Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  As for the Major’s lady, who seemed scarce thirty and was six years older, she so charmed me with her grace, and with the bright courage she so sweetly maintained in a home which every hour of the day and night menaced, that even Mrs. Hunt, with her gay spirits, imperious beauty, and more youthful attractions, no more than shared my admiration for her mother.

  In half an hour Lieutenant Boyd came in, was presented, and paid his homage gayly, as he always did. Yet, I thought a slight cloud rested on his brow, but this soon passed, and I forgot it.

  So we talked of this and that as lightly as though no danger threatened this house; and Boyd was quickly at his best with the ladies. As for me, I courted the children. And I remember there were two little maids of fourteen and eleven, Ruhannah and Hannah, sweet and fresh as wild June roses, who showed me the tow cloth for our army which they were spinning, and blushed at my praise of their industry. And there was Mary, ten, and Clarissa, eight, and two little boys, one a baby — all save the last two children carding or spinning flax and tow.

  It was not easy to understand that this blooming matron could be mother of all of these, so youthful she seemed in her Quaker-cut gown of dove-colour — though it was her handsome, high-spirited daughter who should have worn the sober garb.

  “Not I,” said she, laughing at Boyd. “I’d sooner don jack-boots and be a dragoon — and we would completely represent a holy cause, my husband with his broad-brim and I with my sword. What do you say, Mr. Boyd?”

  “I beg of you first to consider the rifle-frock if you must enlist!” urged Boyd, with such fervour that we all laughed at his gallant effort to recruit such beauty for our corps; for even a mental picture of Betsy Hunt in rifle-frock seemed too adorable. Mr. Hunt, entering, smiled in his quiet, embarrassed way; and I thought that this wise and gentle-mannered man must have more than a handful in his spirited young wife, whose dress was anything but plain.

  I had taken the tiny maid, Clarissa, upon my knees and was telling her of the beauty of our Northland, and of that great, dusky green ocean of giant pines, vast as the sea and as silent and uncharted, when Major Lockwood bent over me saying in a quiet voice that it might be well for me to look about in the town for the wench who knew the whereabouts of Mayaro.

  “While there is still daylight,” he added, as I set Clarissa on the floor and stood up, “and if she be yet here you should find her before supper time. We sup at six, Mr. Loskiel.”

  I bowed, took leave of the ladies, exchanged an irritated glance for Boyd’s significant grin, and went out to the porch, putting on my light round cap of moleskin. I liked neither my present errand, nor Boyd’s smile either.

  Now, I had not thought to take with me my side-arms, but a slave waited at the door with my belt. And as I buckled it and hung war-axe and heavy hunting blade, I began to comprehend something of the imminent danger which so apparently lurked about this country. For all military men hereabouts went armed; and even in the house I had noticed that Major Lockwood wore his sword, as did the other officers — some even carrying their pistols.

  The considerable throng of people whom we had first seen in the neighborhood of the house had scattered or gone off when the infantry had left. Carpenters were still sawing and hammering on the flimsy new barracks down in the meadow, and there seemed to be a few people there. But on strolling thither I saw nothing of the wench; so turned on my heel and walked briskly up the road.

  About the village itself there was nothing to be seen of the girl, nor did I know how to make inquiries — perhaps dreading to do so lest my quest be misunderstood or made a jest of by some impertinent fellow.

  In the west a wide bank of cloud had pushed up over the horizon and was already halving the low-hanging sun, which presently it entirely swallowed; and the countryside grew luminously grey and that intense green tinged the grass, which is with us the forerunner of an approaching storm.

  But I thought it far off, not then knowing the Hudson’s midsummer habits, nor the rapid violence of the July storms it hatches and drives roaring among the eastern hills and across the silvery Sound.

  So, with a careless glance aloft, I pursued my errand, strolling hither and thither through the pleasant streets and lanes of old Poundridge, always approaching any groups of soldiers that I saw because I thought it likely that the wench might haunt her kind.

  I did not find her; and presently I began to believe it likely that she had indeed gone off a-gypsying after the escort companies toward Lewisboro.

  There is a road which, skirting the Stone Hills, runs east by north between Cross Pond and the Three Lakes; and, pursuing it, I came on a vidette of Sheldon’s regiment, most carelessly set where he could see nothing, and yet be seen a mile away.

  Supposing he would halt me, I walked up to him; and he continued to munch the green bough-apple he was eating, making me a most slovenly salute.

  Under his leather helmet I saw that my dragoon was but a child of fifteen — scarce strong enough to swing the heavy sabre at his pommel or manage the sawed-off musket which he bore, the butt resting wearily on his thigh. And it made me sober indeed to see to what a pass our country had come, that we enlisted boys and were obliged to trust to their ignorance for our protection.

  “It will rain before sundown,” he said, munching on his apple; “best seek shelter, sir. When it comes it will come hard.”

  “Where runs this road?” I asked.

  “To Boutonville.”

  “And what is Boutonville?”

  “It’s where the Boutons live — a mile or two north, sir. They’re a wild parcel.”

  “Are they of our party?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. But they hunt the leather-caps as we hunt quail — scare up a company, fire, and then track down the scattered.”

  “Oh; irregulars.”

  “No, sir, not skinners. They farm it until the British plague them beyond endurance. Then,” he added significantly, “they go a-hunting with their dogs.”

  I had already turned to retrace my steps when it occurred to me that perhaps an inquiry of this lad might not be misunderstood.

  So I walked up to his horse and stood caressing the sorry animal while I described to him the wench I was seeking.

  “Yes, sir,” he said seriously, “that’s the one the boys are ever plaguing to make her rage.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “By sight, yes, sir.”

  “She is one of the camp followers, I take it,” said I carelessly.

  “I don’t know. The boys are ever plaguing her. She came from the North they say. All I know is that in April she was first seen here, loitering about the camp where the White Plains Indians were embodied. But she did not go off with the Continentals.”

  “She was loitering this afternoon by the camp of Colonel Thomas’s men,” I said.

  “Very like, sir. Did the men plague her?”

  “Yes.”

  He bit into his apple, unconcerned:

  “They are all after her. But I never saw her kind to any man — whatever she may be.”

  Why, I did not know, but what he said gave me satisfaction.

  “You do not know which way she went?” I asked.

  “No, sir. I have been here but the half hour. She knows the Bouton boys yonder. I have seen her coming and going on this road, sometimes with an Indian — —”

  “With a Sagamore?”

  He continued his munching. Having swallowed what he chewed, he said:

  “I know nothing of savages or Sagamores. The Indian may have been a Sagamore.”

  “Do you know where he is to be found?”

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  “Perhaps this young girl knows?”

  “Doubtless she does, seeing she journeys about with him on the ridge yonder, which we call the Rock Hills.”

  “Do you know her name, soldier?”

  “They call her Lois, I believe.”

  And that was all the news I could get of her; and I thanked the boy and slowly
started to retrace my steps toward the village.

  Already in the air there was something of that stillness which heralds storms; no leaves on bush and tree were now stirring; land and sky had grown sombre all around me; and the grass glimmered intensely green.

  Where the road skirted the Stone Hills were no houses, nothing, in fact, of human habitation to be seen save low on the flank of the rocky rampart a ruined sugar house on the edge of a maple ridge, I do not know what made me raise my head to give it a second glance, but I did; and saw among the rocks near it a woman moving.

  Nor do I know, even now, how at that distance and in the dusk of a coming storm I could perceive that it was she whom I was now seeking. But so certain was I of this that, without even taking thought to consider, I left the highway, turned to the right, and began to mount the hillside where traces of a path or sheep-walk were faintly visible under foot among the brambles. Once or twice I glanced upward to see whether she observed me, but the scrubby foliage now hid her as well as the sap-house, and I hastened because the light was growing very dim now, and once or twice, far away, I thought I heard the muttering of thunder.

  It was not long before I perceived the ramshackle sap-house ahead of me among the maples. Then I caught sight of her whom I was seeking.

  It was plain that she had not yet discovered me, though she heard me moving in the thicket. She stood in a half-crouching, listening attitude, then slowly began to retreat, not cowering, but sullenly and with a certain defiance in her lithe movement, like some disturbed and graceful animal which is capable of defending itself but prefers to get away peaceably if permitted.

  I stepped out into the clearing and called to her through the increasing gloom; and for a moment thought she had gone. Then I saw her, dimly, watching me from the obscurity of the dark doorway.

  “You need have no fear of me,” I called to her pleasantly. “You know me now, do you not?”

  She made no answer; and I approached the doorway and stood peering into her face through the falling twilight. And for a moment I thought I had been mistaken; but it was she after all.

  Yet now she wore neither the shabby chip hat with its soiled blue ribbon tied beneath her chin, nor any trace of hair powder, nor dotted kerchief cross-fastened at her breast and pinned with the withered rose.

  And she seemed younger and slimmer and more childish than I had thought her, her bosom without its kerchief meagre or unformed, and her cheeks not painted either, but much burned by the July sun. Nor were her eyes black, as I had supposed, but a dark, clear grey with black lashes; and her unpowdered hair seemed to be a reddish-chestnut and scarce longer than my own, but more curly.

  “Child,” I said, smiling at her, I know not why, “I have been searching for you ever since I first saw you — —”

  And: “What do you want of me?” said she, scarce moving her lips.

  “A favour.”

  “Best mount your cobbler’s mare and go a-jogging back, my pretty lad.”

  The calm venom in her voice and her insolent grey eyes took me aback more than her saucy words.

  “Doubtless,” I said, “you have not recognized in me the officer who was at some slight pains to be of service — —”

  “What is it you desire?” said she, so rudely that I felt my face burn hot.

  “See here, my lass,” said I sharply, “you seem to misunderstand my errand here.”

  “And am like to,” said she, “unless you make your errand short and plainer — though I have learned that the errands which bring such men as you to me are not too easily misunderstood.”

  “Such men as I — —”

  “You and your friend with the bold, black eyes. Ask him how much change he had of me when he came back.”

  “I did not know he had seen you again,” said I, still redder. And saw that she believed me not.

  “Birds sing; men lie,” said she. “So if — —”

  “Be silent! Do you hear!” I cut her short with such contempt that I saw the painful colour whip her cheeks and her eyes quiver.

  Small doubt that what she had learned of men had not sweetened her nor taught her confidence. But whatever she had been, and whatever she was, after all concerned not me that I should take pains to silence her so brutally.

  “I am sorry I spoke as I did,” said I, “ — however mistaken you are concerning my seeking you here.”

  She said nothing.

  “Also,” I added, with a sudden resurgance of bitterness that surprised myself, “my conduct earlier in your behalf might have led you to a wiser judgment.”

  “I am wise enough — after my own fashion,” she said indifferently.

  “Does a man save and then return to destroy?”

  “Many a hunter has saved many a spotted fawn from wolf and fox — so he might kill it himself, one day.”

  “You do yourself much flattery, young woman,” I said, so unpleasantly that again the hot colour touched her throat and brow.

  “I reason as I have been taught,” she said defiantly. “Doubtless you are self-instructed.”

  “No; men have taught me. You witnessed, I believe, one lesson. And your comrade gave me still another.”

  “I care to witness nothing,” I said, furious; “far less desire to attempt your education. Is all plain now?”

  “Your words are,” she said, with quiet contempt.

  “My words are one with my intention,” said I, angrily; far in spite of my own indifference and contempt, hers was somehow arousing me with its separate sting hidden in every word she uttered. “And now,” I continued, “all being plain and open between us, let me acquaint you with the sole object of my visit here to you.”

  She shrugged her shabby shoulders and waited, her eyes, her expression, her very attitude indifferent, yet dully watchful.

  “You know the Sagamore, Mayaro?” I asked.

  “You say so.”

  “Where is he to be found?” I continued patiently.

  “Why do you desire to know?”

  The drab was exasperating me, and I think I looked it, for the slightest curl of her sullen lips hinted a scornful smile.

  “Come, come, my lass,” said I, with all the patience I could still command, “there is a storm approaching, and I do not wish to get wet. Answer my civil question and I’ll thank you and be off about my business. Where is this Sagamore to be found?”

  “Why do you wish to know?”

  “Because I desire to consult him concerning certain matters.”

  “What matters?”

  “Matters which do not concern you!” I snapped out.

  “Are you sure of that, pretty boy?”

  “Am I sure?” I repeated, furious. “What do you mean? Will you answer an honest question or not?”

  “Why do you desire to see this Sagamore?” she repeated so obstinately that I fairly clenched my teeth.

  “Answer me,” I said. “Or had you rather I fetched a file of men up here?”

  “Fetch a regiment, and I shall tell you nothing unless I choose.”

  “Good God, what folly!” I exclaimed. “For whom and for what do you take me, then, that you refuse to answer the polite and harmless question of an American officer!”

  “You had not so named yourself.”

  “Very well, then; I am Euan Loskiel, Ensign in Morgan’s rifle regiment!”

  “You say so.”

  “Do you doubt it?”

  “Birds sing,” she said. Suddenly she stepped from the dark doorway, came to where I stood, bent forward and looked me very earnestly in the eyes — so closely that something — her nearness — I know not what — seemed to stop my heart and breath for a second.

  Then, far on the western hills lightning glimmered; and after a long while it thundered.

  “Do you wish me to find this Sagamore for you?” she asked very quietly.

  “Will you do so?”

  A drop of rain fell; another, which struck her just where the cheek curved under the long black las
hes, fringing them with brilliancy like tears.

  “Where do you lodge?” she asked, after a silent scrutiny of me.

  “This night I am a guest at Major Lockwood’s. Tomorrow I travel north again with my comrade, Lieutenant Boyd.”

  She was looking steadily at me all the time; finally she said:

  “Somehow, I believe you to be a friend to liberty. I know it — somehow.”

  “It is very likely, in this rifle dress I wear,” said I smiling.

  “Yet a man may dress as he pleases.”

  “You mistrust me for a spy?”

  “If you are, why, you are but one more among many hereabouts. I think you have not been in Westchester very long. It does not matter. No boy with the face you wear was born to betray anything more important than a woman.”

  I turned hot and scarlet with chagrin at her cool presumption — and would not for worlds have had her see how the impudence stung and shamed me.

  For a full minute she stood there watching me; then:

  “I ask pardon,” she said very gravely.

  And somehow, when she said it I seemed to experience a sense of inferiority — which was absurd and monstrous, considering what she doubtless was.

  It had now begun to rain in very earnest; and was like to rain harder ere the storm passed. My clothes being my best, I instinctively stepped into the doorway; and, of a sudden, she was there too, barring my entry, flushed and dangerous, demanding the reason of my intrusion.

  “Why,” said I astonished, “may I not seek shelter from a storm in a ruined sugar-house, without asking by your leave?”

  “This sap-house is my own dwelling!” she said hotly. “It is where I live!”

  “Oh, Lord,” said I, bewildered, “ — if you are like to take offense at everything I say, or look, or do, I’ll find a hospitable tree somewhere — —”

  “One moment, sir — —”

  “Well?”

  She stood looking at me in the doorway, then slowly dropped her eyes, and in the same law voice I had heard once before:

  “I ask your pardon once again,” she said. “Please to come inside — and close the door. An open door draws lightning.”

  It was already drawing the rain in violent gusts.