“He need not. I shall guide Mr. Ormond to Broadalbin.”
“Oh no, you won’t!” snapped the patroon; “you’ve done enough of forest-running for one day. Peter, pilot Mr. Ormond to the Bush.”
And he galloped on ahead, followed by Cato and Peter; so that, by reason of their dust, which we did not choose to choke in, Dorothy and I slackened our pace and fell behind.
“Do you know why you are to pass by Broadalbin?” she asked, presently.
I said I did not.
“Folk at the Fish-House saw smoke on the Mayfield hills an hour since. That is twice in three days!”
“Well,” said I, “what of that?”
“It is best that the Broadalbin settlement should hear of it.”
“Do you mean that it may have been an Indian signal?”
“It may have been. I did not see it — the forest cut our view.”
The westering sun, shining over the Mayfield hills, turned the dust to golden fog. Through it Cato’s red coat glimmered, and the hunting-horn, curving up over his bent back, struck out streams of blinding sparks. Brass buttons on the patroon’s broad coat-skirts twinkled like yellow stars, and the spurs flashed on his quarter-gaiters as he pounded along at a solid hand-gallop, hat crammed over his fat ears, pig-tail a-bristle, and the blue coat on his enormous body white with dust.
In the renewed melody of the song-birds there was a hint of approaching evening; shadows lengthened; the sunlight grew redder on the dusty road.
“The Broadalbin trail swings into the forest just ahead,” said Dorothy, pointing with her whip-stock. “See, there where they are drawing bridle. But I mean to ride with you, nevertheless.... And I’ll do it!”
The patroon was waiting for us when we came to the weather-beaten finger-post:
“FONDA’S BUSH
4 MILES.”
And Peter Van Horn had already ridden into the broad, soft wood-road, when Dorothy, swinging her horse past him at a gallop, cried out, “I want to go with them! Please let me!” And was gone like a deer, tearing away down the leafy trail.
“Come back!” roared Sir Lupus, standing straight up in his ponderous stirrups. “Come back, you little vixen! Am I to be obeyed, or am I not? Baggage! Undutiful tree-cat! Dammy, she’s off!”
He looked at me and smote his fat thigh with open hand.
“Did you ever see the like of her!” he chuckled, in his pride. “She’s a Dutch Varick for obstinacy, but the rest is Ormond — all Ormond. Ride on, George, and tell those rebel fools at Fonda’s Bush that they should be hunting cover in the forts if folk at the Fish-House read that smoke aright. Follow the Brandt-Meester if Dorothy slips you, and tell her I’ll birch her, big as she is, if she’s not home by the new moon rise.”
Then he dragged his hat over his mottled ears, grasped the bridle and galloped on, followed by old Cato and his red coat and curly horn.
I had ridden a cautious mile on the dim, leafy trail ere I picked up Van Horn, only to quit him. I had ridden full three before I caught sight of Dorothy, sitting her gray horse, head at gaze in my direction.
“What in the world set you tearing off through the forest like that?” I asked, laughing.
She turned her horse and we walked on, side by side.
“I wished to come,” she said, simply. “The pleasures of this day must end only with the night. Besides, I was burning to ask you if it is true that you mean to stay here and serve with our militia?”
“I mean to stay,” I said, slowly.
“And serve?”
“If they desire it.”
“Why?” she asked, raising her bright eyes.
I thought a moment, then said:
“I have decided to resist our King’s soldiers.”
“But why here?” she repeated, clear eyes still on mine. “Tell me the truth.”
“I think it is because you are here,” I said, soberly.
The loveliest smile parted her lips.
“I hoped you would say that.... Do I please you? Listen, cousin: I have a mad impulse to follow you — to be hindered rages me beyond endurance — as when Sir Lupus called me back. For, within the past hour the strangest fancy has possessed me that we have little time left to be together; that I should not let one moment slip to enjoy you.”
“Foolish prophetess,” I said, striving to laugh.
“A prophetess?” she repeated under her breath. And, as we rode on through the forest dusk, her head drooped thoughtfully, shaded by her loosened hair. At last she looked up dreamily, musing aloud:
“No prophetess, cousin; only a child, nerveless and over-fretted with too much pleasure, tired out with excitement, having played too hard. I do not know quite how I should conduct. I am unaccustomed to comrades like you, cousin; and, in the untasted delights of such companionship, have run wild till my head swims wi’ the humming thoughts you stir in me, and I long for a dark, still room and a bed to lie on, and think of this day’s pleasures.”
After a silence, broken only by our horses treading the moist earth: “I have been starving for this companionship.... I was parched!... Cousin, have you let me drink too deeply? Have you been too kind? Why am I in this new terror lest you — lest you tire of me and my silly speech? Oh, I know my thoughts have been too long pent! I could talk to you forever! I could ride with you till I died! I am like a caged thing loosed, I tell you — for I may tell you, may I not, cousin?”
“Tell me all you think, Dorothy.”
“I could tell you all — everything! I never had a thought that I do not desire you to know, ... save one.... And that I do desire to tell you ... but cannot.... Cousin, why did you name your mare Isene?”
“An Indian girl in Florida bore that name; the Seminoles called her Issena.”
“And so you named your mare from her?”
“Yes.”
“Was she your friend — that you named your mare from her?”
“She lived a century ago — a princess. She wedded with a Huguenot.”
“Oh,” said Dorothy, “I thought she was perhaps your sweetheart.”
“I have none.”
“You never had one?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I turned in my saddle.
“Why have you never had a gallant?”
“Oh, that is not the same. Men fall in love — or protest as much. And at wine they boast of their good fortunes, swearing each that his mistress is the fairest, and bragging till I yawn to listen.... And yet you say you never had a sweetheart?”
“Neither titled nor untitled, cousin. And, if I had, at home we never speak of it, deeming it a breach of honor.”
“Why?”
“For shame, I suppose.”
“Is it shameless to speak as I do?” she asked.
“Not to me, Dorothy. I wish you might be spared all that unlicensed gossip that you hear at table — not that it could harm such innocence as yours! For, on my honor, I never knew a woman such as you, nor a maid so nobly fashioned!”
I stopped, meeting her wide eyes.
“Say it,” she murmured. “It is happiness to hear you.”
“Then hear me,” I said, slowly. “Loyalty, devotion, tenderness, all are your due; not alone for the fair body that holds your soul imprisoned, but for the pure tenant that dwells in it so sweetly behind the blue windows of your eyes! Dorothy! Dorothy! Have I said too much? Yet I beg that you remember it, lest you forget me when I have gone from you.... And say to Sir George that I said it.... Tell him after you are wedded, and say that all men envy him, yet wish him well. For the day he weds he weds the noblest woman in all the confines of this earth!”
Dazed, she stared at me through the fading light; and I saw her eyes all wet in the shadow of her tangled hair and the pulse beating in her throat.
“You are so good — so pitiful,” she said; “and I cannot even find the words to tell you of those deep thoughts you stir in me — to tell you how sweetly you use me—”
�
�Tell me no more,” I stammered, all a-quiver at her voice. She shrank back as at a blow, and I, head swimming, frighted, penitent, caught her small hand in mine and drew her nearer; nor could I speak for the loud beating of my heart.
“What is it?” she murmured. “Have I pained you that you tremble so? Look at me, cousin. I can scarce see you in the dusk. Have I hurt you? I love you dearly.”
Her horse moved nearer, our knees touched. In the forest darkness I found I held her waist imprisoned, and her arms were heavy on my shoulders. Then her lips yielded and her arms tightened around my neck, and that swift embrace in the swimming darkness kindled in me a flame that has never died — that shall live when this poor body crumbles into dust, lighting my soul through its last dark pilgrimage.
As for her, she sat up in her saddle with a strange little laugh, still holding to my hand. “Oh, you are divine in all you lead me to,” she whispered. “Never, never have I known delight in a kiss; and I have been kissed, too, willing and against my will. But you leave me breathing my heart out and all a-tremble with a tenderness for you — no, not again, cousin, not yet.”
Then slowly the full wretchedness of guilt burned me, bone and soul, and what I had done seemed a black evil to a maid betrothed, and to the man whose wine had quenched my thirst an hour since.
Something of my thoughts she may have read in my bent head and face averted, for she leaned forward in her saddle, and drawing me by the arm, turned me partly towards her.
“What troubles you?” she said, anxiously.
“My treason to Sir George.”
“What treason?” she said, amazed.
“That I — caressed you.”
She laughed outright.
“Am I not free-until I wed? Do you imagine I should have signed my liberty away to please Sir George? Why, cousin, if I may not caress whom I choose and find a pleasure in the way you use me, I am no better than the winter log he buys to toast his shins at!”
Then she grew angry in her impatience, slapping her bridle down to range her horse up closer to mine.
“Am I not to wed him?” she said. “Is not that enough? And I told him so, flatly, I warrant you, when Captain Campbell kissed me on the porch — which maddened me, for he was not to my fancy — but Sir George saw him and there was like to be a silly scene until I made it plain that I would endure no bonds before I wore a wedding-ring!” She laughed deliciously. “I think he understands now that I am not yoked until I bend my neck. And until I bend it I am free. So if I please you, kiss me, ... but leave me a little breath to draw, cousin, ... and a saddle to cling to.... Now loose me — for the forest ends!”
“NOW LOOSE ME — FOR THE FOREST ENDS!”.
A faint red light grew in the woodland gloom; a rushing noise like swiftly flowing water filled my ears — or was it the blood that surged singing through my heart?
“Broadalbin Bush,” she murmured, clearing her eyes of the clouded hair and feeling for her stirrups with small, moccasined toes. “Hark! Now we hear the Kennyetto roaring below the hill. See, cousin, it is sunset, the west blazes, all heaven is afire! Ah! what sorcery has turned the world to paradise — riding this day with you?”
She turned in her saddle with an exquisite gesture, pressed her outstretched hand against my lips, then, gathering bridle, launched her horse straight through the underbrush, out into a pasture where, across a naked hill, a few log-houses reddened in the sunset.
There hung in the air a smell of sweetbrier as we drew bridle before a cabin under the hill. I leaned over and plucked a handful of the leaves, bruising them in my palm to savor the spicy perfume.
A man came to the door of the cabin and stared at us; a tap-room sluggard, a-sunning on the west fence-rail, chewed his cud solemnly and watched us with watery eyes.
“Andrew Bowman, have you seen aught to fright folk on the mountain?” asked Dorothy, gravely.
The man in the doorway shook his head. From the cabins near by a few men and women trooped out into the road and hastened towards us. One of the houses bore a bush, and I saw two men peering at us through the open window, pewters in hand.
“Good people,” said Dorothy, quietly, “the patroon sends you word of a strange smoke seen this day in the hills.”
“There’s smoke there now,” I said, pointing into the sunset.
At that moment Peter Van Horn galloped up, halted, and turned his head, following the direction of my outstretched arm. Others came, blinking into the ruddy evening glow, craning their necks to see, and from the wretched tavern a lank lout stumbled forth, rifle shouldered, pewter a-slop, to learn the news that had brought us hither at that hour.
“It is mist,” said a woman; but her voice trembled as she said it.
“It is smoke,” growled Van Horn. “Read it, you who can.”
Whereat the fellow in the tavern window fell a-laughing and called down to his companion: “Francy McCraw! Francy McCraw! The Brandt-Meester says a Mohawk fire burns in the north!”
“I hear him,” cried McCraw, draining his pewter.
Dorothy turned sharply. “Oh, is that you, McCraw? What brings you to the Bush?”
The lank fellow turned his wild, blue eyes on her, then gazed at the smoke. Some of the men scowled at him.
“Is that smoke?” I asked, sharply. “Answer me, McCraw!”
“A canna’ deny it,” he said, with a mad chuckle.
“Is it Indian smoke?” demanded Van Horn.
“Aweel,” he replied, craning his skinny neck and cocking his head impudently— “aweel, a’ll admit that, too. It’s Indian smoke; a canna deny it, no.”
“Is it a Mohawk signal?” I asked, bluntly.
At which he burst out into a crowing laugh.
“What does he say?” called out the man from the tavern. “What does he say, Francy McCraw?”
“He says it maun be Mohawk smoke, Danny Redstock.”
“And what if it is?” blustered Redstock, shouldering his way to McCraw, rifle in hand. “Keep your black looks for your neighbors, Andrew Bowman. What have we to do with your Mohawk fires?”
“Herman Salisbury!” cried Bowman to a neighbor, “do you hear what this Tory renegade says?”
“Quiet! Quiet, there,” said Redstock, swaggering out into the road. “Francy McCraw, our good neighbors are woful perplexed by that thread o’ birch smoke yonder.”
“Then tell the feckless fools tae watch it!” screamed McCraw, seizing his rifle and menacing the little throng of men and women who had closed swiftly in on him. “Hands off me, Johnny Putnam — back, for your life, Charley Cady! Ay, stare at the smoke till ye’re eyes drop frae th’ sockets! But no; there’s some foulk ‘ill tak’ nae warnin’!”
He backed off down the road, followed by Redstock, rifles cocked.
“An’ ye’ll bear me out,” he shouted, “that there’s them wha’ hear these words now shall meet their weirds ere a hunter’s moon is wasted!”
He laughed his insane laugh and, throwing his rifle over his shoulder, halted, facing us.
“Hae ye no heard o’ Catrine Montour?” he jeered. “She’ll come in the night, Andrew Bowman! Losh, mon, but she’s a grewsome carlin’, wi’ the witch-locks hangin’ to her neck an’ her twa een blazin’!”
“You drive us out to-night!” shouted Redstock. “We’ll remember it when Brant is in the hills!”
“The wolf-yelp! Clan o’ the wolf!” screamed McCraw. “Woe! Woe to Broadalbane! ’Tis the pibroch o’ Glencoe shall wake ye to the woods afire! Be warned! Be warned, for ye stand knee-deep in ye’re shrouds!”
In the ruddy dusk their dark forms turned to shadows and were gone.
Van Horn stirred in his saddle, then shook his shoulders as though freeing them from a weight.
“Now you have it, you Broadalbin men,” he said, grimly. “Go to the forts while there’s time.”
In the darkness around us children began to whimper; a woman broke down, sobbing.
“Silence!” cried Bowman, sternly. And to
Dorothy, who sat quietly on her horse beside him, “Say to the patroon that we know our enemies. And you, Peter Van Horn, on whichever side you stand, we men of the Bush thank you and this young lady for your coming.”
And that was all. In silence we wheeled our horses northward, Van Horn riding ahead, and passed out of that dim hamlet which lay already in the shadows of an unknown terror.
Behind us, as we looked back, one or two candles flickered in cabin windows, pitiful, dim lights in the vast, dark ocean of the forest. Above us the stars grew clearer. A vesper-sparrow sang its pensive song. Tranquil, sweet, the serene notes floated into silver echoes never-ending, till it seemed as if the starlight all around us quivered into song.
I touched Dorothy, riding beside me, white as a spirit in the pale radiance, and she turned her sweet, fearless face to mine.
“There is a sound,” I whispered, “very far away.”
She laid her hand in mine and drew bridle, listening. Van Horn, too, had halted.
Far in the forest the sound stirred the silence; soft, stealthy, nearer, nearer, till it grew into a patter. Suddenly Van Horn’s horse reared.
“It’s there! it’s there!” he cried, hoarsely, as our horses swung round in terror.
“Look!” muttered Dorothy.
Then a thing occurred that stopped my heart’s blood. For straight through the forest came running a dark shape, a squattering thing that passed us ere we could draw breath to shriek; animal, human, or spirit, I knew not, but it ran on, thuddy-thud, thuddy-thud! and we struggling with our frantic horses to master them ere they dashed us lifeless among the trees.
“Jesu!” gasped Van Horn, dragging his powerful horse back into the road. “Can you make aught o’ yonder fearsome thing, like a wart-toad scrabbling on two legs?”
Dorothy, teeth set, drove her heels into her gray’s ribs and forced him to where my mare stood all a-quiver.
“It’s a thing from hell,” panted Van Horn, fighting knee and wrist with his roan. “My nag shies at neither bear nor wolf! Look at him now!”
“Nor mine at anything save a savage,” said I, fearfully peering behind me while my mare trembled under me.
“I think we have seen a savage, that is all,” fell Dorothy’s calm voice. “I think we have seen Catrine Montour.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 148