Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “She lives with the old gentleman, does she not?” inquired Claudia with a shrug.

  “She cares for him, dresses him, cooks for him, reads to him, sews, mends, lights him to bed and tucks him in,” said Hare. “My God, what a wife she’d make for a farmer! Or a mistress for a gentleman.”

  “A wench I would employ very gladly,” quoth Claudia, frowning. “Could you get her ear, Jack, and fetch her?”

  “Take her from Douw Fonda?” I exclaimed in surprise.

  “The old man is like to die any moment,” remarked Watts.

  “Besides,” said Moucher, “he has scores of kinsmen and their women to take him in charge.”

  “She’s a pretty bit o’ baggage,” said Sir John drunkenly. “If you but kiss the little slut she looks at you like a silly kitten, and, I think, with no more sense or comprehension.”

  Captain Watts darted an angry look at his brother-in-law but said nothing.

  Lady Johnson’s features were burning and her lip quivered, but she forced a laugh, saying that her husband could have judged only by hearsay, and that the Scotch girl’s reputation was still very good in the country.

  “Somebody’ll get her,” retorted Sir John, thickly, “for they’re all a-pestering — Walter Butler, too, when he was here, — and your brother, and Hare and Moucher yonder. The little slut has yellow hair, but she’s too damned thin! — —” he hiccoughed and upset his wine; and a servant wiped his neck-cloth and his silk and silver waistcoat while he, with wagging and unsteady head, gazed gravely down at the damage done.

  Claudia set her lips to my ear: “The beast! — to affront his wife!” she whispered. “Tell me, do you, also, go about your rustic gallantries in the shameful manner of these educated and Christian gentlemen?”

  “I seek no woman’s destruction,” said I drily.

  “Not even mine?” She laughed as I reddened, and tapped me with her fan.

  “If our young men do not turn this Scotch girl’s head with their philandering, send her to me and I will use her kindly.”

  “You would not seduce her from an old and almost helpless man who needs her?” I demanded.

  “I find my servants where I can in such days as these,” said she coolly. “And there are plenty to care for old Douw Fonda in Caughnawaga, but only an accomplished wench like Penelope Grant would I trust to do my hair and lace me. Will you send this girl to me?”

  “No, I won’t,” said I bluntly. “I shall not charge myself with such an errand, even for you. It is not a decent thing you ask of me or of the wench, either.”

  “It is decent,” retorted Claudia pettishly. “If she’s as pretty a baggage as is reported, some of our young fools will never let her alone until one among them turns her silly head. Whereas the girl would be safe with me.”

  “That is not my affair,” I remarked.

  “Do you wish her harm?”

  “I tell you she is no concern of mine. And if she’s not a hopeless fool she’ll know how to trust the gentry of County Tryon.”

  “You are of them, too, Jack,” she said maliciously.

  “I am a plain farmer and I trouble no woman.”

  “You trouble me,” she insisted sweetly.

  I laughed, not agreeably.

  “You do so,” she repeated. “I would you had courage to court me again.”

  “Do you mean courage or inclination, Claudia?”

  She gave me a melting look, very sweet, and a trifle sad.

  “With patience,” she murmured, “you might awaken both our hearts.”

  “I know well what I’d awaken in you,” said I; “I’d awaken the devil. No; I’ve had my chance.”

  She sighed, still looking at me, and I awaited her further assault, grimly armed with memories.

  But ere she could speak, Hiakatoo lurched to his feet and stood towering there unsteadily, his burning gaze fixed on space.

  Whereat Sir John, now very tight and very drowsy, opened owlish eyes; and Hare took the Seneca by the arm.

  “If you desire to go,” said he, “here are three of us ready to ride beside you.”

  Moucher, too, stood up, and so did Captain Watts; but they were not in their cups. Watts took Hiakatoo’s blanket from a servant and cast it over the tall warrior’s shoulders.

  “The Western Gate of the Confederacy lies unguarded,” explained Hare to us all, in his frank, amiable manner. “The great Gate Keeper, Hiakatoo, bids you all farewell. Duty calls him toward the setting sun.”

  All had now risen from the table. Hiakatoo lurched past us and out into the hallway; Hare and Moucher and Watts took smiling leave of Sir John; the ladies gave them all a courteous farewell. Hare, passing, said to me:

  “To any who enquire you can answer pat enough to make an end to foolish rumours concerning any meditated flight of this family.”

  “My answer,” said I quietly, “is always the same: Sir William’s son has given his parole.”

  They went out after their Indian, which disturbed me greatly, as I could not account for Hiakatoo’s presence at Johnstown, and I was ill at ease seeing him so apparently in charge of three known Tories, and one of them a deputy of Guy Johnson.

  However, I took my leave of Sir John, who gave me a wavering hand and stared at me blankly. Then I kissed the ladies’ hands and went out to the porch where Billy waited with my mare, Kaya.

  Lady Johnson came to the door as I mounted.

  “Don’t forget us when again you are in Johnstown,” she said.

  Claudia, too, appeared and stepped daintily out on the dewy grass, lifting her petticoat.

  “What a witching night,” she exclaimed mischievously, “ — what a night for love! Do you mark the young moon, Jack, and how all the dark is saturated with a sweet smell of new buds?”

  “I mark it all,” said I, laughing, “and, as for love, why, I love it all, Claudia, — moon, darkness, scent of young leaves, the far forest still as death, and the noise of the brook yonder.”

  “I meant a sweeter love,” quoth she, coming to my stirrup and laying both hands upon my saddle.

  “There is no sweeter love,” said I, still laughing, “ — none happier than the love of this silvery world of night which God made to heal us of the blows of day.”

  “Whither do you ride, Jack?”

  “Homeward.”

  “To Fonda’s Bush?”

  “Yes.”

  “Directly home?”

  “I have a comrade — —” said I. “He awaits me on the Mayfield Road.”

  “Why do you ride by Mayfield?”

  “Because he waits for me there.”

  “Why, Jack?”

  “He has friends to visit — —”

  “At Mayfield?”

  “At Pigeon-Wood,” I muttered.

  “More gallantry!” she said, tossing her head. “But young men must have their fling, and I am not jealous of Betsy Browse or of her pretty sister, so that you ride not toward Caughnawaga — —”

  “What?”

  “To see this rustic beauty, Penelope Grant — —”

  “Have I not refused to seek her for you?” I demanded.

  “Yes, but not for yourself, Jack! Curiosity killed a cat and started a young man on his travels!”

  Exasperated by her malice I struck my mare’s flanks with moccasined heels; and as I rode out into the darkness Claudia’s gaily mocking laugh floated after me on the still, sweet air.

  CHAPTER VI

  RUSTIC GALLANTRY

  There were few lanterns and fewer candle lights in Johnstown; sober folk seemed to be already abed; only a constable, Hugh McMonts, stood in the main street, leaning upon his pike as I followed the new moon out of town and down into a dark and lovely land where all was still and fragrant and dim as the dreams of those who lie down contented with the world.

  Now, as I jogged along on my mare, Kaya, over a well-levelled road, my mind was very full of what I had seen and heard at Johnson Hall.

  One thing seemed clear to me;
there could be no foundation for any untoward rumours regarding Sir John, — no fear that he meant to shame his honoured name and flee to Canada to join Guy Johnson and his Indians and the Tryon County Tories who already had fled.

  No; Sir John was quietly planning his summer farming. All seemed tranquil at the Hall. And I could not find it in my nature to doubt his pledged word, nor believe that he was plotting mischief.

  Still, it had staggered me somewhat to see Hiakatoo there in his ceremonial paint, as though the fire were still burning at Onondaga. But I concluded that the Seneca War Chief had come on some private affair and not for his nation, because a chief does not travel alone upon a ceremonial mission. No; this Indian had arrived to talk privately with Hare, who, no doubt, now represented Guy Johnson’s late authority among the Johnstown Tories.

  Thinking over these matters, I jogged into the Mayfield road; and as I passed in between the tall wayside bushes, without any warning at all two shadowy horsemen rode out in front of me and threw their horses across my path, blocking it.

  Instantly my hand flew to my hatchet, but at that same moment one of the tall riders laughed, and I let go my war-axe, ashamed.

  “It’s John Drogue!” said a voice I recognized, as I pushed my mare close to them and peered into their faces; and I discovered that these riders were two neighbors of mine, Godfrey Shew of Fish House, and Joe de Golyer of Varick’s.

  “What frolic is this?” I demanded, annoyed to see their big pistols resting on their thighs and their belted hatchets loosened from the fringed sheaths.

  “No frolic,” answered Shew soberly, “though Joe may find it a matter for his French mirth.”

  “Why do you stop folk at night on the King’s highway?” I inquired curiously of de Golyer.

  “Voyons, l’ami Jean,” he replied gaily, “Sir Johnson and his Scottish bare-shanks, they have long time stop us on their sacré King’s highway. Now, in our turn, we stop them, by gar! Oui, nom de dieu! And we shall see what we shall see, and we shall catch in our little trap what shall step into it, pardieu!”

  Shew said in his heavy voice: “Our authorities in Albany have concluded to watch, for smuggled arms, the roads leading to Johnstown, Mr. Drogue.”

  “Do they fear treachery at the Hall?”

  “They do not know what is going on at the Hall. But there are rumours abroad concerning the running in of arms for the Highlanders, and the constant passing of messengers between Canada and Johnstown.”

  “I have but left the Hall,” said I. “I saw nothing to warrant suspicion.” And I told them who were there and how they conducted at supper.

  Shew said with an oath that Lieutenant Hare was a dangerous man, and that he hoped a warrant for him would be issued.

  “As for the Indian, Hiakatoo,” he went on, “he’s a surly and cunning animal, and a fierce one as are all Senecas. I do not know what has brought him to Johnstown, nor why Moucher was there, nor Steve Watts.”

  “Young Watts, no doubt, came to visit his sister,” said I. “That is natural, Mr. Shew.”

  “Oh, no doubt, no doubt,” grumbled Shew. “You, Mr. Drogue, are one of those gentlemen who seem trustful of the honour of all gentlemen. And for every gentleman who is one, the next is a blackguard. I do not contradict you. No, sir. But we plain folk of Tryon think it wisdom to watch gentlemen like Sir John Johnson.”

  “I am as plain a man as you are,” said I, “but I am not able to doubt the word of honour given by the son of Sir William Johnson.”

  De Golyer laughed and asked me which way I rode, and I told him.

  “Nick Stoner also went Mayfield way,” said Shew with a shrug. “I think he unsaddled at Pigeon-Wood.”

  They wheeled their horses into the bushes with gestures of adieu; I shook my bridle, and my mare galloped out into the sandy road again.

  The sky was very bright with that sweet springtime lustre which comes not alone from the moon but also from a million million unseen stars, all a-shining behind the purple veil of night.

  Presently I heard the Mayfield creek babbling like a dozen laughing lasses, and rode along the bushy banks looking up at the mountains to the north.

  They are friendly little mountains which we call the Mayfield Hills, all rising into purple points against the sky, like the waves on Lake Ontario, and so tumbling northward into the grim jaws of the Adirondacks, which are different — not sinister, perhaps, but grim and stolid peaks, ever on guard along the Northern wilderness.

  Long, still reaches of the creek stretched away, unstarred by rising trout because of the lateness of the night. Only a heron’s croak sounded in the darkness; there were no lights where I knew the Mayfield settlement to be.

  Already I saw the grist mill, with its dusky wheel motionless; and, to the left, a frame house or two and several log-houses set in cleared meadows, where the vast ramparts of the forest had been cut away.

  Now, there was a mile to gallop eastward along a wet path toward Summer House Point; and in a little while I saw the long, low house called Pigeon-Wood, which sat astride o’ the old Iroquois war trail to the Sacandaga and the Canadas.

  It was a heavy house of hewn timber and smoothed with our blue clay, which cuts the sandy loam of Tryon in great streaks.

  There was no light in the windows, but the milky lustre of the heavens flooded all, and there, upon the rail fence, I did see Nick Stoner a-kissing of Betsy Browse.

  They heard my horse and fluttered down from the fence like two robins, as I pulled up and dismounted.

  “Hush!” said the girl, who was bare of feet and her gingham scarce pinned decently; and laid her finger on her lips as she glanced toward the house.

  “The old man is back,” quoth Nick, sliding a graceless arm around her. “But he sleeps like an ox.” And, to Betsy, “Whistle thy little sister from her nest, sweetheart. For there are no gallants in Tryon to match with my comrade, John Drogue!”

  Which did not please me to hear, for I had small mind for rustic gallantry; but Martha pursed her lips and whistled thrice; and presently the house door opened without any noise.

  She was a healthy, glowing wench, half confident, half coquette, like a playful forest thing in springtime, when all things mate.

  And her sister, Jessica, was like her, only slimmer, who came across the starlit grass rubbing both eyes with her little fists, like a child roused from sleep, — a shy, smiling, red-lipped thing, who gave me her hand and yawned.

  And presently went to where my mare stood to pet her and pull the new, wet grass and feed her tid-bits.

  I did not feel awkward, yet knew not how to conduct or what might be expected of me at this star-dim rendezvous with a sleepy, woodland beauty.

  But she seemed in nowise disconcerted after a word or two; drew my arm about her; put up her red mouth to be kissed, and then begged to be lifted to my saddle.

  Here she sat astride and laughed down at me through her tangled hair. And:

  “I have a mind to gallop to Fish House,” said she, “only that it might prove a lonely jaunt.”

  “Shall I come, Jessica?”

  “Will you do so?”

  I waited till the blood cooled in my veins; and by that time she had forgotten what she had been about — like any other forest bird.

  “You have a fine mare, Mr. Drogue,” said she, gently caressing Kaya with her naked heels. “No rider better mounted passes Pigeon-Wood.”

  “Do many riders pass, Jessica?”

  “Sir John’s company between Fish House and the Hall.”

  “Any others lately?”

  “Yes, there are horsemen who ride swiftly at night. We hear them.”

  “Who may they be?”

  “I do not know, sir.”

  “Sir John’s people?”

  “Very like.”

  “Coming from the North?”

  “Yes, from the North.”

  “Have they waggons to escort?”

  “I have heard waggons, too.”

  “Lately?”r />
  “Yes.” She leaned down from the saddle and rested both hands on my shoulders:

  “Have you no better way to please than in catechizing me, John Drogue?” she laughed. “Do you know what lips were fashioned for except words?”

  I kissed her, and, still resting her hands on my shoulders, she looked down into my eyes.

  “Are you of Sir John’s people?” she asked.

  “Of them, perhaps, but not now with them, Jessica.”

  “Oh. The other party?”

  “Yes.”

  “You! A Boston man?”

  “Nick and I, both.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we design to live as free as God made us, and not as king-fashioned slaves.”

  “Oh, la!” quoth she, opening her eyes wide, “you use very mighty words to me, Mr. Drogue. There are young men in red coats and gilt lace on their hats who would call you rebel.”

  “I am.”

  “No,” she whispered, putting both arms around my neck. “You are a pretty boy and no Yankee! I do not wish you to be a Boston rebel.”

  “Are all your lovers King’s men?”

  “My lovers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you one?”

  At which I laughed and lifted the saucy wench from my saddle, and stood so in the starlight, her arms still around my neck.

  “No,” said I, “I never had a sweetheart, and, indeed, would not know how to conduct — —”

  “We could learn.”

  But I only laughed, disengaging her arms, and passing my own around her supple waist.

  “Listen,” said I, “Nick and I mean no harm in a starlit frolic, where we tarry for a kiss from a pretty maid.”

  “No harm?”

  “Neither that nor better, Jessica. Nor do you; and I know that very well. With me it’s a laugh and a kiss and a laugh; and into my stirrups and off.... And you are young and soft and sweet as new maple-sap in the snow. But if you dream like other little birds, of nesting — —”

  “May a lass not dream in springtime?”

  “Surely. But let it end so, too.”

  “In dreams.”