Роберт Чамберс - Cardigan

There was not a whimper from the women, only quiet tears. Even the children, looking up solemnly at Cresap, bravely stifled the sobs of fear that crowded into every little throat.

The day wore away in preparation for the march. I had nothing to prepare; I had lost my rifle and ammunition when a prisoner among the Cayugas, and my spare clothing and provisions when Boyd's Inn was burned. Fortunately, Boyd had buckled on my money–belt for safe keeping, and the honest old man delivered it to me, condoling with me for the loss of my clothing and food; and never a word of complaint for his own loss of home and bed and everything he owned in the world, nor would he accept a shilling from me to aid him towards a new beginning in life.

"I am only seventy–three," he said, coolly; "when these arms of mine cannot build me a home, let them fashion my coffin!"

And he picked up his long rifle and walked away to help load the ox–teams with powder, ball, and provisions.

One thing that Mount told me aroused my anger and contempt: there was now not a Tory left among Cresap's people; all had fled when Greathouse fled, proving clearly that, if all had not aided in the slaughter of Logan's children, they at least had been informed of the plot and had probably been warned that the murderous deed would be laid at Tory doors.

Towards dusk our scouts began to come in, one by one, with sad stories concerning the outlying settlements and lonely farms. One had seen a charred doorway choked with dead children, all scalped; another, lying hid, saw a small war–party pass with eighteen fresh scalps, three of them taken from women and little girls; a third vowed that the Oneidas had joined in, and he exhibited a moccasin that he had found, as proof. But when I saw the moccasin, I knew it to be Mohawk, and it troubled me greatly, yet I did not inform Cresap, because I could not believe our Mohawks had risen.

At nine o'clock the postern was opened quietly, and the first detachment of riflemen left the fort, stealing out into the starlight, weapons at a trail. When the scouts returned to say that the coast was clear, the column started in perfect silence. First marched a company of Maryland riflemen; after them filed the ox–teams, loaded with old women and very small children, the wagons rolling on muffled wheels; then followed a company of Virginia militia, and after them came more ox–teams piled with ammunition and stores, and accompanied by young women and grown children. The rear was covered by the bulk of the militia and riflemen, with our brass cannon dragged by the only horse in the ill–fated town.

When the rear–guard had disappeared in the darkness, Cresap, Mount, Cade Renard, and I bolted the gates, drew up the drawbridge, locked it, and dropped the keys into the moat. Then Cresap and Mount ran across the parade towards the magazine, while we tied a knotted rope to the southern parapet and shook it free so that it hung to the edge of the counter–scarp below.

Presently Mount came hurrying back across the parade and up the scarp to where we stood, bidding us hasten, for the fuse was afire and might burn more quickly than we expected.

Down the rope, hand over hand, tumbled the Weasel, and then Mount motioned me to go. But just as I started, up above my head in the darkness I heard the flag flapping; I paused, then stepped towards the pole.

"The flag," I said. "You have forgotten it—"

"It's only the damned British flag!" said Mount. "Down the rope with you, lad! Do you want to keep us till the fort blows up?"

"I can't leave the flag," I said, doggedly.

"To hell with it!" retorted Mount, fiercely, and pushed me towards the rope.

"Let me alone!" I flashed out, backing towards the flag–pole.

"Oh, go to the devil your own way," growled Mount, but I saw he did not leave the rampart while I was lowering the flag and ripping it from the halyards.

Cresap came rushing up the scarp as I stuffed the flag into the breast of my hunting–shirt.

"Are you mad?" he cried. "Down the rope there, Cardigan! Follow him for your life, Jack Mount!"

And down I scrambled, followed by Mount and Cresap, and we all ran as though the Six Nations were at our heels.

In the dark we passed a rifleman who scampered on ahead to pilot us, and after ten minutes at top speed we joined the rear–guard and fell in with the major, panting.

"A slick trick you played," grunted Mount, "with that bloody British flag."

"It was mine, once," I retorted, hotly.

"Oh, you would blow us all up for it, eh?" asked the big fellow, pettishly. "Well, you be damned, and your flag, too!"

His voice was blotted out in a roar which shook the solid forest; a crimson flame shot up to the stars; then thunderous darkness buried us.

Half–smothered cries and shrieks came from the long convoy ahead, but these were quickly silenced, the frightened oxen subdued, and the column hastened on into the night.

"Now that the fort's exploded, look out for the Iroquois," said Mount, steadying his voice with an effort.

Cresap had given me a rifle. I halted to load it, then ran on to join Mount and Renard. We plodded on in silence for a while. Presently Mount asked me what I meant to do in Pittsburg.

"I mean to see Lord Dunmore," I replied, quietly.

Mount pretended to fear for his Lordship's scalp, but I was in no humour for jesting, and I said no more.

"What are you going to do to old Dunmore?" urged the big fellow, curiously.

"See here, my good man," said I, "you are impertinent. I am an accredited deputy of Sir William Johnson, and my business is his."

"You need not be so surly," grumbled Mount.

"You've hurt his feelings," observed the Weasel, trotting at my heels.

"Whose? Mount's?" I asked. "Well, I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you, Mount."

"That's all very well, but you did," said Mount. "I've got feelings, too, just as much as the Weasel has."

"No, you haven't," said the Weasel, hastily. "I'm a ruined man, and you know it. Haven't I been through enough to give me sensitive feelings?"

Mount nudged me. "He's thinking of his wife and baby," he said. "Talk to him about them. He likes it. It harrows him, doesn't it, Cade?"

"It hurts fearful," replied the Weasel, looking up at me hopefully.

"You had a lovely wife, didn't you, Cade?" inquired Mount, sympathetically.

"Yes—oh yes. And a baby girl, Jack—don't forget the baby girl," sniffed the Weasel, trotting beside me.

"The baby must be nigh fifteen years old now, eh, Cade?" suggested Mount.

"Sixteen, nigh sixteen, Jack. The cunning little thing."

"What became of her?" I asked, gently.

"Nobody knows, nobody knows," murmured the Weasel. "My wife left me and took my baby girl. Some say she went with one of Sir Peter Warren's captains, some say it was an admiral who charmed her. I don't know. She was gone and the fleet was gone when they told me."

He laid his hard little hand on my arm and looked up with bright eyes.

"Since that," he said, "I've been a little queer in my head. You may have noticed it. Oh yes, I've been a little mad, haven't I, Jack?"

"A little," said Mount, tenderly.

"I have not noticed it," said I.

"Oh, but I have," he insisted. "I talk with my baby in the woods; don't I, Jack? And I see her, too," he added, triumphantly. "That proves me a little mad; doesn't it, Jack?"

"The Weasel was once a gentleman," said Mount, in my ear. "He had a fine mansion near Boston."

"I hear you!" piped the Weasel. "I hear you, Jack. You are quite right, too. I was a gentleman. I have ridden to hounds, Mr. Cardigan, many a covert I've drawn, many a brush fell to me. I was master of fox–hounds, Mr. Cardigan. None rode harder than I. I kept a good cellar, too, and an open house—ah, yes, an open house, sir. And that was where ruin came in, finding the door open—and the fleet in the downs."