Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Forgive me,” she said impulsively; “you are worth more than I dare give you. Love me in your own fashion. I wish it. And I will care for you very faithfully in mine.”

  They were very young, very hopeless, deeply impressed with one another, and quite inexperienced enough to trust each other. She leaned from her saddle and laid her slim bare hands in both of his, lifting her gaze bravely to his — a little dim of eye and still tremulous of lip. And he looked back, love’s tragedy dawning in his gaze, yet forcing the smile that the very young employ as a defiance to destiny and an artistic insult in the face of Fate; that Fate which looks back so placid and unmoved.

  “Can you forgive me, Shiela?”

  “Look at me?” she whispered.

  A few moments later she hastily disengaged her hand.

  “There seems to be a fire, yonder,” he said; “and somebody seated before it; your Seminole, I think. By Jove, Shiela, he’s certainly picturesque!”

  A sullen-eyed Indian rose as they rode up, his turban brilliant in the declining sunshine, his fringed leggings softly luminous as woven cloth of gold.

  “He — a — mah, Coacochee!” said the girl in friendly greeting. “It is good to see you, Little Tiger. The people of the East salute the Uchee Seminoles.”

  The Indian answered briefly and with dignity, then stood impassive, not noticing Hamil.

  “Mr. Hamil,” she said, “this is my old friend Coacochee or Little Tiger; an Okichobi Seminole of the Clan of the Wind; a brave hunter and an upright man.”

  “Sommus-Kala-ne-sha-ma-lin,” said the Indian quietly; and the girl interpreted: “He says, ‘Good wishes to the white man.’”

  Hamil dismounted, turned and lifted Shiela from her saddle, then walked straight to the Seminole and offered his hand. The Indian grasped it in silence.

  “I wish well to Little Tiger, a Seminole and a brave hunter,” said Hamil pleasantly.

  The red hand and the white hand tightened and fell apart.

  A moment later Gray came galloping up with Eudo Stent.

  “How are you, Coacochee!” he called out; “glad to see you again! We saw the pine tops blue a mile back.”

  To which the Seminole replied with composure in terse English. But for Mr. Cardross, when he arrived, there was a shade less reserve in the Indian’s greeting, and there was no mistaking the friendship between them.

  “Why did you speak to him in his own tongue?” asked Hamil of Shiela as they strolled together toward the palmetto-thatched, open-face camp fronting on Ruffle Lake.

  “He takes it as a compliment,” she said. “Besides he taught me.”

  “It’s a pretty courtesy,” said Hamil, “but you always do everything more graciously than anybody else in the world.”

  “I am afraid you are biassed.”

  “Can any man who knows you remain non-partisan? — even your red Seminole yonder?”

  “I am proud of that conquest,” she said gaily. “Do you know anything about the Seminoles? No? Well, then, let me inform you that a Seminole rarely speaks to a white man except when trading at the posts. They are a very proud people; they consider themselves still unconquered, still in a state of rebellion against the United States.”

  “What!” exclaimed Hamil, astonished.

  “Yes, indeed. All these years of peace they consider only as an armed truce. They are proud, reticent, sensitive, suspicious people; and there are few cases on record where any such thing as friendship has existed between a Seminole and a white man. This is a genuine case; Coacochee is really devoted to dad.”

  The guides and the wagon had now arrived; camp was already in the confusion and bustle of unloading equipage and supplies; picket lines were established, water-jars buried, blankets spread, guns, ammunition, rods, and saddles ranged in their proper places.

  Carter unsheathed his heavy cane-knife and cut palmetto fans for rethatching where required; Eudo Stent looked after the horses; Bulow’s axe rang among the fragrant red cedars; the Indian squatted gravely before a characteristic Seminole fire built of logs, radiating like the spokes of a cart-wheel from the centre which was a hub of glowing coals. And whenever it was necessary he simply shoved the burning log-ends toward the centre where kettles were already boiling and sweet potatoes lay amid the white ashes, and a dozen wild ducks, split and skewered and basted with pork, were exhaling a matchless fragrance.

  Table-legs, bench-legs, and the bases of all culinary furniture, like the body of the camp, were made out of palmetto logs driven into the ground to support cedar planks for the tops.

  And it was seated at one of these tables, under the giant oaks, pines, and palmettos, that Shiela and Hamil ate their first camp-repast together, with Gray and his father opposite.

  Never had he tasted such a heavenly banquet, never had he dreamed of such delicacies. Eudo Stent brought panfuls of fried bass, still sizzling under the crisp bacon; and great panniers woven of green palmetto, piled high with smoking sweet potatoes all dusty from the ashes; and pots of coffee and tea, steaming and aromatic.

  Then came broiled mallard duck, still crackling from the coals, and coonti bread, and a cold salad of palm cabbage, nut-flavored, delectable. Then in the thermos-jugs were spring water and a light German vintage to mix with it. And after everything, fresh oranges in a nest of Spanish moss.

  Red sunlight struck through the forest, bronzing bark and foliage; sombre patches of shade passed and repassed across the table — the shadows of black vultures soaring low above the camp smoke. The waters of the lake burned gold.

  As yet the approach of sunset had not stirred the water-fowl to restlessness; dark streaks on the lake gleamed white at moments as some string of swimming ducks turned and the light glinted on throat and breast. Herons stood in the shallows; a bittern, squawking, rose from the saw-grass, circled, and pitched downward again.

  “Never had he tasted such a heavenly banquet.”

  “This is a peaceful place,” said Cardross, narrowing eyes watching the lake through the haze of his pipe. “I almost hate to disturb it with a gun-shot; but if we stay here we’ve got to eat.” And, turning toward the guides’ table where they lounged over their after-dinner pipes: “Coacochee, my little daughter has never shot a wild turkey. Do you think she had better try this evening or go after the big duck?”

  “Pen-ni-chah,” said the Seminole quietly.

  “He says, ‘turkey-gobbler,’” whispered Shiela to Hamil; “‘pen-nit-kee’ is the word for hen turkey. Oh, I hope I have a chance. You’ll pair with me, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  Cardross, listening, smiled. “Is it yelping or roosting, Little Tiger?”

  “Roost um pen-ni-chah, aw-tee-tus-chee. I-hoo-es-chay.”

  “He says that we can roost them by and by and that we ought to start now,” whispered the girl, slightly excited. “Dad, Mr. Hamil has never shot a wild turkey—”

  “Neither have I,” observed her father humourously.

  “Oh, I forgot! Well, then — why can’t we all—”

  “Not much! No sitting in swamps for me, but a good, clean, and easy boat in the saw-grass. Gray, are you going after ducks with me or are you going to sit with one hopeful girl, one credulous white man, and one determined red man on a shell heap in a bog and yawn till moonrise? Ducks? Sure! Well, then, we’d better be about it, my son.”

  The guides rose laughing, and went about their duties, Carter and Bulow to clean up camp, Eudo Stent with Cardross, senior and junior, carrying guns and shell cases down to the landing where the boats lay; and Shiela and Hamil to mount the two fresh led-horses and follow the Seminole into the forest.

  “Shame on your laziness, dad!” said Shiela, as Cardross looked after her in pretended pity; “anybody can shoot ducks from a boat, but it takes real hunters to stalk turkeys! I suppose Eudo loads for you and Gray pulls the triggers!”

  “The turkey you get will be a water-turkey,” observed Cardross; “or a fragrant buzzard. Hamil, I’m sorry for you. I�
�ve tried that sort of thing myself when younger. I’m still turkeyless but wiser.”

  “You’d better bring Eudo and let us help you to retrieve yourself!” called back Shiela.

  But he refused scornfully, and she waved them adieu; then, settling in her stirrups, turned smilingly to Hamil who brought his horse alongside.

  “Dad is probably right; there’s not much chance for us this way. But if there is a chance Little Tiger will see that we get it. Anyway, you can try the ducks in the morning. You don’t mind, do you?”

  He tried to be prudent in his reply.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE ALLIED FORCES

  Through the glades the sun poured like a red searchlight, and they advanced in the wake of their own enormous shadows lengthening grotesquely with every stride. Tree trunks and underbrush seemed afire in the kindling glory; the stream ran molten.

  Then of a sudden the red radiance died out; the forest turned ashy; the sun had set; and on the wings of silence already the swift southern dusk was settling over lake and forest. A far and pallid star came out in the west; a cat-owl howled.

  At the edge of an evil-looking cypress “branch” they dismounted, drew gun from saddle-boot, and loaded in silence while the Indian tethered the horses.

  Then through the thickening twilight they followed the Seminole in file, Hamil bringing up the rear.

  Little Tiger had left turban, plume, and leggings in camp; the scalp-lock bobbed on his head, bronzed feet and legs were bare; and, noiseless as a cypress shadow in the moonlight, he seemed part of it all, harmonious as a wild thing in its protective tints.

  A narrow tongue of dry land scarcely three inches above the swamp level was the trail they followed. All around tall cypress trees, strangely buttressed at the base, rose pillar-like into obscurity as though supporting the canopy of dusk. The goblin howling of the big cat-owl pulsated through the silence; strange gleams and flashes stirred the surface of the bog. Once, close ahead, a great white bird, winged like an angel, rose in spectral silence through the twilight.

  “Did you see!” she breathed, partly turning her head.

  “Good heavens, yes! What was it; the archangel Michael?”

  “Only a snowy heron.”

  The Seminole had halted and laid his hand flat on the dead leaves under a gigantic water-oak.

  “A-po-kes-chay,” he whispered; and Shiela translated close to Hamil’s ear: “He says that we must all sit down here—” A sudden crackle in the darkness stilled her voice.

  “Im-po-kit-chkaw?” she asked. “Did you hear that? No-ka-tee; what is it?”

  “Deer walk,” nodded the Seminole; “sun gone down; moon come. Bimeby roost um turkey. Li-kus-chay! No sound.”

  Shiela settled quietly on the poncho among the dead leaves, resting her back against the huge tree trunk. Hamil warily sank into position beside her; the Indian stood for a while, head raised, apparently gazing at the tree-tops, then, walking noiselessly forward a dozen yards, squatted.

  Shiela opened the conversation presently by whispering that they must not speak.

  And the conversation continued, fitfully in ghostly whispers, lips scarcely stirring close to one another’s ears.

  As for the swamp, it was less reticent, and began to wake up all around them in the darkness. Strange creaks and quacks and croaks broke out, sudden snappings of twigs, a scurry among dead leaves, a splash in the water, the far whir of wings. There were no insect noises, no resonant voices of bull-frogs; weird squeaks arose at intervals, the murmuring complaint of water-fowl, guttural quack of duck and bittern — a vague stirring everywhere of wild things settling to rest or awaking. There were things moving in the unseen ooze, too, leaving sudden sinuous trails in the dim but growing lustre that whitened above the trees — probably turtles, perhaps snakes.

  She leaned almost imperceptibly toward him, and he moved his shoulder close to hers.

  “You are not nervous, Shiela?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “Why on earth did you come?”

  “I don’t know. The idea of snakes in darkness always worries me.... Once, waking in camp, reaching out through the darkness for the water-bottle, I laid my hand on an exceedingly chilly snake. It was a harmless one, but I nearly died.... And here I am back again. Believe me, no burnt child ever dreaded the fire enough to keep away from it. I’m a coward, but not enough of a one to practise prudence.”

  He laughed silently. “You brave little thing! Every moment I am learning more and more how adorable you are—”

  “Do men adore folly?”

  “Your kind of folly. Are you cold?”

  “No; only foolish. There’s some sort of live creature moving rather close to me — hush! Don’t you hear it?”

  But whatever it was it went its uncanny way in darkness and left them listening, her small hand remaining loosely in his.

  “What on earth is the matter now, Shiela?” he whispered, feeling her trembling.

  “Nothing. They say a snake won’t strike you if you hold your breath. Its nonsense, but I was trying it.... What is that ring I feel on your hand?”

  “A signet; my father’s.” He removed it from his little finger, tried it on all of hers.

  “Is it too large?”

  “It’s a little loose.... You don’t wish me to wear it, do you?... Your father’s? I’d rather not.... Do you really wish it? Well, then — for a day — if you ask me.”

  Her ringed hand settled unconsciously into his again; she leaned back against the tree, and he rested his head beside hers.

  “Are you afraid of wood-ticks, Mr. Hamil? I am, horribly. We’re inviting all kinds of disaster — but isn’t it delicious! Look at that whitish light above the trees. When the moon outlines the roosting-tree we’ll know whether our labour is lost. But I wouldn’t have missed it for all the mallard on Ruffle Lake. Would you? Are you contented?”

  “Where you are is contentment, Shiela.”

  “How nice of you! But there is always that sweet, old-fashioned, boyish streak in you which shows true colour when I test you. Do you know, at times, you seem absurdly young to me.”

  “That’s a pleasant thing to say.”

  Their shoulders were in contact; she was laughing without a sound.

  “At times,” she said, “you are almost what young girls call cunning!”

  “By heavens!” he began indignantly, but she stilled his jerk of resentment with a quick pressure.

  “Lie still! For goodness’ sake don’t make the leaves rustle, silly! If there’s a flock of turkeys in any of those cypress tops, you may be sure that every separate bird is now looking straight in our direction.... I won’t torment you any more; I dare not. Little Tiger turned around; did you notice? He’d probably like to scalp us both.”

  But the Indian had resumed his motionless study of the darkness, squatted on his haunches as immobile as a dead stump.

  Hamil whispered: “Such a chance to make love to you! You dare not move. And you deserve it for tormenting me.”

  “If you did such a thing—”

  “Yes?”

  “Such a thing as that—”

  “Yes?”

  “But you wouldn’t.”

  “Why, Shiela, I’m doing it every minute of my life!”

  “Now?”

  “Of course. It goes on always. I couldn’t prevent it any more than I could stop my pulses. It just continues with every heart-beat, every breath, every word, every silence—”

  “Mr. Hamil!”

  “Yes?”

  “That does sound like it — a little; and you must stop!”

  “Of course I’ll stop saying things, but that doesn’t stop with my silence. It simply goes on and on increasing every—”

  “Try silence,” she said.

  Motionless, shoulder to shoulder, the pulsing moments passed. Every muscle tense, she sat there for a while, fearful that he could hear her heart beating. Her palm, doubled in his, seemed to burn. Then little by little a
subtle relaxation stole over her; dreamy-eyed she sank back and looked into the darkness. A sense of delicious well-being possessed her, enmeshing thought in hazy lethargy, quieting pulse and mind.

  Through it she heard his voice faintly; her own seemed unreal when she answered.

  He said: “Speaking of love; there is only one thing possible for me, Shiela — to go on loving you. I can’t kill hope, though there seems to be none. But there’s no use in saying so to myself for it is one of those things no man believes. He may grow tired of hoping, and, saying there is none, live on. But neither he nor Fate can destroy hope any more than he can annihilate his soul. He may change in his heart. That he cannot control. When love goes no man can stay its going.”

  “Do you think yours will go?”

  “No. That is a lover’s answer.”

  “What is a sane man’s answer?”

  “Ask some sane man, Shiela.”

  “I would rather believe you.”

  “Does it make you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wish me to love you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You would love me — a little — if you could?”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Would you?” he asked again.

  “Yes.”

  “But you cannot.”

  She said, dreamily: “I don’t know. That is a dreadful answer to make. But I don’t know what is in me. I don’t know what I am capable of doing. I wish I knew; I wish I could tell you.”

  “Do you know what I think, Shiela?”

  “What?”

  “It’s curious — but since I have known you — and about your birth — the idea took shape and persisted — that — that—”

  “What?” she asked.

  “That, partly perhaps because of your physical beauty, and because of your mind and its intelligence and generosity, you embodied something of that type which this nation is developing.”

  “That is curious,” she said softly.

  “Yes; but you give me that impression, as though in you were the lovely justification of these generations of welding together alien and native to make a national type, spiritual, intelligent, wholesome, beautiful.... And I’ve fallen into the habit of thinking of you in that way — as thoroughly human, thoroughly feminine, heir to the best that is human, and to its temptations too; yet, somehow, instinctively finding the right way in life, the true way through doubt and stress.... Like the Land itself — with perhaps the blood of many nations in your veins.... I don’t know exactly what I’m trying to say—”