Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Mount stood still for a long while. Slowly his eager head sank, his arms fell, hopelessly. Then, with a gulping sob, he sank down beside his ancient comrade, and hid his head in his huge hands.

  The Weasel looked at him with sorrowful eyes; then rose, and came slowly towards Silver Heels.

  “They say you are not my daughter,” he said, taking Silver Heels’s hands from mine. “They tell me I have forgotten many things — that you are not my little girl. But — we know better, my child.”

  He bent and kissed her hands. His hair was white as frost.

  “We know better, child,” he murmured. “You shall tell me all they say — for I cannot understand — and we will smile to remember it all, in the long summer evenings — will we not, my child?”

  “Yes,” said Silver Heels, faintly.

  “There is much, sir, that I forget in these days,” he said, turning gravely towards me— “much that I cannot recall. Age comes to us all with God’s mercy, sir. Pray you forgive if I lack in aught of courtesy to my guests. There are many people who stay with us — and I cannot remember all names of new and welcome guests — believe me, most welcome. I think your name is Captain Butler?”

  “Sir Michael Cardigan,” whispered Silver Heels.

  “And welcome, always welcome to us here in Cambridge Hall,” murmured the old man, staring vacantly about him.

  Foxcroft, who had gone to the shabby barn, came back and whispered that there were no horses there, and no vehicle of any description; that we had best make ready for a journey to Albany immediately, and abandon the house and its scant furnishings to the mercy of chance.

  I left it to him and to Jack Mount to persuade poor Renard that a journey was necessary that very night; and to them also I left the care of providing for us as best they might, saying that I had no money until I could reach Albany, and that my horse Warlock was to carry Miss Warren.

  When Mount had drawn poor Cade away, and when Foxcroft began rummaging the great house for what necessaries and provisions it might contain, Silver Heels took me by the hand and led me up the creaking old stairs and across the gallery to her own chamber. The moonlight flooded the room as we entered, making its every corner sparkle.

  Save for the great four-posted bed with its heavy canopy, there was in the room nothing but a pine table and a jug and basin.

  “So poor am I,” she whispered, close beside my face.

  “Is this all?” I asked.

  “All save the clothes on my body, Michael.”

  “Silver Heels! Silver Heels!” I said, sorrowfully, holding her by the hands and never moving my eyes from her tender 474 eyes. And we looked and looked, nor gazed our fill, and the light of her sweet presence was like moonlight which swam in the silvery room, bathing me to the soul of me with deep content.

  “All these piteous days!” she said, slowly.

  “Ay — all of them! And each hour a year, and each nightfall a closing century. Silver Heels! Silver Heels! You are unchanged, dear heart!”

  “Thin to my bones, and very, very old — like you, Michael.”

  “We have young souls.”

  “Yes, Michael. We are young in all save sorrow.”

  “And you are so tall, Silver Heels—”

  “Span my waist!”

  “My hand would span it. Ah! Your head comes not above my chin for all your willow growth!”

  “Your hands are rough, Sir Michael.”

  “Your hands are satin, sweet.”

  “Yet I wash my kerchief and my shifts in suds.”

  How the moon glowed and glowed on her.

  “You grow in beauty, Silver Heels,” I said.

  “When you are with me I do truly feel beauty growing in me, Michael.”

  We sat down together on the great bed’s edge, her face against mine, and looked out at the faint stars which the glory of the moon had not yet drowned in light.

  Far in the night a cock crowed in the false dawn.

  “You have suffered, sweet?” I whispered.

  “Ay. And you?”

  “Much,” I replied.

  After a long while she spoke.

  “You have never wavered — not once — not for one moment?”

  “Once.”

  In a faint whisper, “When?”

  “On the road from Albany, dear heart.”

  “You rode in company?”

  “Not of my choice.”

  “Who?”

  “Do not ask.”

  “Who?”

  “I cannot tell—”

  “Who?”

  “In honour.”

  “You wavered?”

  “There was no danger when I thought of you.”

  She raised her face; her mouth touched mine, then clung to it, and I breathed the sweetest breath a maid e’er drew, and all my soul grew dim and warm and faint, with her arms now around my neck, now clinging to my shoulders, and her face like a blossom crushed to mine.

  Trembling in limb and body she stood up, brushing her gray eyes awake with slender fingers.

  “Ah, what happiness, what happiness!” she whispered. “I am all a-quiver, and I burn to the soul of me. What strange, sweet mischief is there in your lips, Michael? Nay — do not touch me — dear, dear lad; not now — not yet.”

  She leaned from the open casement; in the intense stillness a voice broke out from below:

  “Ready, Cardigan! The horses wait at the barn!”

  As she had no cloak I wrapped her in mine, and, passing my arm around her, led her down to the porch and out across the orchard to the barn where Renard sat, mounted on his old comrade’s horse.

  Warlock came to my call; he nosed the little hand that Silver Heels held out, and laid his head close to hers.

  “Bear her safely, Warlock!” I muttered, huskily, and lifted her to the saddle, bidding Foxcroft mount his own horse, as I would walk beside Miss Warren.

  So we started, Foxcroft in the van, then the Weasel, with Mount afoot, leading the horse, then Silver Heels in her saddle, with one hand on my shoulder as I walked at her side, rifle trailed.

  “There is a road which swings north,” said Foxcroft. “We must circle Lexington.”

  “There is a road yonder,” called out Mount.

  Foxcroft hesitated.

  “I think it leads to Roxbury,” he said; “I cannot tell if it be the road.”

  “Is it the Roxbury Road, Cade?” asked Mount, cheerfully.

  “Doubtless, doubtless,” replied the Weasel, vacantly, staring at Silver Heels.

  “He does not remember,” whispered Silver Heels.

  “Try it,” said Mount; “I doubt not but that it swings far north o’ Lexington. If this were the forest ‘twixt Saint Sacrement and Pitt I’d vouch for us all, but the smell o’ the town has dulled and blunted my nose, and I see no longer like a tabby in a dark pantry.”

  He moved into the road, following Foxcroft, and leading the horse on which Cade Renard was mounted. I came last with Silver Heels.

  The moon was well on her journey towards the dark world’s edge ere we came to a cross-roads; but the four finger-posts were missing, and we found ourselves no wiser than before. Foxcroft voiced his misgivings that we were on the Lexington Road after all, and not on the road to Roxbury, as we should surely have crossed the Concord Road ere this.

  And he was right, for in a few moments we came in full view of the Lexington Meeting-house, with the Concord Road running into our road on the left and “Buckman’s Tavern” on the right, all ablaze with candles set in every window, and a great stable lanthorn shining in the centre of the road.

  “It is past three in the morning,” said Foxcroft, looking at his watch. “The British should have been here ere this if they were coming at all.”

  Mount threw his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, and, tossing his horse’s bridle to Foxcroft, walked towards “Buckman’s Tavern” where, in the lanthorn light, a throng of men were standing.

  I heard him greet them with a
hearty “God save our country”; then he disappeared in the crowd.

  The night had turned chilly; I buttoned my riding-coat across Silver Heels’s throat and covered her head with the cape, tying it under her chin like a hood.

  Presently Mount came striding back, rifle on shoulder, followed by an hostler with a stable light.

  “The militia have been yonder under arms since midnight,” he said. “A messenger rode in ten minutes since with news that the road was clear and no British coming. We can get a post-chaise here” — he nodded towards the hostler 477 who stood swinging his lamp in one hand and his firelock in t’other.

  “I guess the redcoats ain’t a-coming, gentlemen,” said the hostler, with a grin.

  “Then we had best bait at the tavern,” said Foxcroft, quickly; and he led the way, riding beside the Weasel, who seemed utterly indifferent to his surroundings.

  As we threaded our path through the crowd of men and boys I noticed that all were armed with rifles or old-time firelocks, and some even with ancient blunderbusses and bell-muzzled matchlocks. They appeared to be a respectable company, mostly honest yokels from the village, clad in plain homespun. A few wore the militia uniform; one or two officers were dressed in the full uniform of the Third Suffolk Regiment. They eyed us curiously as we passed through their straggling ranks; one called out: “The forest-runners are with us! Hurrah!” But, for the most part, they regarded us quietly, readily making way for me as I came up, leading Warlock with Silver Heels in the saddle, cloaked to the eyes.

  A servant, wearing a pistol in his belt, brought us bread and hot stirabout in a great blue bowl. This dry fare we washed with ale, Silver Heels tasting a glass of Madeira to warm her chilled body.

  It was a silent, thoughtful repast. Mount, sitting close beside the Weasel, urged the old man to eat, and he did, mechanically, with dazed eyes fixed on space.

  One thing I began to notice: he no longer watched Silver Heels with that humble, devoted, hungering mien of a guardian hound; he scarcely appeared to be aware of her presence at all. Once only he spoke, asking what had become of his rifle; and Mount, eager and hopeful, brought his own rifle to the stricken man. But the Weasel had already forgotten what he had asked for, and he glanced at the weapon listlessly, his hands folded before him on the cloth.

  Though her life had nigh been wrecked forever by this poor madman, Silver Heels, sitting at his elbow, watched over him with a serious tenderness and pity, doing for him those little offices which do become the children of the aged and infirm, and which, God grant, our children shall 478 fulfil towards us. And so I saw her with the salt-box, savouring his stirabout so that it should be seasoned to his liking, and, with the cone of sugar, chip such morsels with her knife as he might mumble when he chose.

  Presently Foxcroft went to the stables to see that our post-chaise was well provisioned for the journey, and Mount led Renard away to watch the feed-bags filled for our horses’ provender.

  Silver Heels, still wrapped in my riding-cloak, laid her slim hand on my arm, and we walked together to the tavern porch.

  The road from Boston divides in front of the Meeting-house, forming two sides of a grassy triangle, on the base of which stands the Meeting-house, facing down the Boston Road. Near this village green a few armed men still lingered in the faint light of dawn, conversing in low voices, and glancing often down the deserted Boston Road.

  A score of men sat around us on the damp tavern steps, listlessly balancing their rifles between their knees, some smoking wooden pipes, some dozing, some drinking early milk from a bucket brought by a small, freckled lad who wore neither hat nor shoes.

  “Do you desire some fresh milk, lady?” he asked, gazing solemnly up at Silver Heels.

  She smiled faintly, took the proffered dipper, and drank a little.

  “No pay, lady,” he said, as I drew out some coins which Foxcroft had loaned me; “the redcoats are comin’, and we need to for-ti-fy the in-ner man — and the in-ner lady,” he added, politely.

  A soldier looked up and laughed.

  “That’s what the little rascal heard Captain Parker say,” he drawled, much amused, while the barefoot Ganymede withdrew, blushing and embarrassed, to act as cup-bearer to others who had beckoned him.

  “We’ve got a hundred an’ thirty militia here already,” volunteered a drummer-boy who lolled on the porch, fondling his wet drum; “but Captain Parker, he let ’em go into the houses around the green because he guesses the redcoats ain’t a-comin’, but I’m to stay here an’ drum like the devil if the redcoats come.”

  “An’ I’m to fife if they come!” added another boy, stoutly.

  I glanced down at the big, painted drum, all beaded with dew, and I read “Louisburg” written in white letters on the hoops.

  “We have some old Louisburg soldiers here,” said the urchin, proudly. “The redcoats say that we be all cowards, but I guess we have fit battles for ’em long enough.”

  “You are over-young to fight in war,” said Silver Heels, gently.

  “No, ma’am, we ain’t!” they retorted, in a breath. “We’ll give ’em ‘Yankee Doodle’ this time, my lady!”

  “‘Yankee Doodle,’” repeated Silver Heels, mystified.

  “A foolish song the British play in Boston to plague us,” I explained.

  Presently Silver Heels touched my arm. “See yonder — look at that man, down there in the road! See him running now, Michael!”

  I turned and looked down the Boston Road; the little barelegged drummer stood up.

  Faintly came the far cry through the misty chill: “The British are coming! The British are coming!”

  The next instant the wet, stringy drum banged and buzzed on the tavern porch, drowning all other sounds in our ears; a score of men stumbled to their feet, rifles in hand; the little fifer blew a whistling call, then ran out into the road.

  At that same moment our post-chaise lumbered around the corner of the tavern yard and drew up before us, Mount acting as post-boy, and Foxcroft and the Weasel riding together in the rear.

  Mount apprehended the situation at a glance; he motioned me to place Silver Heels in the chaise, which I did, with my eyes still fixed on the foggy Boston Road.

  “Is it a false alarm?” inquired Foxcroft, anxiously, as a few of the militia came running past our chaise. “Ho! Harrington! Hey! Bob Monroe! Is it true they are coming, lads?”

  Harrington and Monroe, whom I had met in Boston at the “Wild Goose,” waved their arms to us, and called out that it was doubtless true.

  “Which way?” cried Foxcroft, standing up in his stirrups.

  But the militia and Minute Men ran out without answering, and joined the line which was slowly forming on the green, while the old Louisburg drum rolled, vibrating sonorously, and the fife’s shrill treble pierced the air.

  There was a uniformed officer in front of the ragged line, shouting orders, gesticulating, pushing men into place; some sidled nearer to their comrades as though for shelter, many craned their necks like alarmed turkeys, a few huddled into groups, charging and priming their pieces — some threescore yokels in all, though others were running from the houses and joining the single rank, adding to the disorder and confusion. And all the while the old Louisburg drum thundered the assembly.

  “Cardigan, which way are they coming?” cried Foxcroft, still standing up in his stirrups. “They say there are redcoats behind us and more in front of us!”

  “Do those ragged rascals mean to face a British army?” exclaimed Mount, reining in his horse, which had begun to rear at the noise of the drum.

  “Turn your horses, Jack!” I said, holding Warlock by the head; “turn back towards Concord!”

  “There’s redcoats on the Concord Road!” cried a woman, running out of a house close by. I saw her hurry across to the village green, carrying a sack of home-moulded bullets.

  Jonathan Harrington caught her arm, took the bullet-pouch, kissed her; then she hastened back to the little house and stood at the
window, peering out with white face pressed to the dark glass.

  I flung myself astride Warlock, wheeled the restless horse, and ranged up alongside Mount.

  “Can we not take the Bedford Road?” I asked, anxiously.

  “They say the British are betwixt us and the west,” replied Mount. His eyes had begun to burn with a steady, fierce light; he sat astride the off horse, cocking and uncocking his rifle.

  “Then we should make for the Boston Road!” I said, impatiently; “we can’t stay here—”

  “Look yonder!” broke in Foxcroft, excitedly.

  Out into the Boston Road, in the gray haze of dawn, trotted 481 a British officer, superbly mounted. The pale light glimmered on his silver gorget; the gold on his sleeves and hat sparkled.

  Straight on his heels marched the British infantry, moving walls of scarlet topped with shining steel, rank after rank, in magnificent alignment, pouring steadily into the square, with never a drum-beat to time the perfect precision of their black-gaitered legs.

  “Halt!” cried a far voice; the red ranks stood as one man. An officer galloped alongside of the motionless lines, and, leaning forward in his saddle, shouted to the disordered group of farmers, “Stop that drum!”

  “Fall in! Fall in!” roared the captain of the militia; the old Louisburg drum thundered louder yet.

  “Prime! Load!” cried the British officers, and the steady call was repeated from company to company, and yet to companies unseen, far down the Boston Road.

  Twoscore of spectators had now so hemmed in our post-chaise that we could not move without crushing them, yet I struggled ceaselessly to back the vehicle into the stable-yard, and Foxcroft begged the crowd to move and let the chaise pass.

  We had scarcely succeeded in reaching the corner of the yard, and the body of the chaise was now safe from bullets, when a British major galloped into the green, motioning violently to the militia with his drawn sword.

  “Disperse! Disperse!” he called out, angrily.

  “Stand your ground!” roared the militia captain. “Don’t fire unless fired upon! But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here!”

  “Disperse!” shouted the British major. “Lay down your arms! Why don’t you lay down your arms and disperse—”