laughed, and Colonel John Butler said:
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