The Maid-At-Arms: A Novel

by Robert W. Chambers

  VI

  DAWN

  I had stepped from the dining-hall out to the gun-room. Clocks in thehouse were striking midnight. In the dining-room the company had nowtaken to drinking in earnest, cheering and singing loyal songs, andthrough the open door whirled gusts of women's laughter, and I heard thethud of guitar-strings echo the song's gay words.

  All was cool and dark in the body of the house as I walked to the frontdoor and opened it to bathe my face in the freshening night. I heard thewhippoorwill in the thicket, and the drumming of the dew on the porchroof, and far away a sound like ocean stirring--the winds in the pines.

  The Maker of all things has set in me a love for whatsoever He hasfashioned in His handiwork, whether it be furry beast or pretty bird, ora spray of April willow, or the tiny insect-creature that pursues itsdumb, blind way through this our common world. So come I by my love forthe voices of the night, and the eyes of the stars, and the whisper ofgrowing things, and the spice in the air where, unseen, a million tinyblossoms hold up white cups for dew, or for the misty-winged things thatwoo them for their honey.

  Now, in the face of this dark, soothing truce that we call night, whichis a buckler interposed between the arrows of two angry suns, I stoodthinking of war and the wrong of it. And all around me in the darknessinsects sang, and delicate, gauzy creatures chirked and throbbed andstrummed in cadence, while the star's light faintly silvered the stilltrees, and distant monotones of the forest made a sustained and steadyrushing sound like the settling ebb of shallow seas. That to myconscience I stood committed, I could not doubt. I must draw sword, anddraw it soon, too--not for Tory or rebel, not for King or Congress, notfor my estates nor for my kin, but for the ancient liberties ofEnglishmen, which England menaced to destroy.

  That meant time lost in a return to my own home; and yet--why? Here inthis county of Tryon one might stand for liberty of thought and actionas stanchly as at home. Here was a people with no tie or sympathy toweld them save that common love of liberty--a scattered handful ofraces, without leaders, without resources, menaced by three armies,menaced, by the five nations of the great confederacy--the Iroquois.

  To return to the sea islands on the Halifax and fight for my own acreswas useless if through New York the British armies entered to the heartof the rebellion, splitting the thirteen colonies with a flaming wedge.

  At home I had no kin to defend; my elder brother had sailed to England,my superintendent, my overseers, my clerks were all Tory; my slaveswould join the Minorcans or the blacks in Georgia, and I, single-handed,could not lift a finger to restrain them.

  But here, in the dire need of Tryon County, I might be of use. Here wasthe very forefront of battle where, beyond the horizon, invasion,uncoiling hydra folds, already raised three horrid, threatening crests.

  Ugh!--the butcher's work that promised if the Iroquois were uncaged! Itmade me shudder, for I knew something of that kind of war, having seen aslight service against the Seminoles in my seventeenth year, andagainst the Chehaws and Tallassies a few months later. Also in Novemberof 1775 I accompanied Governor Tonyn to Picolata, but when I learnedthat our mission was the shameful one of securing the Indians as Britishallies I resigned my captaincy in the Royal Rangers and returned to theHalifax to wait and watch events.

  And now, thoughtful, sad, wondering a little how it all would end, Ipaced to and fro across the porch. The steady patter of the dew was likethe long roll beating--low, incessant, imperious--and my heart leapedresponsive to the summons, till I found myself standing rigid, staringinto the darkness with fevered eyes.

  The smothered, double drumming of a guitar from the distant revelassailed my ears, and a fresh, sweet voice, singing:

  "As at my door I chanced to be A-spinning, Spinning, A grenadier he winked at me A-grinning, Grinning! As at my door I chanced to be A grenadier he winked at me. And now my song's begun, you see!

  "My grenadier he said to me. So jolly, Jolly, 'We tax the tea, but love is free, Sweet Molly, Molly!' My grenadier he said to me, 'We tax the tea, but love is free!' And so my song it ends, you see, In folly, Folly!"

  I listened angrily; the voice was Dorothy Varick's, and I wondered thatshe had the heart to sing such foolishness for men whose grip wasalready on her people's throats.

  In the dining-hall somebody blew the view-halloo on a hunting-horn, andI heard cheers and the dulled roar of a chorus:

  "--Rally your men!Campbell and Cameron,Fox-hunting gentlemen,Follow the Jacobite back to his den!Run with the runaway rogue to his runway, Stole-away! Stole-away! Gallop to Galway,Back to Broadalbin and double to Perth;Ride! for the rebel is running to earth!"

  And the shrill, fierce Highland cry, "Gralloch him!" echoed the infamouscatch, till the night air rang faintly in the starlight.

  "Cruachan!" shouted Captain Campbell; "the wild myrtle to clan Campbell,the heather to the McDonalds! An't--Arm, chlanna!"

  And a great shout answered him: "The army! Sons of the army!"

  Sullen and troubled and restless, I paced the porch, and at length satdown on the steps to cool my hot forehead in my hands.

  And as I sat, there came my cousin Dorothy to the porch to look for me,fanning her flushed face with a great, plumy fan, the warm odor of rosesstill clinging to her silken skirts.

  "Have they ended?" I asked, none too graciously.

  "They are beginning," she said, with a laugh, then drew a deep breathand waved her fan slowly. "Ah, the sweet May night!" she murmured, eyesfixed on the north star. "Can you believe that men could dream of warin this quiet paradise of silence?"

  I made no answer, and she went on, fanning her hot cheeks: "They're offto Oswego by dawn, the whole company, gallant and baggage." She laughedwickedly. "I don't mean their ladies, cousin."

  "How could you?" I protested, grimly.

  "Their wagons," she said, "started to-day at sundown from Tribes Hill;Sir John, the Butlers, and the Glencoe gentlemen follow at dawn. Thereare post-chaises for the ladies out yonder, and an escort, too. Butnobody would stop them; they're as safe as Catrine Montour."

  "Dorothy, who is this Catrine Montour?" I asked.

  "A woman, cousin; a terrible hag who runs through the woods, and nonedare stop her."

  "A real hag? You mean a ghost?"

  "No, no; a real hag, with black locks hanging, and long arms that couldchoke an ox."

  "Why does she run through the woods?" I asked, amused.

  "Why? Who knows? She is always seen running."

  "Where does she run to?"

  "I don't know. Once Henry Stoner, the hunter, followed her, and they sayno one but Jack Mount can outrun him; but she ran and ran, and he afterher, till the day fell down, and he fell gasping like a foundered horse.But she ran on."

  "Oh, tally," I said; "do you believe that?"

  "Why, I know it is true," she replied, ceasing her fanning to stare atme with calm, wide eyes. "Do you doubt it?"

  "How can I?" said I, laughing. "Who is this busy hag, Catrine Montour?"

  "They say," said Dorothy, waving her fan thoughtfully, "that her fatherwas that Count Frontenac who long ago governed the Canadas, and that hermother was a Huron woman. Many believe her to be a witch. I don't know.Milk curdles in the pans when she is running through the forest ... theysay. Once it rained blood on our front porch."

  "Those red drops fall from flocks of butterflies," I said, laughing. "Ihave seen red showers in Florida."

  "I should like to be sure of that," said Dorothy, musing. Then, raisingher starry eyes, she caught me laughing.

  "Tease me," she smiled. "I don't care. You may even make love to me ifyou choose."

  "Make love to you!" I repeated, reddening.

  "Why not? It amuses--and you're only a cousin."

  Astonishment was foll
owed by annoyance as she coolly disqualified mewith a careless wave of her fan, wafting the word "cousin" into myvery teeth.

  "Suppose I paid court to you and gained your affections?" I said.

  "You have them," she replied, serenely.

  "I mean your heart?"

  "You have it."

  "I mean your--love, Dorothy?"

  "Ah," she said, with a faint smile, "I wish you could--I wish somebodycould."

  I was silent.

  "And I never shall love; I know it, I feel it--here!" She pressed herside with a languid sigh that nigh set me into fits o' laughter, yet Iswallowed my mirth till it choked me, and looked at the stars.

  "Perhaps," said I, "the gentle passion might be awakened withpatience ... and practice."

  "Ah, no," she said.

  "May I touch your hand?"

  Indolently fanning, she extended her fingers. I took them in my hands.

  "I am about to begin," I said.

  "Begin," she said.

  So, her hand resting in mine, I told her that she had robbed the skiesand set two stars in violets for her eyes; that nature's one miracle waswrought when in her cheeks roses bloomed beneath the snow; that thefrosted gold she called her hair had been spun from December sunbeams,and that her voice was but the melodies stolen from breeze and brook andgolden-throated birds.

  "For all those pretty words," she said, "love still lies sleeping."

  "Perhaps my arm around your waist--"

  "Perhaps."

  "So?"

  "Yes."

  And, after a silence:

  "Has love stirred?"

  "Love sleeps the sounder."

  "And if I touched your lips?"

  "Best not."

  "Why?"

  "I'm sure that love would yawn."

  Chilled, for unconsciously I had begun to find in this child-play aninterest unexpected, I dropped her unresisting fingers.

  "Upon my word," I said, almost irritably, "I can believe you when yousay you never mean to wed."

  "But I don't say it," she protested.

  "What? You have a mind to wed?"

  "Nor did I say that, either," she said, laughing.

  "Then what the deuce do you say?"

  "Nothing, unless I'm entreated politely."

  "I entreat you, cousin, most politely," I said.

  "Then I may tell you that, though I trouble my head nothing as towedlock, I am betrothed."

  "Betrothed!" I repeated, angrily disappointed, yet I could not thinkwhy.

  "Yes--pledged."

  "To whom?"

  "To a man, silly."

  "A man!"

  "With two legs, two arms, and a head, cousin."

  "You ... love him?"

  "No," she said, serenely. "It's only to wed and settle down some day."

  "You don't love him?"

  "No," she repeated, a trifle impatiently.

  "And you mean to wed him?"

  "Listen to the boy!" she exclaimed. "I've told him ten times that I ambetrothed, which means a wedding. I am not one of those whobreak paroles."

  "Oh ... you are now free on parole."

  "Prisoner on parole," she said, lightly. "I'm to name the day o'punishment, and I promise you it will not be soon."

  "Dorothy," I said, "suppose in the mean time you fell in love?"

  "I'd like to," she said, sincerely.

  "But--but what would you do then?"

  "Love, silly!"

  "And ... marry?"

  "Marry him whom I have promised."

  "But you would be wretched!"

  "Why? I can't fancy wedding one I love. I should be ashamed, I think.I--if I loved I should not want the man I loved to touch me--notwith gloves."

  "You little fool!" I said. "You don't know what you say."

  "Yes, I do!" she cried, hotly. "Once there was a captain from Boston; Iadored him. And once he kissed my hand and I hated him!"

  "I wish I'd been there," I muttered.

  She, waving her fan to and fro, continued: "I often think of splendidmen, and, dreaming in the sunshine, sometimes I adore them. But alwaysthese day-dream heroes keep their distance; and we talk and talk, andplan to do great good in the world, until I fall a-napping.... Heigho!I'm yawning now." She covered her face with her fan and leaned backagainst a pillar, crossing her feet. "Tell me about London," she said.But I knew no more than she.

  "I'd be a belle there," she observed. "I'd have a train o' beaux andmacaronis at my heels, I warrant you! The foppier, the more it wouldplease me. Think, cousin--ranks of them all a-simper, ogling me througha hundred quizzing-glasses! Heigho! There's doubtless some deviltry inme, as Sir Lupus says."

  She yawned again, looked up at the stars, then fell to twisting her fanwith idle fingers.

  "I suppose," she said, more to herself than to me, "that Sir John is nowclose to the table's edge, and Colonel Claus is under it.... Hark totheir song, all off the key! But who cares?... so that they quarrelnot.... Like those twin brawlers of Glencoe, ... brooding on feuds nigha hundred years old.... I have no patience with a brooder, one whotreasures wrongs, ... like Walter Butler." She looked up at me.

  "I warned you," she said.

  "It is not easy to avoid insulting him," I replied.

  "I warned you of that, too. Now you've a quarrel, and a reckoning inprospect."

  "The reckoning is far off," I retorted, ill-humoredly.

  "Far off--yes. Further away than you know. You will never cross swordswith Walter Butler."

  "And why not?"

  "He means to use the Iroquois."

  I was silent.

  "For the honor of your women, you cannot fight such a man," she added,quietly.

  "I wish I had the right to protect your honor," I said, so suddenly andso bitterly that I surprised myself.

  "Have you not?" she asked, gravely. "I am your kinswoman."

  "Yes, yes, I know," I muttered, and fell to plucking at the lace on mywristbands.

  The dawn's chill was in the air, the dawn's silence, too, and I saw thecalm morning star on the horizon, watching the dark world--the dark, sadworld, lying so still, so patient, under the ancient sky.

  That melancholy--which is an omen, too--left me benumbed, adrift in asort of pained contentment which alternately soothed and troubled, sothat at moments I almost drowsed, and at moments I heard my heartstirring, as though in dull expectancy of beatitudes undreamed of.

  Dorothy, too, sat listless, pensive, and in her eyes a sombre shadow,such as falls on children's eyes at moments, leaving theirelders silent.

  Once in the false dawn a cock crowed, and the shrill, far cry left theraw air emptier and the silence more profound. I looked wistfully at themaid beside me, chary of intrusion into the intimacy of her silence.Presently her vague eyes met mine, and, as though I had spoken, shesaid: "What is it?"

  "Only this: I am sorry you are pledged."

  "Why, cousin?"

  "It is unfair."

  "To whom?"

  "To you. Bid him undo it and release you."

  "What matters it?" she said, dully.

  "To wed, one should love," I muttered.

  "I cannot," she answered, without moving. "I would I could. This nighthas witched me to wish for love--to desire it; and I sit herea-thinking, a-thinking.... If love ever came to me I should think itwould come now--ere the dawn; here, where all is so dark and quiet andclose to God.... Cousin, this night, for the first moment in all mylife, I have desired love."

  "To be loved?"

  "No, ... to love."

  I do not know how long our silence lasted; the faintest hint of silvertouched the sky above the eastern forest; a bird awoke, sleepilytwittering; another piped out fresh and clear, another, another; and, asthe pallid tint spread in the east, all the woodlands burst out ringinginto song.

  In the house a door opened and a hoarse voice muttered thickly. Dorothypaid no heed, but I rose and stepped into the hallway, where servantswere guiding the patroon to bed, and a man hung to
the bronze-cannonpost, swaying and mumbling threats--Colonel Claus, wig awry, stockunbuckled, and one shoe gone. Faugh! the stale, sour air sickened me.

  Then a company of gentlemen issued from the dining-hall, and, as Istepped back to the porch to give them room, their gray faces wereturned to me with meaningless smiles or blank inquiry.

  "Where's my orderly?" hiccoughed Sir John Johnson. "Here, you, call myrascals; get the chaises up! Dammy, I want my post-chaise, d' ye hear?"

  Captain Campbell stumbled out to the lawn and fumbled about his lipswith a whistle, which he finally succeeded in blowing. Thisaccomplished, he gravely examined the sky.

  "There they are," said Dorothy, quietly; and I saw, in the dim morninglight, a dozen horsemen stirring in the shadows of the stockade. Andpresently the horses were brought up, followed by two post-chaises, withsleepy post-boys sitting their saddles and men afoot trailing rifles.

  Colonel Butler came out of the door with Magdalen Brant, who was halfasleep, and aided her to a chaise. Guy Johnson followed with BettyAustin, his arm around her, and climbed in after her. Then Sir Johnbrought Claire Putnam to the other chaise, entering it himself behindher. And the post-boys wheeled their horses out through the stockade,followed at a gallop by the shadowy horsemen.

  And now the Butlers, father and son, set toe to stirrup; and I sawWalter Butler kick the servant who held his stirrup--why, I do not know,unless the poor, tired fellow's hands shook.

  Up into their saddles popped the Glencoe captains; then Campbell sworean oath and dismounted to look for Colonel Claus; and presently twoblacks carried him out and set him in his saddle, which he clung to,swaying like a ship in distress, his riding-boots slung around his neck,stockinged toes clutching the stirrups.

  Away they went, followed at a trot by the armed men on foot; fainter andfainter sounded the clink, clink of their horses' hoofs, then died away.

  In the silence, the east reddened to a flame tint. I turned to the opendoorway; Dorothy was gone, but old Cato stood there, withered handsclasped, peaceful eyes on me.

  "Mawnin', suh," he said, sweetly. "Yaas, suh, de night done gone and desun mos' up. H'it dat-a-way, Mars' George, suh, h'it jess natch'lydat-a-way in dishyere world--day, night, mo' day. What de Bible say?Life, def, mo' life, suh. When we's daid we'll sho' find it dat-a-way."