"Doubtless you met him then at Cresap"s camp?"
"Doubtless."
Mr. Duncan waited a moment, then laughed.
"You were ever a man to keep your own counsel," he said.
"What have you heard from Cresap"s men?" I asked.
"Nothing save that the war is a fierce one. An express came in yesterday with news that the Cayugas had been terribly whipped by the backwoodsmen under Andy Lewis, somewhere near the Great Kanawha. The express rider got it from some of Cresap"s men, but it may not be true."
After a silence I asked him what month of the year it now was. I had noticed yellow leaves outside.
"October," he said, pityingly; "did you not know it?"
I tried to realize the s.p.a.ce of time which had been wiped out from my memory.
"When did Sir William--die?" I muttered, painfully.
Mr. Duncan looked at me with tears in his eyes.
"On Monday, the 11th of July."
"Tell me--all," I motioned, with quivering lips.
"It is history," he said, simply. "I will tell you what I heard and what I witnessed.
"On the 1st of July we received news of the murder of Bald Eagle, a friendly Delaware chief. Rumour had it that one of my Lord Dunmore"s agents had slain the old man, but that, of course, is preposterous. It is hard to sift truth out of rumours. Why, the wildest statements were openly made in some taverns that young Walter Butler had murdered the old man. What reason could Walter Butler have to slay a friendly chief in Pennsylvania?"
"Go on," I said, grimly.
"Well, then, this murder was committed while the poor old man was sitting in his canoe on one of the streams near Fort Pitt. After tearing the scalp from the old man the murderer set him afloat in his canoe. The ghastly progress of the dead was seen by Indians and whites, and the news, following the report of the outrage on Logan by that creature Daniel Greathouse, roused the Six Nations to fury.
"You know that even after the Logan outrage Sir William had held back the warriors of the Long House; but this fresh crime drove them frantic. They might still have held off had not Bald Eagle been scalped, but you know, Mr. Cardigan, that the Six Nations _always_ regard the scalping of a murdered person as a _national_ act, not an individual one, and _always_ accept it as a declaration of war."
"I know," I said.
"The sachems of the Long House," continued Mr. Duncan, "immediately notified Sir William that they desired to see him without delay. When you think, Mr. Cardigan, that the murders of Logan"s children and of Bald Eagle touched every clan tie in the Six Nations, nothing could prove more clearly the marvellous influence of Sir William over the savages than the fact that their first impulse was not to seize hatchet and knife and begin an indiscriminate butchery of our people, but to solicit a conference with Sir William, so that they might state their wrongs calmly and ask his advice. Lord! Lord! A great man died in last July; and who can take his place?"
Again he wiped his brow and clasped his gaitered knees with his hands.
"In two days," he resumed, "two hundred Onondagas came here, with intelligence that four hundred more were on their way. Then they came in hordes--Mohawks, Senecas, Cayugas, and Oneidas. From morning till night Sir William was engaged in talking with them, persuading and promising and exerting himself tirelessly to hold the gathering tempest in check.
"He was even then far from well; his old trouble had returned; he could scarcely drag himself up here to this room when night came. Yet he said to me, after an exhausting conference with the Oneidas, "Mr.
Duncan, I have daily to combat with thousands of white men who, by their avarice, cruelty, or indiscretions, are constantly counteracting all my judicious measures with the Indians. It is not the Indians I blame. I shall persevere: the occasion requires it; and I shall never be without hope till I find myself without that influence which has never yet forsaken me."
""That influence is built up on your personal honour," I said; "it can never forsake you."
"He smiled--you know his rare smile, Mr. Cardigan--"
Mr. Duncan almost broke down; my eyes were dry and throbbing.
"On the 7th of July," he resumed, "we had a thousand Indians a.s.sembled here at the Hall. The sachems and chiefs were earnestly pleading for the congress. Sir William was sick abed and suffering pitifully, but he rose and refused to listen to Doctor Pierson, saying that the congress should never be delayed by anything but his own death.
"The weather was frightfully hot; nearly the whole of the first day was occupied by the speech of Senhowane, a Seneca chief, who made out a bitter case against the white people of Cresap"s command. A Cayuga war-chief followed the Seneca, speaking until the moon rose.
"The next day was the Sabbath. Sir William lay abed all day, unable to see for the frightful pains in his head. Yet the next day, at half-past nine in the morning, Sir William was at the fire, belts in hand.
"Never, never, Mr. Cardigan, had any one heard him speak with such eloquence. Sick unto death as he was, he stood there in the burning July sun, hour after hour, in the cause of peace. He spoke with all the fire and vivacity of youth; his words held the savages" grave and strained attention until the end."
Mr. Duncan paused, staring at s.p.a.ce as though to fix that last scene in his mind forever.
"I was commanding the escort," he said. "My men saluted as the Indians left the congress. When the last chief had disappeared, I saw that Sir William was in distress, and ran to him. He lurched forward into my arms. I held him a moment. He tried to speak, but all he could say was, "Tell Michael I am proud--of--him," and then fell back full weight. We got him to the Hall and laid him on the library couch. A gillie rode breakneck for Sir John, who was at the old fort nine miles away. Mistress Molly had gone to Schenectady; there remained no one of his own kin here."
Mr. Duncan leaned forward, with his face in his hands.
"Sir John came too late," he said; "Sir William died utterly alone."
As I lay there I could hear the robins chirping outside, just as I had so often heard them from the school-room. Could this still be the same summer? Years and years seemed to have slipped away in these brief months between May and October.
"Where is he buried?" I asked.
"In the vault under the stone church he built in the village. When you can walk--we will go."
"I shall walk very soon now," said I.
After a moment I asked who had succeeded Sir William.
"In t.i.tle and estate Sir John succeeds him," said Mr. Duncan, "but the King has conferred the intendancy of Indian affairs on Colonel Guy Johnson."
"Is he as close a friend as ever of Colonel Butler and Joseph?"
"Quite. Joseph Brant is a special deputy, too."
"Then G.o.d save our country," I replied, calmly, and closed my eyes.
Lying there, thinking, I saw for a moment into that red horror called the future--which now, thank G.o.d, is already the past.
"When Sir John returns from Boston you will hear the will read," said Mr. Duncan.
"When does he return?" I asked, opening my eyes.
"To-morrow, we hope."
"Why did he go?"
"I do not know," said Mr. Duncan, frankly.