But the people! Lord, how they trooped by, passing, repassing, threading the alleys, streaming across the green, soldiers in scarlet and buff, militia in brown and green, sober townsmen dressed as we dress in Johnstown, old gentlemen in snuffy smalls and big coats with broad cuffs and silver buttons, the butcher, bared of arm and head, with the wind fluttering his apron, the baker, white and sallow as his own muffins, ostlers, shop-keepers, chapmen, men in fustian shouldering pick or shovels, drovers in blue smocks carrying looped snake-whips. Now comes one in musty wig and steel spectacles, bulging umbrella under one arm, inquisitive nose buried in a Maryland newspaper — a schoolmaster! — or do I not know the breed. Anon, I see some tall, awkward riflemen, loitering idly before signs or gawking up at the county court-house, where a gilt fish swims in the sky.
Sometimes a horseman, in the uniform of Lord Dunmore’s guards, trots by gracefully, with a smile and low salute for his friends and a stare at the fresh-cheeked maids who steal demurely along, basket on arm, to rifle the market for an early squash or a bunch o’ green pease.
Many citizens I notice are reading the newspapers as they 216 walk; many men meet and stop and converse eagerly, looking behind them at times as though an eavesdropper might be near. With bell and clapper the vender of ginger and cocoa-nut pushes his cart before him; peddlers, bending under Delaware baskets or leather trays, stand in the street, calling their wares: “Colours for the races!” “Tablets!” “Pencils!” “Chains!” “Cock-gaffs — steel or brass!” “Gentlemen’s fancy!” “Dog-bells!” “Ferret-bits!”
A barefoot child in rags offers bills for the bull-baiting and for the Theatre Royal, crying in a thin, monotonous voice: “Race-week bills, my lords and gentlemen! Race-week bills for the Theatre Royal, my lady! Plays to be played— ‘The Beau’s Stratagem,’ ‘Beggar’s Opera,’ ‘The Devil to Pay,’ ‘The Fair Penitent,’ ‘The Virgin Unmasked!’ and a variety of farces and merry pantomimes — and the bills are only a penny, my lady! The tickets to be had at Jamison’s Coffee-House at four shillings — the bill to be had of me, Rosalie, child of Tanner Bridewell — only a penny!”
The pitiful voice in the sunshine touched me; I opened the window and tossed a shilling to the child, then hid behind the curtains while she kissed her palm at my window.
The winding of a brass horn brought me out of my concealment to peep again down into the street, where people were flocking around a public crier, who stood on a horse-block blowing his horn.
“Attention! Attention!” he cried, unfolding a paper, and presently commenced to read his news to the crowd:
“By permission of the Right Honourable Earl of Dunmore, Governor of Virginia! Four days’ sport on Roanoke Plain. The Colonial Club offering prizes of £100 and £50; the Richmond Club offering two purses of £50. Attention! Sport on the Roanoke; an even and delightsome plain, most sweet and pleasant. To-day the Nobleman’s and Gentleman’s Purse of £50, free for any horse except Doctor Connolly’s Scimitar, who won the plate last season. Second, a silver cup worth £12. Tuesday, County Subscription Purse of £50. No person will erect a booth or sell liquor without subscribing £2 to expenses of races.
“Gentlemen fond of fox-hunting will meet at the Buckeye Tavern by daybreak during the races.
“God save the King!”
He folded his paper, picked up his horn, and stepped down from the horse-block. After a little while I heard his horn again, sounding at the north angle of the square, and his strident voice, announcing the races, came fitfully on the wind.
I turned back into the room and began my toilet. How strange to find this town, undisturbed in its rural pleasures, busy about its own affairs, while scarce a night’s journey to the north the frontier was in ashes, and the dead lay in the charred embers of their own door-sills!
How strange to look out on the peace of these sunny streets, with the cinders of Cresap’s camp still clinging to my hunting-shirt; with my own blood caking the sore on my arm where a Cayuga child had thrust a lighted pine-splinter into my flesh! Strange! — ay, astonishing that these people here behind their fortress, their block-housen, their earthworks and stockades, should forget those who dwelt beyond the gates, wresting the dark soil, inch by inch, from the giant pines of the wilderness.
With a knife which Cresap had given me, I sat down to scrape the mud and filth from my hunting-shirt and to pick out the burrs and docks which clotted the fringe on my leggings.
Sombre thoughts filled me; I had a hard rôle to play before Lord Dunmore; I had a harder rôle to act before Silver Heels, if she were still here in Pittsburg.
It gave me no pleasure to find myself so near her. The attitude she had assumed towards me that last night in Johnstown had hurt enough to leave a scar. But when scars appear, wounds are healed; and so was mine. It was true, I had never loved her as men love sweethearts. Her sudden and amazing appearance as a woman had aroused my curiosity; her popularity and beauty my jealousy. It was hurt pride that tempered me when the playfellow I had tolerated and protected and tormented at my pleasure, tormented, tolerated, and finally ignored me.
I did not love her when I aroused her contempt with my courtship of Mrs. Hamilton. I did not love her when I followed her to the pantry to bully her into according me her 218 respect once more. It was vanity: vanity when I sulked because young Bevan took her from me; vanity when I assailed the pretty ears of Mrs. Hamilton with callow cynicisms and foolish wit. I scorned myself for having deceived my own heart with the fancy that I had ever loved my cousin Silver Heels.
Now that the demon Butler had been exorcised by Sir William, and now that Sir William wished for my union with Silver Heels, and had promised me the means to maintain her as her rank required, I understood plainly that I did not love her in that way. She was only my playfellow; she had never been anything else. I meant to see her and tell her so; I meant to ask her forgiveness for offending her; I meant to seek her friendly confidence once more, to warn her that she should not tarry here in these troublous times, but return at once to Johnson Hall, where Sir William could protect her, not only from the savages, but also from that creature whose every breath of life was an offence to his Creator.
Doubtless, Silver Heels would go with me. Dunmore would be obliged to provide our escort; indeed, his Lordship would be glad enough to see me leave his town of Pittsburg ere I had finished with my business here.
I stood smoothing the thrums on sleeve and legging, somewhat ashamed to seek audience with anybody in such attire. I had money in my belt, enough to purchase clothing suitable to my station, but it was time that I lacked, not means or inclination.
I had laid my hand on the knob, intent on seeking breakfast below, and was about to open the door, when somebody knocked. It was Saul Shemuel, smiling and folding his hands over his belly — a greasy spectacle in sooth for a hungry stomach — and I scowled and bade him state his business quickly in the devil’s name.
“Goot-day and greeding, sir,” said the peddler, bowing and rubbing himself against the door like a cat. “Gott save our country, Mr. Cardigan. You are oxpected to join the gendlemens in 13, sir. Mr. Mount begs you will hold no gonversation mit strangers hereabouts, nor entertain no one until he sees you, sir.”
“Who are you, anyway, Shemuel?” I asked, curiously.
“A peddler, Mr. Cardigan — only a poor peddler,” he protested, spreading out his grimy fingers and peeping up cunningly. “Pray, do not look as if you knew me, sir, should you see me abroad in the streeds, sir. But if you wish to speag to me, please to buy a buckle; one buckle if I shall seek you here, two buckles if I am to follow you in the streed, sir, three buckles if you would seek me in my lodgings, Mr. Cardigan. I live at the ‘Bear and Cubs Tavern,’ sir, on the King’s Road.”
“Very well,” I said, somewhat amused at the idea of my pining for Shemuel’s company under any circumstances. “Where is room 13, Shemuel? Eh? Oh, you appear to know this inn. Here’s sixpence for you, Shemmy. That’s right, cut away now!”
“If I might speak von vort, sir,” he began, hoisting his basket on his back and looking slyly up at me as I passed him.
“Well?” I said, impatiently.
“I haf often seen you, sir, at Johnson Hall.”
“Well?”
“And I haf also sold gilt chains to Miss Warren.”
“Well!” I demanded, sharply.
“Miss Warren iss here in Pittsburg, sir,” he ventured.
“I supposed so,” I said, coldly; “but that does not interest me.”
“Maybe,” he said, spitefully, “you don’d know somedings?”
“What things?”
“Miss Warren weds mit Lord Dunmore in July.”
He was gone like a slippery lizard before I could seize him. He vanished around the corridor ere my thoughts assembled from the shock that had routed them. Now they began to rally pell-mell, and my cheeks burnt with scorn and anger, though I could not truly credit the preposterous news. That unformed child thrown into the arms of a thing like Dunmore! What possessed all these rakes and roués to go mad — stark, staring, March-mad — over my playfellow? What did an Earl want of her — even this bloodless Dunmore with his simper and his snuff and his laces and his bird’s claws for fingers? What the devil had enchanted him to seek her 220 for his wife; to make her Countess of Dunmore and the first lady in Virginia?
And Silver Heels, had she sold her beauty for the crest on this man’s coach? Had she bargained her innocence for the rank that this toothless conspirator and assassin could give her? How in God’s name could she endure him? How could she listen without scorn, look at him without loathing? An old man, at least a man who might be a rotten forty or a patched and mended sixty, with his painted face and his lipless line of a mouth — horror! — if she had seen him grinning and gumming his wine-glass as I had seen him — or sprawling on the carpet, too drunk to clean his own chin!
Agitated and furious I paced the hallway, resolving to seek out my lady Silver Heels without loss of time or ceremony, and conduct her back to the nursery where the little fool belonged.
Countess, indeed! I’d bring her to her senses! And wait! — only wait until Sir William should learn of this!
Somewhat comforted at the thought of the Baronet’s anger and dismay, I pocketed my excitement and began to search for the door of room 13, where, according to Shemuel, I was expected. I had forgotten the peddler’s directions; besides the house was unexplored ground for me, and I wandered about several corridors until I noticed a pleasant-faced gentleman watching me from the stairs.
He doubtless noticed my perplexity, for he bowed very courteously as I passed him and made some polite observation which required a civil answer; and before I was fully aware of it, he had invited me to a morning cup with him in the tap-room.
This was a trifle too friendly on short acquaintance; Shemuel’s warning to hold my tongue and avoid strangers instantly occurred to me. On my guard, I prayed him to pardon my declining, with many compliments and excuses, which I heaped upon him to avoid the seeming discourtesy of refusing him my name.
He was truly a most pleasant gentleman, a stranger in Pittsburg, so he said, and bearing very gracefully the title of captain and the name of Murdy. He appeared most anxious to present me to his friend, Doctor Connolly, in the 221 tap-room; but I begged permission to defer the honour and left him, somewhat nonplussed, on the stairway.
In a few moments I found room 13, and knocked. And, as I was ushered in, I glanced back at the stairway, and was annoyed to see my friendly Captain Murdy peering at me through the balustrade.
It was Corporal Paul Cloud who admitted me, greeting me respectfully, and immediately closing and locking the door. The room was large; a table stood in the centre, around which were gathered Jack Mount, Cade Renard, Jimmy Rolfe, the landlord of the “Virginia Arms”; my former host, Timothy Boyd; and another man whom I had never before seen. Cresap was not there, but, in a corner, wrapped to the eyes in his dark blanket, sat the bereaved Cayuga chief, Logan, staring at the floor.
The company were at breakfast, and when I approached to greet them, Mount jumped to his feet and gave me a warm handclasp, leading me to a chair beside the only man whom I did not know.
I saluted the stranger, and he bowed silently in return. He appeared to be a man of forty, elegantly yet soberly dressed, wearing his own dark hair, unpowdered, in a queue — a gentleman in bearing, in voice, in every movement — a thoroughbred to the tips of his smooth, well-ordered fingers. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles which he wore had been pushed up over his forehead; now he lowered them to the bridge of his nose again, and looked at me gravely and searchingly, yet entirely without offence. The scrutiny of certain men sometimes conveys a delicate compliment.
Mount, in a very subdued voice, asked permission to present me, and the gentleman bowed, saying he knew my name from hearing of my father.
As for his name, I think anybody in the colonies — ay, in London, too — would know it. For the gentleman beside whom I had been placed was the famous Virginian, Patrick Henry, that fiery orator who had bade our King mark well the lives of Cæsar and Charles the First to profit by their sad examples: and when the cries of “Treason!” dinned in his ears, had faced a howling Tory Legislature with the contemptuous words: “If this be treason — make the most of it!”
Sideways I admired his delicate aquiline nose, his firm chin, the refinement of every muscle, every line.
He drank sparingly; once he raised his glass to me and I had the honour of drinking a draught of cinnamon cold-mulled with him.
There was little conversation at table. Mr. Henry asked Boyd about the burning of Cresap’s village, and the brave old man told the story in a few, short phrases. Once he spoke to Cloud about the militia. Presently, however, he left the table and sat down by Logan; and for a long time we watched them together, this sensitive, high-bred orator, and the sombre savage, burying his grief in the dark ruins of a broken heart. Their blended voices sounded to us like the murmur of the deep thrilling chords of a harp, touched lightly.
Mount came over beside me, and, resting his massive head on his hands, spoke low, “Cresap was arrested last night by Doctor Connolly, Dunmore’s deputy, and is to be relieved of his command.”
“Is Doctor Connolly Dunmore’s agent?” I asked, quietly. “Then he’s here in the house now.”
“I know it,” said Mount. “He and his fawning agent, Murdy, are watching the inn to learn who is here. By-the-way, my name is anything you please, if they ask you. It won’t do for the Weasel and me to flaunt our quality in Pittsburg town. There was once a fat Tory judge walking yonder on the highway, and — well, you know, moonlight and mischief are often abroad together. Curious, too, that this same fat judge should have come to grief; for he once issued some valentines to me and the Weasel.”
I looked up sharply; Mount blinked mildly as a kitten who is filled with milk.
“Why did they arrest Cresap?” I asked.
“Why? Oh, Lord, the town is full o’ people blaming Dunmore for this new war. There was like to be a riot yesterday when one of Cresap’s runners came in with news of the rising. So Dunmore, frightened, called in Connolly and Murdy and they went about town swearing that Dunmore was innocent and that the wicked Cresap did it all. And now Connolly has had Cresap arrested, and he swears that Dunmore 223 will make an example of Cresap for oppressing the poor Indians. There’s your Tory Governor for you!”
Horrified at such hypocrisy, I could only gasp while Mount shrugged his broad shoulders and went on:
“But this rattlesnake, Dunmore, has bitten off more than he can poison. Logan’s here to demand justice on Greathouse. And now you are here to protest in Sir William’s name. Oh, it’s a fine pickle Dunmore will find himself swimming in.”
“When is Logan to have an audience with Dunmore?” I asked.
“To-night, in the fortress. And, Mr. Cardigan, I took the liberty of announcing to the Governor’s secretary, Gibson, that an envoy from Sir W
illiam Johnson had arrived with a message for Lord Dunmore. So you also are to deliver your message to the Governor of Virginia in the hall to-night.”
“But,” said I, puzzled, “does Dunmore expect a messenger from Sir William?”
“Haven’t you heard from Shemuel?” asked Mount. “I told him to tell you that Dunmore wants to marry the beautiful Miss Warren, who’s cutting such a swath here. He sent his offer by runner to Sir William, and, being a Tory, an Earl, and Governor of Virginia, he naturally expects Sir William will throw the poor girl at his head!”
I took Mount’s arm in my hand and tightened my grip till he groaned.
“Mark you, Mount,” I said, choking back my passion, “this night my Lord Dunmore will learn some things of which he is ignorant. One of them is that my kinswoman, Miss Warren, is betrothed to me!”
The big fellow’s eyes had grown wider and bluer as I spoke. When I finished he gaped at me like a dying fish. Suddenly he seized my hand and wrung it till the whole table shook, and Mr. Henry looked at us in displeasure.
“Tell the Weasel,” said Mount, gently. “Tell him, lad. It will please him. He’s full o’ sentiment; he’ll never breathe a word, Mr. Cardigan; the Weasel’s a gentleman. He dotes on love and lovers.”
Lovers! Love! The words fell harshly on my ear.
I did not love Silver Heels; I did not want to wed her. But something had to be done, and that quickly, if I was to take the silly, deluded girl back to Johnstown with me.
“Won’t you tell the Weasel?” said Mount, anxiously.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 104
