Роберт Чамберс - The Hidden Children

"Euan, she will not admit it, but she is mad about Lieutenant Boyd—and it is as though she had never before loved and knows not how to conduct. Which is strange, as she has been so courted and is deeply versed in experience, and has lived more free of restraint than most women I ever heard of. Yet, it has taken her like a pernicious fever; and I do neither like nor trust that man, for all his good looks, and his wit and manners, and the exceedingly great courage and military sagacity which none denies him.

"Yesterday Lana came to my little room in our Bush House, where I sleep on a bed of balsam, and we sat there, the others being out, and she told me about Clarissa, and wept in the telling. What folly will not a woman commit for love! And Sir John riding the wilderness with his murdering crew! May the Lord protect and aid all women from such birds o' passage and of prey! And I thought I had seen the pin–feathers of some such plumage on this man Boyd. But he may moult to a prettier colour. I hope so—but in my heart I dare not believe it. For he is of that tribe of men who would have their will of every pretty petticoat they notice. Some are less unscrupulous than others, that is the only difference. And he seems still to harbour a few scruples, judging from what I see of him and her, and what I know of her.

"Yet, if a man bear not his good intention plainly written on his face, and yet protests he dies unless you love him, what scruples he may entertain will wither to ashes in the fiercer flame. And how after all does he really differ from the others?

"Euan, I am sick of dread and worry, what with you out in the West with your painted scouts, and Mr. Boyd telling me that he has his doubts concerning the reliability of one o' them! And what with Lana so white and unhappy, and coming into my bed to cry against my breast at night―"

Here the letter ended abruptly, and underneath in hurried writing:

"Major Parr calls to say that an Oneida runner is ordered to try to find you with despatches from headquarters. I had expected to send this letter by some one in your own regiment when it marched. But now I shall intrust it to the runner.

"I know not how to close my letter—how to say farewell—how to let you know how truly my heart is yours. And becomes more so every hour. Nor can you understand how humbly I thank God for you—that you are what you are—and not like Sir John and—other men.

"Women are of a multitude of kinds—until they love. Then they are of but two kinds. Of one of these kinds shall I be when I love. Not that I doubt myself, yet, who can say what I shall be? Only three, Euan—God, the man who loves me, and myself."

"I sit here waiting for a rifleman to take my letter to the General who has promised to commit it to the runner.

"A regiment is trying its muskets at the lake. I hear the firing.

"I have a tallow dip and wax and sand, ready to close my letter instantly. No one comes."

"Lana comes, very tired and pale. Her eyes frighten me, they seem so tragic. I learn that the army marches on the 9th. Yet, you went earlier, and I do not think my eyes resembled hers."

"Soldiers passing, drums beating. A Pennsylvania regiment. Lana lies on my bed, her face to the wall, scarce breathing at all, as far as I can see. Conch–horns blowing—the strange and melancholy music of your regiment. It seems to fill my heart with dread unutterable."

"The runner is here! Euan—Euan! Come back to me!

"Lois de Contrecoeur."

My eyes fell from the letter to the sleeping runner stretched out at my feet, then shifted vaguely toward the river.

After a while I drew my tablets, quill, and ink–horn from my pouch, and setting it on my knees wrote to her with a heart on fire, yet perfectly controlled.

And after I had ended, I sealed the sheet with balsam, pricking the globule from the tree behind me, and setting over it a leaf of partridge–berry. Also I wrote letters to General Clinton and to Major Parr, sealed them as I had sealed the other, and set a tiny, shining leaf on each.

Then, very gently I bent forward and aroused the Oneida runner. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, then got to his feet smiling. And I consigned to him my letters.

The Mohican, on guard by the Susquehanna, was watching me; and as soon as the Red Wings had started on his return, and was well across the Ouleout, I signalled the Sagamore to come to me, leaving the Mole and Tahoontowhee by the Susquehanna.

"Blood–brother of mine," I said as he came up, "I ask counsel of a wiser head and a broader experience than my own. What is to be done with this Wyandotte?"

"Must that be decided now, Loskiel?"

"Now. Because the Unadilla lies below not far away, and beyond that the Tioga. And I am charged to get myself thither in company with you as soon us may be. Now, what is a Sagamore's opinion of this Wyandotte?"

"Erie," he said quietly.

"You believe it?"

"I know it, Loskiel."

"And the others—the Oneidas and the Stockbridge?"

"They are as certain as I am."

"Good God! Then why have you not told me this before, Mayaro?"

"Is there haste?"

"Haste? Have I not said that we march immediately? And you would have let me give my order and include that villain in it!"

"Why not? It is an easier and safer way to take a prisoner to Tioga Point than to drag him thither tied."

"But he may escape―"

The Sagamore gave me an ironic glance.

"Is it likely," he said softly, "when we are watching?"

"But he may manage to do us a harm. You saw how cunningly he has kept up communication with our enemies, to leave a trail for them to follow."

"He has done us what harm he is able," said the Sagamore coolly.

I hesitated, then asked him what he meant.

"Why," he said, "their scouts have followed us. There are two of them now across the Susquehanna."

Thunderstruck, I stared at the river, where its sunlit surface glittered level through the trees.

"Do the others know this?" I asked.

"Surely, Loskiel."

I looked at my Indians where they lay flat behind their trees, rifles poised, eyes intent on the territory in front of them.

"If my brother does not desire to bring the Wyandotte to General Sullivan, I will go to him now and kill him," said the Mohican carelessly.

"He ought to hang," I said between my teeth.

"Yes. It is the most dreadful death a Seneca can die. He would prefer the stake and two days' torture. Loskiel is right. The Erie has been a priest of Amochol. Let him die by the rope he dreads more than the stake. For all Indians fear the rope, Loskiel, which chokes them so that they can not sing their death–song. There is not one of us who has not courage to sing his death–song at the stake; but who can sing when he is being choked to death by a rope?"

I nodded, looking uneasily toward the river where the two Seneca spies lurked unseen as yet by me.

"Let the men sling their packs," I said.

"They have done so, Loskiel."

"Very well. Our order of march will be the same as yesterday. We keep the Wyandotte between us."

"That is wisdom."

"Is it to be a running fight, Mayaro?"

"Perhaps, if their main body comes up."

"Then we had best start across the Ouleout, unless you mean to ford the Susquehanna."

The Sagamore shook his head with a grimace, saying that it would be easier to swim the Susquehanna at Tioga than to ford it here.

Very quietly we drew in or picked up our pickets, including the ruffianly Wyandotte, or Erie, as he was now judged to be, and, filing as we had filed the night before we crossed the Ouleout and entered the forest.

Two hours later the Oneida in the rear, Tahoontowhee, reported that the Seneca scouts were on our heels, and asked permission to try for a scalp.

By noon he had taken his second scalp, and had received his first wound, a mere scratch from a half–ounce ball, below the knee. But he wore it and the scalp with a dignity unequalled by any monarch loaded with jewelled orders.