He glanced up at his comrade, who stood silently beside him in the darkness.
“He, too, was there, Mr. Renault — my fellow drover here, at your service. Weasel, remove thy hat and make a bow to Mr. Renault — our brother drover.”
The little withered man uncovered with a grace astonishing. So perfect was his bearing and his bow that I rose instinctively to meet it, and match his courtesy with the best I could.
“When like meets like ’tis a duel of good manners,” said the big drover quietly. “Mr. Renault, you salute a man as gently bred as any man who wears a gilt edge to his hat in County Tryon. I call him the Weasel with all the reverence with which I say ‘your lordship.’”
The Weasel and I exchanged another bow, and I vow he outmatched me, too, in composure, dignity, and grace, and I wondered who he might be.
“Tempus,” observed the giant drover, “fugits like the devil in this dawdling world o’ sin, as the poet has it — eh, Weasel? So, not even taking time to ask your pardon for my Latin, sir, I catch Time by the scalplock and add a nick to my gun-stock. Lord, sir! That’s no language for a peaceful, cattle-driving yokel, is it now? Ah, Mr. Renault, I see you suspect us, and we have only to thank God you’re not a lobster-back to bawl for the sergeant and his lanthorn.”
“Who are you?” I asked, smiling.
“Did you ever hear of a vile highwayman called Jack Mount?” he asked, pretending horror.
“Yes,” I said.
“You wouldn’t shake hands with him, would you?”
“Let’s try it,” I replied seriously, holding out my hand.
He took it with a chuckle, his boyish face wreathed in smiles. “A purse from a magistrate here and there,” he muttered— “a Tory magistrate, overfat and proud — what harm, sir? And I never could abide fat magistrates, Mr. Renault,” he confided in a whisper. “It is strange; you will scarce credit me, sir, when I tell you that when I’m near a magistrate, and particularly when he’s fat, and the moon’s low over the hills, why, my pistols leap from my belt of their own accord, and I must snatch them with both hands lest they go flying off like rockets and explode to do a harm to that same portly magistrate.”
“He does not mean all that,” said the Weasel, laying his wrinkled hand affectionately on Mount’s great arm. “He has served nobly, sir, with Cresap and with Morgan.”
“But when I’m alone,” sighed Mount, “I’m in very bad company, and mischief follows, sure as a headache follows a tavern revel. I do not mean to stop these magistrates, Mr. Renault, only they will wander on the highway, under my very pistols, provoking ’em to fly out!” He looked at me and furtively licked the stem of his clay pipe.
“So you leave for the north to-night?” I asked, amused.
“Yes, sir. There’s a certain Walter Butler in this town, arrived like a hen-hawk from the clouds, and peep! peep! we downy chicks must scurry to the forest, lad, or there’ll be a fine show on the gallows yonder and two good rifles idle in the hills of Tryon.”
“You know Walter Butler?”
“Know him? Yes, sir. I had him at my mercy once — over my rifle-sights! Ah, well — he rode away — and had it not been young Cardigan who stayed my trigger-finger — But let that pass, too. What is he here for?”
“To ask Sir Henry Clinton’s sanction of a plan to burn New York and fling the army on West Point, while he and Sir John Johnson and Colonel Ross strike the grain country in the north and lay it and the frontier in ashes.”
There was a silence, then a quiet laugh from Mount.
“West Point is safe, I think,” he murmured.
“But Tryon?” urged the Weasel; “how will it go with Tryon County, Jack?”
Another silence.
“We’d best be getting back to Willett,” said Mount quietly. “As for me, my errand is done, and the strange, fishy smells of New York town stifle me. I’m stale and timid, and I like not the shape of the gallows yonder. My health requires the half-light of the woods, Mr. Renault, and the friendly shadows which lie at hand like rat-holes in a granary. I’ve drunk all the ale at the Bull’s-Head — weak stuff it was — and they’ve sent for more, but I can’t wait. So we’re off to the north to-night, friend, and we’ll presently rinse our throats of this salt wind, which truly inspires a noble thirst, yet tells nothing to a nose made to sniff the inland breezes.”
He held out his hand, saying, “So you can learn no news of this place called Thendara?”
“I may learn yet. Walter Butler said to-day that I knew it. Yet I can not recall anything save the name. Is it Delaware? And yet I know it must be Iroquois, too.”
“It might be Cayuga, for all I know,” he said. “I never learned their cursed jargon and never mean to. My business is to stop their forest-loping — and I do when I can.” He spoke bitterly, like that certain class of forest-runners who never spare an Indian, never understand that anything but evil can come of any blood but white. With them argument is lost, so I said nothing.
“Have you anything for Colonel Willett?” he asked, after a pause.
“Tell him that I sent despatches this very day. Tell him of Butler’s visit here, and of his present plans. If I can learn where this Thendara lies I will write him at once. That is all, I think.”
I shook their hands, one by one.
“Have a care, sir,” warned the Weasel as we parted. “This Walter Butler is a great villain, and, like all knaves, suspicious. If he once should harbor misgivings concerning you, he would never leave your trail until he had you at his mercy. We know him, Jack and I. And I say, God keep you from that man’s enmity or suspicion. Good-by, Mr. Renault.”
I retained his hand, gazing earnestly into his faded, kindly eyes.
“Do you know aught reflecting on his honor?” I asked.
“I know of Cherry Valley,” he replied simply.
“Yes; but I mean his dealings with men in time of peace. Is he upright?”
“He is so considered, though they would have hanged him for a spy in Albany in ‘78-’79, had not young Lafayette taken pity on him and had him removed from jail to a private house, he pleading illness. Once uncaged, he gnawed through, and was off to the Canadas in no time, swearing to repay tenfold every moment’s misery he spent in jail. He did repay — at Cherry Valley. Think, sir, what bloody ghosts must haunt his couch at night — unless he be all demon and not human at all, as some aver. Yet he has a wife, they say — —”
“What!”
“He has a wife,” repeated Mount— “or a mistress. It’s all one to him.”
“Where?” I asked quietly.
“She was at Guy Park, the Oneidas told me; and when Sullivan moved on Catharinestown she fled with all that Tory rabble, they say, to Butlersbury, and from thence to the north — God knows where! I saw her once; she is French, I think — and very young — a beauty, sir, with hair like midnight, and two black stars for eyes. I have seen an Oneida girl with such eyes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Walter Butler makes little of women — like Sir John Johnson,” he added in disgust.
I was silent.
“We go north by Valentine’s and North Castle, the Albany road being unhealthy traveling at night,” said Mount, with a grin; “and I think, Cade, we’d best pull foot. I trust, Mr. Renault, that you may not hear of our being taken and hung to disgrace any friends of ours. Come, Cade, old friend, our fair accomplice, the moon, is hid, so lift thy little legs and trot! Au large!”
They pulled off their hats with a gay flourish, turned, and plunged shoulder-deep into the weeds.
And so they left me, creeping away through the low foliage into Greenwich Street, while I, rousing myself, turned my steps toward home. I had no desire to sup; my appetite’s edge had been turned by what I heard concerning Walter Butler. Passing slowly through the graveyard and skirting the burned church, I entered Broadway, where here and there a street-lamp was burning. Few people strolled under the lime-trees; cats prowled and courted and fought in the gutters, scattering in silent, sh
adowy flight before me as I crossed the street to the great house; and so buried in meditation was I that I presently found myself in my own room, and could not remember how I passed the door or mounted the long stairway to my chambers.
Dennis came to do my hair, but I drove him out with boots in a sudden, petty fury new to my nature. Indeed, lying there in my stuffed armchair, I scarcely knew myself, so strangely sad and sullen ran my thoughts — not thoughts, either, for at first I followed no definite train, but a certain irritable despondency clothed me, and trifles enraged me, leaving me bitter and sick at heart, bearing a weight of apprehension concerning nothing at all.
Oh, for a week of liberty from this pit of intrigue! Oh, for a day’s freedom to ride like those blue dragoons of Heath I had seen along the Hudson! Oh, to be free to dog-trot back to the north with those two gallant scamps of Morgan, and wear a hunting-shirt once more, and lay the long brown rifle level in this new quarrel coming soon between these Butlers and these Johnsons and our yeomanry of County Tryon!
“By God!” I muttered, “I care not if they take me, for I’m sick of spying and lying, so let them hoist me out upon that leafless tree where better men have swung, and have done with the wretched business once for all!” Which I meant not, and was silly to fume, and thankless, too, to anger the Almighty with ingratitude for His long and most miraculous protection. But I was in a foul humor with the world and myself, and I knew not what ailed me, either. True, the insolence of that libertine, Walter Butler, affronted me, and it gave me a sour pleasure to think how I should quiet his swagger with one plain word aside.
Following this lead, I fell to thinking in earnest. What would it mean — a quarrel? Dare he deny the charge? No; I should command, and he obey, and I’d send him slinking north by the same accursed schooner that brought him; and Elsin Grey should go when she pleased, escorted by a proper retinue. But I’d make no noise about it — not a word to set tongues wagging and eyes peeping — for Elsin’s sake. Lord! the silly maid, to steer so near the breakers and destruction!
And what then? Well, I should never see her again, once she was safe among her kin in the Canadas. And she was doubtless the fairest woman I had ever looked upon — but light — not in an evil sense, God wot! but prone to impulse and caprice — a kitten, soft as silk, now staring at the world out of two limpid eyes, now frisking after breeze-blown rose-leaves. A man may admire such a child, nay, learn to love her dearly, in a way most innocent. But love! She did not know its meaning, and how could she inspire it in a man of the world. No, I did not love her — could not love a maid, unripe and passionless, and overpert at times, flouting a man like me with her airs and vapors and her insolent lids and lashes. Lord! but she carried it high-handed with me at times, plaguing me, teasing, pouting when my attention wandered midway in the pretty babble with which she condescended to entertain me. And with all that — and after all is said — there was something in me that warmed to her — perhaps the shadow of kinship — perhaps because of her utter ignorance of all she prated of so wisely. Her very crudity touched the chord of chivalry which is in all men, strung tight or loose, answering to a touch or a blow, but always answering in some faint degree, I think. Yet, if this is so, how could Walter Butler find it in his heart to trouble her?
That he meant her real evil I did not credit, she being what she was. Doubtless he hoped to find some means of ridding him of a wife no longer loved; there were laws complacent for that sort of work. Yet, grant him free, how could he find it in his heart to cherish passion for a child? He was no boy — this pallid rake of thirty-five — this melancholy squire of dames who, ere he was twenty, had left a trail in Albany and Tryon none too savory, if wide report be credited — he and Sir John Johnson! — as pretty a brace of libertines as one might find even in that rotten town of London.
Well, I would send him on his business without noise or scandal, and I’d hold a séance, too, with Mistress Elsin, wherein a curtain-lecture should be read, kindly, gravely, but with firmness fitting!
I lay back, stretching out my legs luxuriously, pleasantly contemplating the stern yet kindly rôle I was to play: first send him skulking, next enact the solemn father to this foolish maid. Then, admonishing and smiling forgiveness in one breath, retire as gravely as I entered — a highly interesting figure, magnanimous and moral ——
A rapping at my chamber-door aroused me disagreeably from this flattering rhapsody.
“Enter!” I said ungraciously, and lay back, frowning to see there in the flesh the man whose punishment I had been complacently selecting.
“Mr. Renault,” he said, “am I overbold in this intrusion on your privacy? Pray, sir, command me, for my business must await your pleasure.”
I bowed, rising, and pointing to a chair. “It is business, then, not pleasure, as I take it, Captain Butler, that permits me to receive you?”
“The business and the pleasure both are mine, Mr. Renault,” he said, which was stilted enough to be civil. “The business, sir, is this: Sir Henry Clinton received me like a gentleman, but as soon as Sir Peter had retired he listened to me as though I were demented when I exposed my plan to burn New York and take the field. I say he used me with scant civility, and bowed me out, like the gross boor he is!”
“He is commander-in-chief, Mr. Butler.”
“What do I care!” burst out Butler, his dark eyes a golden blaze. “Am I not an Ormond-Butler? Why should a Clinton affront an Ormond-Butler? By Heaven! I must swallow his airs and his stares and his shrugs because he is my superior; but I may one day rise in military rank as high as he — and I shall do so, mark me well, Mr. Renault! — and when I am near enough in the tinseled hierarchy to reach him at thirty paces I shall use the privilege, by God!”
“There are,” said I blandly, “many subalterns on his staff who might serve your present purpose, Captain Butler.”
“No, no,” he said impatiently, his dark eyes wandering about the chamber, “I have too much at stake to call out fledglings for a sop to injured pride. No, Mr. Renault, I shall first take vengeance for a deeper wrong — and the north lies like an unreaped harvest for the sickle that Death and I shall set a-swinging there.”
I bent my head, meditating; then looking up:
“You say I know where this Thendara lies?”
“Yes,” he answered sullenly. “You know as well as I do what is written in the Book of Rites.”
At first his words rang meaningless, then far in my memory a voice called faintly, and a pale ray of light grew through the darkened chambers of my brain. And now I knew, now I remembered, now I understood where that lost town must lie — the town of Thendara, lost ever and forever, only to be forever found again as long as the dark Confederacy should endure.
Awed, I sat in silence; and he turned his gloomy eyes now on me, now on the darkened window, gnawing his lip in savage retrospection.
Instantly I was aware that he doubted me, and why. I looked up at him, astounded; he lifted his brooding head and I made a rapid sign, saying in the Mohawk tongue: “Karon-ta-Ke? — at the Tree?”
“Karon-ta-Kowa-Kon — at the great tree. Sat-Kah-tos — thou seest. There lies the lost town of Thendara. And, save for the council, where you and I have a Wolf’s clan-right, no living soul could know what that word Thendara means. God help the Oneida who betrays!”
“Since when and by what nation have you been raised up to sit in the council of condolence?” I asked haughtily; for, strange as it may appear to those who know not what it means to wear the Oneida clan-mark of nobility, I, clean-blooded and white-skinned, was as fiercely proud of this Iroquois honor as any peer of England newly invested with the garter. And it was strange, too, for I was but a lad when chosen for the mystic rite; but never except once — the day before I left the north to serve his Excellency’s purpose in New York — had I been present when that most solemn rite was held, and the long roll of dead heroes called in honor of the Great League’s founder, Hiawatha.
And so, though I am
pure white in blood and bone and every instinct, and having nigh forgotten that I wore the Wolf — and, too, the Long House being divided and I siding with the Oneidas, and so at civil war with the shattered league that served King George — yet I turned on Walter Butler as a Mohawk might turn upon a Delaware, scornfully questioning his credentials, demanding his right to speak as one who had heard the roll-call of those Immortals who founded the “Great Peace” three hundred years ago.
“The Delawares named me, and the council took me,” he said with perfect calmness. “The Delaware nation mourned their dead; and now I sit for the Wolf Clan — my elder brother, Renault.”
“A Delaware clan is not named in the Rite,” I said coldly— “nor is there kinship between us because you are adopted by the Delawares. I am aware that clanship knows no nations; and I, an Oneida Wolf, am brother to a Cayuga Wolf; but I am not brother to you.”
“And why not to the twin clan of my adopted nation?” he asked angrily.
“Yours is a cleft ensign and a double clan,” I sneered; “which are you, Gray Wolf or Yellow Wolf?”
“Yellow,” he said, struggling to keep his temper; “and if we Delawares of the Wolf-Clan are not named in the Book of Rites, nevertheless we sit as ensigns among the noble, and on the same side of the council-lodge as your proud Oneidas. We have three in the council as well as you, Mr. Renault. If you were a Mohawk I should hold my peace, but a Delaware may answer an Oneida. And so I answer you, sir.”
How strange it seems now — we two white men, gentlemen of quality, completely oblivious to blood, birth, tradition, breeding — our primal allegiance, our very individualities sunk in the mystical freemasonry of a savage tie which bound us to the two nations we assumed to speak for, Oneida and Delaware — two nations of the great Confederacy of the Iroquois that had adopted us, investing us with that clan nobility of which we bore the ensign.
And we were in deadly earnest, too, standing proudly, fiercely, for our prerogatives; he already doubly suspicious of me because the Oneida nation which had adopted me stood for the rebel cause, yet, in his mealy-mouthed way, assuming that by virtue of Wolf clanship, as well as by that sentiment he supposed was loyalty to the King, I would do nothing to disrupt the council which I now knew must decide upon the annihilation of the Oneida nation, as well as upon the raid he contemplated.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 230
