“But as she did not, you married twice after her death, and are desirous of doing so a third time.”
“The truth can never justly be gainsayed, Major Duncan, and I am always ready to avow it. I’m thinking, Lundie, you are melancholar’, this fine evening?”
“No, Muir, not melancholy absolutely, but a little thoughtful, I confess. I was looking back to our boyish days, when I, the Laird’s son, and you the parson’s, roamed about our native hills, happy and careless boys, taking little heed to the future, and then have followed some thoughts, that may be a little painful, concerning that future, as it has turned out to be.”
“Surely, Lundie, ye do not complain of your portion of it. You’ve risen to be a Major, and will soon be a Lt.-Colonel, if letters tell the truth, while I am just one step higher than when your honored father gave me my first commission, and a poor deevil of a Quarter Master!”
“And, the four wives.”
“Three, Lundie; three only that were legal, even under our own liberal and sanctified laws.”
“Well, then, let it be three. Ye know, Davy,” said Major Duncan, insensibly dropping into the pronunciation and dialect of his youth, as is much the practice with educated Scotchmen, as they warm with a subject that comes near the heart,—“Ye know, Davy, that my own choice has long been made, and in how anxious and hope-wearied a manner, I’ve waited for that happy hour when I can call the woman I’ve so long loved a wife; and, here, have you, without fortune, name, birth, or merit—I mean particular merit—”
“Na—na—dinna say that, Lundie—the Muirs are of gude bluid.”
“Well then, without aught but bluid, ye’ve wived four times—”
“I tall ye, but thrice, Lundie. Ye’ll weaken auld frindship, if ye call it four.”
“Put it at ye’r own number, Davy, and its far more than ye’r share. Our lives have been very different on the score of matrimony, at least; you must allow that, my old friend.”
“And which do you think has been the gainer, Major, speaking as frankly the’gither, as we did when lads.”
“Nay, I’ve nothing to conceal. My days have passed, in hope deferred, while yours have passed in—”
“Not in hope realized, I give you my honor, Major Duncan,” interrupted the Quarter Master. “Each new experiment I have thought might prove an advantage, but disappointment seems the lot of man. Ah! this is a vain world of ours, Lundie, it must be owned, and in nothing vainer than in matrimony.”
“And yet you are ready to put your neck into the noose for the fifth time!”
“I desire to say, it will be but the fourth, Major Duncan,” said the Quarter Master, positively; then instantly changing the expression of his face to one of boyish rapture, he added—“But this Mabel Dunham, is a rara avis! Our Scotch lassies are fair and pleasant, but it must be owned these colonials are of surpassing comeliness.”
“You will do well to recollect your commission and blood, Davy; I believe all four of your wives—”
“I wish my dear Lundie, ye’d be more accurate in your arithmetick—three times one, make three.”
“All three, then, were what might be termed gentlewomen.”
“That’s just it, Major. Three were gentlewomen, as you say, and the connections were suitable.”
“And the fourth being the daughter of my father’s gardener, the connection was unsuitable. But have you no fear that marrying the child of a non-commissioned officer, who is in the same corps with yourself, will have the effect to lessen your consequence in the regiment?”
“That’s just been my weakness through life, Major Duncan; for I’ve always married without regard to consequences. Every man has his besetting sin, and matrimony, I fear is mine. And, now, that we have discussed what may be called the principles of the connection, I will just ask, if you did me the favor to speak to the Serjeant on the trifling affair?”
“I did, David, and am sorry to say for your hopes, that I see no great chances of your succeeding.”
“Not succeeding!—An officer, and a Quarter Master, in the bargain, and not succeed with a serjeant’s daughter.”
“It’s just that, Davy.”
“And why not, Lundie?—Will you have the goodness to answer, just that?”
“The girl is betrothed. Hand plighted, word passed, love pledged—no, hang me if I believe that either, but she is betrothed.”
“Well that’s an obstacle, it must be avowed, Major, though it counts for little, if the heart is free.”
“Quite true, and I think it probable the heart is free, in this case, for the intended husband appears to be the choice of the father, rather than of the daughter.”
“And who may it be, Major,” asked the Quarter Master, who viewed the whole matter, with the philosophy and coolness that are acquired by use. “I do not recollect any plausible suitor, that is likely to stand in my way.”
“No, you are the only plausible suitor on the frontier, Davy. The happy man is Pathfinder.”
“Pathfinder, Major Duncan!”
“No more, nor any less, David Muir. Pathfinder is the man, but it may relieve your jealousy a little, to know that, in my judgment at least, it is a match of the father’s, rather than of the daughter’s seeking.”
“I thought as much!” exclaimed the Quarter Master, drawing a long breath, like one who felt relieved; “it’s quite impossible, that with my experience in human nature,—”
“Particularly hu-woman’s nature, David!”
“Ye will have yer joke, Lundie, lat who will suffer! But I did not think it possible I could be deceived as to the young woman’s inclinations, which I think I may boldly pronounce to be altogether above the condition of Pathfinder. As for the individual himself, why time will show.”
“Now, tell me frankly, Davy Muir,” said Lundie, stopping short in his walk, and looking the other earnestly in the face, with a comical expression of surprise, that rendered the veteran’s countenance ludicrously earnest—“do you really suppose, a girl like the daughter of Serjeant Dunham, can take a serious fancy to a man of your years, and appearance, and experience, I might add?”
“Hout, awa’, Lundie, ye dinna know the sax, and that’s the reason yer unmarried in yer forty fifth year. It’s a fearfu’ time ye’ve been a bachelor, Major!”
“And what may be your age, Lt. Muir, if I may presume to ask so delicate a question?”
“Forty seven, I’ll no deny it, Lundie, and if I get Mabel, there’ll be just a wife for every twa lustrums! But I did’na think Serjeant Dunham would be so humble-minded, as to dream of giving that sweet lass of his to one like the Pathfinder!”
“There’s no dream about it, Davy; the man is as serious as a soldier about to be flogged.”
“Well, well, Major, we are auld friends—” both ran into the Scotch, or avoided it, as they approached or drew away from their younger days, in the dialogue, “and ought to know how to take and give a joke off duty. It is possible the worthy man has not understood my hints, or he never would have thought of such a thing. The difference between an officer’s consort, and a guide’s woman is as vast, as that between the antiquity of Scotland and the antiquity of America. I’m auld bluid, too, Lundie.”
“Take my word for it, Davy, your antiquity will do you no good, in this affair, and as for your blood it is not older than your bones. Well, well, man, ye know the Serjeant’s answer, and so you perceive that my influence, on which you counted so much, can do nought for ye.—Let us take a glass the’gither Davy, for auld acquaintance sake, and then ye’ll be doing well to remember the party that marches the morrow, and to forget Mabel Dunham as fast as ever you can.”
“Ah! Major, I have always found it easier to forget a wife, than to forget a sweetheart! When a couple are fairly married, all is settled but the death, as one may say, which must finally part us all, and it seems to me awfu’ irreverent to disturb the departed; whereas, there is so much anxiety, and hope, and felicity in expectation, like, with the lassie, that it
keeps thought alive.”
“That is just my idea of your situation, Davy, for I never supposed you expected any more felicity with either of your wives. Now, I’ve heard of fellows who were so stupid as to look forward to happiness with their wives, even beyond the grave. I drink to your success, or to your speedy recovery from this attack, Lieutenant, and admonish you to be more cautious in the future, as some of these violent cases may yet carry you off.”
“Many thanks, my dear Major, and a speedy termination to an old courtship, of which I know something. This is real Mountain Dew, Lundie, and it warms the heart, like a gleam of bonny Scotland. As for the men you’ve just mentioned, they could have had but one wife apiece, for where there are several, the deeds of the women, themselves, may carry them different ways. I think a reasonable husband ought to be satisfied with passing his allotted time with any particular wife, in this world, and not to go about moping for things unattainable. I’m infinitely obliged to you, Major Duncan, for this and all your other acts of friendship, and if you could but add another, I should think you had not altogether forgotten the play-fellow of your boyhood.”
“Well, Davy, if the request be reasonable, and such as a superior ought to grant, out with it, man.”
“If ye could only contrive a little service for me, down among the Thousand Isles, for a fortnight, or so, I think this matter might be settled to the satisfaction of all parties. Just remember, Lundie, the lassie is the only marriageable white female on this frontier!”
“There is always duty for one in your line at a post however small, but this below can be done by the Serjeant as well as by the Quarter Master General, and better too.”
“But not better than by a regimental officer. There is great waste, in common, among the orderlies.”
“I’ll think of it, Muir,” said the Major laughing, “and you shall have my answer in the morning. Here will be a fine occasion, man, the morrow, to show yourself off before the lady; you are expert with the rifle, and prizes are to be won. Make up your mind to display your skill, and who knows what may yet happen before the Scud sails.”
“I’m thinking most of the young men will try their hands in this sport, Major.”
“That will they, and some of the old ones, too, if you appear. To keep you in countenance, I’ll try a shot or two myself, Davy, and you know I have some name that way.”
“It might, indeed, do good! The female heart, Major Duncan, is susceptible in many different modes, and sometimes in a way that the rules of philosophy might reject. Some require a suitor to sit down before them, as it might be in a regular siege, and only capitulate when the place can hold out no longer; others again like to be carried by storm, while there are hussies who can only be caught by leading them into an ambush. The former is the most creditable and officer-like process, perhaps, but I must say I think the last the most pleasing.”
“An opinion formed from experience, out of all question. And what of the storming parties?”
“They may do for younger men, Lundie,” returned the Quarter Master, rising and winking, a liberty that he often took with his commanding officer, on the score of a long intimacy; “every period of life has its necessities, and at forty seven it’s just as well to trust a little to the head. I wish you a verry good even, Major Duncan, and freedom from gout, with a sweet and refreshing sleep.”
“The same to yourself, Mr. Muir, with many thanks. Remember the passage of arms for the morrow.”
The Quarter Master withdrew, leaving Lundie in his library to reflect on what had just passed. Use had so accustomed Major Duncan to Lt. Muir, and all his traits and humours, that the conduct of the latter did not strike the former with the same force, as it will probably strike the reader. In truth, while all men act under one common law that is termed human nature, the varieties in their dispositions, modes of judging, feelings and selfishness are infinite.
Chapter XI
“Compel the hawke, to sit that is unmann’d,
Or make the hound, untaught to draw the deere,
Or bring the free, against his will in band,
Or move the sad, a pleasant tale to heere,
Your time is lost, and you no whit the neere!
So love ne learnes, of force the heart to knit:
She serves but those, that feel sweet fancies fit.”
—Churchyard, A Mirror for Magistrates, “Shore’s Wife,” ll. 127–33.
* * *
IT IS NOT OFTEN that hope is rewarded by fruition, as completely as the wishes of the young men of the garrison were met by the state of the weather, on the succeeding day. It may be no more than the ordinary waywardness of man, but the Americans are a little accustomed to taking pride in things, that the means of intelligent comparisons would probably show, were in reality of a very inferior quality, while they overlook, or undervalue advantages that place them certainly on a level with, if not above most of their fellow creatures. Among the latter is the climate, which, as a whole, though far from perfect, is infinitely more agreeable, and quite as healthy, as those of most of the countries which are loudest in their denunciations of it. The heats of summer were little felt at Oswego, at the period of which we are writing, for the shade of the forest added to the refreshing breezes from the lake, so far reduced the influence of the sun, as to render the nights always cool, and the days seldom oppressive.
It was now September, a month in which the strong gales of the coast often appear to force themselves across the country as far as the great lakes, where the inland sailor sometimes feels that genial influence which characterizes the winds of the ocean, invigorating his frame, cheering his spirits, and arousing his moral force. Such a day was that on which the garrison of Oswego assembled, to witness what its commander had jocularly called a “passage of arms.” Lundie was a scholar, in military matters at least, and it was one of his sources of honest pride to direct the reading and thoughts of the young men under his orders, to the more intellectual parts of their profession. For one in his situation, his library was both good and extensive, and its books were freely lent to all who desired to use them. Among other whims that had found their way into the garrison, through these means, was a relish for the sort of amusement in which it was now about to indulge, and around which, some chronicles of the days of chivalry had induced them to throw a parade and romance, that were not unsuited to the characters and habits of soldiers, or to the insulated and wild post, occupied by this particular garrison. While so earnestly bent on pleasure, however, they on whom that duty devolved, did not neglect the safety of the garrison. One standing on the ramparts of the fort, and gazing on the waste of glittering water that bounded the view all along the northern horizon, and on the slumbering and seemingly boundless forest, that filled the other half of the panorama, would have fancied the spot the very abode of peacefulness and security; but Duncan of Lundie too well knew that the woods might at any moment give up their hundreds bent on the destruction of the fort and all it contained, and that even the treacherous lake offered a highway of easy approach, by which his more civilized, and scarcely less wily foes, the French, could come upon him, at an unwelcome and unguarded moment. Parties were sent out, under old and vigilant officers, men who cared little for the sports of the day, to scour the forest, and one entire company held the fort, under arms, with orders to maintain a vigilance as strict as if an enemy of superior force was known to be near. With these precautions, the remainder of the officers and men abandoned themselves, without apprehension, to the business of the morning.
The spot selected for the sports, was a sort of esplanade a little west of the fort, and on the immediate bank of the lake. It had been cleared of its trees and stumps, that it might answer the purpose of a parade ground, as it possessed the advantage of having its rear protected by the water, and one of its flanks by the works. Men drilling on it, could be attacked, consequently, on two sides only, and as the cleared space beyond it, in the direction of the west and south, was large, any assailants wou
ld be compelled to quit the cover of the woods, before they could make an approach sufficiently near to render them dangerous.
Although the regular arms of the regiment were muskets, some fifty rifles were produced on the present occasion. Every officer had one, as a part of his private provision for amusement, many belonged to the scouts and friendly Indians, of whom more or less were always hanging about the post, and there was a public provision of them, for the use of those who followed the game with the express object of obtaining supplies. Among those who carried the weapon were some five or six, who had reputations for knowing how to use it particularly well—so well indeed as to have given them a celebrity on the frontier—twice that number who were believed to be much better than common, and many who would have been thought expert, in almost any situation, but the precise one in which they now happened to be placed.
The distance was a hundred yards, and the weapon was to be used without a rest. The target a board, with the customary circular lines in white paint, having the bull’s eye in the centre. The first trials in skill commenced with challenges among the more ignoble of the competitors, to display their steadiness and dexterity in idle competition. None but the common men, engaged in this strife, which had little to interest the spectators, among whom no officer had yet appeared.
Most of the soldiers were Scotch, the regiment having been raised at Stirling and its vicinity, not many years before, though, as in the case of Serjeant Dunham, many Americans had joined it since its arrival in the colonies. As a matter of course, the provincials were generally the most expert marksmen, and after a desultory trial of half an hour, it was necessarily conceded that a youth, who had been born in the colony of New York, and who, coming of Dutch extraction, bore the euphonious name of Van Valtenburg, but was familiarly called Follock, was the most expert of all who had yet tried their skill. It was just as this opinion prevailed, that the oldest captain, accompanied by most of the gentlemen and ladies of the fort, appeared on the parade. A train of some twenty females of humbler condition followed, among whom was seen the well turned form, intelligent, blooming, animated countenance, and neat, becoming attire of Mabel Dunham.
The Leatherstocking Tales II Page 18
