"That, sir," he said to me, "is the plan of campaign, which the rebels know and cannot prevent. That means the invasion of New York, the scouring out of every plague-spot, the capture and destruction of every rebel between Albany and the Jerseys."
He turned with a cold smile to Colonel Butler. "I think my estates will not remain long in rebel hands," he said.
"Do you not understand, Mr. Ormond?" cried Captain Campbell, twitching me by the sleeve, an impertinence I pa.s.sed, considering him overflushed with wine. "Do you not comprehend how hopeless is this rebellion now?"
"How hopeless?" drawled Sir George, looking over my shoulder, and, as though by accident, drawing Campbell"s presumptuous hand through his own arm.
"How hopeless?" echoed Campbell. "Why, here are three armies of his Majesty"s troops concentrating on the heart of Tryon County. What can the rebels do?"
"The patroons are with us, or have withdrawn from the contest," said Sir John; "the great folk, military men, and we of the landed gentry are for the King. What remains to defy his authority?"
"Of what kidney are these Tryon County men?" I asked, quietly. Sir John Johnson misunderstood me.
"Mr. Ormond," said Sir John, "Tryon County is habited by four races.
First, the Scotch-Irish, many of them rebels, I admit, but many also loyal. Balance these against my Highlanders, and cross quits. Second, the Palatines--those men whose ancestors came hither to escape the armies of Louis XIV. when they devastated the Palatinate. And again I admit these to be rebels. Third, those of Dutch blood, descended from brave ancestors, like our worthy patroon here. And once more I will admit that many of these also are tainted with rebel heresies. Fourth, the English, three-quarters of whom are Tories. And now I ask you, can these separate handfuls of mixed descent unite? And, if that were possible, can they stand for one day, one hour, against the trained troops of England?"
"G.o.d knows," I said.
VI
DAWN
I had stepped from the dining-hall out to the gun-room. Clocks in the house were striking midnight. In the dining-room the company had now taken to drinking in earnest, cheering and singing loyal songs, and through the open door whirled gusts of women"s laughter, and I heard the thud of guitar-strings echo the song"s gay words.
All was cool and dark in the body of the house as I walked to the front door and opened it to bathe my face in the freshening night. I heard the whippoorwill in the thicket, and the drumming of the dew on the porch roof, and far away a sound like ocean stirring--the winds in the pines.
The Maker of all things has set in me a love for whatsoever He has fashioned in His handiwork, whether it be furry beast or pretty bird, or a spray of April willow, or the tiny insect-creature that pursues its dumb, blind way through this our common world. So come I by my love for the voices of the night, and the eyes of the stars, and the whisper of growing things, and the spice in the air where, unseen, a million tiny blossoms hold up white cups for dew, or for the misty-winged things that woo them for their honey.
Now, in the face of this dark, soothing truce that we call night, which is a buckler interposed between the arrows of two angry suns, I stood thinking of war and the wrong of it. And all around me in the darkness insects sang, and delicate, gauzy creatures chirked and throbbed and strummed in cadence, while the star"s light faintly silvered the still trees, and distant monotones of the forest made a sustained and steady rushing sound like the settling ebb of shallow seas. That to my conscience I stood committed, I could not doubt. I must draw sword, and draw it soon, too--not for Tory or rebel, not for King or Congress, not for my estates nor for my kin, but for the ancient liberties of Englishmen, which England menaced to destroy.
That meant time lost in a return to my own home; and yet--why? Here in this county of Tryon one might stand for liberty of thought and action as stanchly as at home. Here was a people with no tie or sympathy to weld them save that common love of liberty--a scattered handful of races, without leaders, without resources, menaced by three armies, menaced, by the five nations of the great confederacy--the Iroquois.
To return to the sea islands on the Halifax and fight for my own acres was useless if through New York the British armies entered to the heart of the rebellion, splitting the thirteen colonies with a flaming wedge.
At home I had no kin to defend; my elder brother had sailed to England, my superintendent, my overseers, my clerks were all Tory; my slaves would join the Minorcans or the blacks in Georgia, and I, single-handed, could not lift a finger to restrain them.
But here, in the dire need of Tryon County, I might be of use. Here was the very forefront of battle where, beyond the horizon, invasion, uncoiling hydra folds, already raised three horrid, threatening crests.
Ugh!--the butcher"s work that promised if the Iroquois were uncaged! It made me shudder, for I knew something of that kind of war, having seen a slight service against the Seminoles in my seventeenth year, and against the Chehaws and Talla.s.sies a few months later. Also in November of 1775 I accompanied Governor Tonyn to Picolata, but when I learned that our mission was the shameful one of securing the Indians as British allies I resigned my captaincy in the Royal Rangers and returned to the Halifax to wait and watch events.
And now, thoughtful, sad, wondering a little how it all would end, I paced to and fro across the porch. The steady patter of the dew was like the long roll beating--low, incessant, imperious--and my heart leaped responsive to the summons, till I found myself standing rigid, staring into the darkness with fevered eyes.
The smothered, double drumming of a guitar from the distant revel a.s.sailed my ears, and a fresh, sweet voice, singing:
"As at my door I chanced to be A-spinning, Spinning, A grenadier he winked at me A-grinning, Grinning!
As at my door I chanced to be A grenadier he winked at me.
And now my song"s begun, you see!
"My grenadier he said to me.
So jolly, Jolly, "We tax the tea, but love is free, Sweet Molly, Molly!"
My grenadier he said to me, "We tax the tea, but love is free!"
And so my song it ends, you see, In folly, Folly!"
I listened angrily; the voice was Dorothy Varick"s, and I wondered that she had the heart to sing such foolishness for men whose grip was already on her people"s throats.
In the dining-hall somebody blew the view-halloo on a hunting-horn, and I heard cheers and the dulled roar of a chorus:
"--Rally your men!
Campbell and Cameron, Fox-hunting gentlemen, Follow the Jacobite back to his den!
Run with the runaway rogue to his runway, Stole-away!
Stole-away!
Gallop to Galway, Back to Broadalbin and double to Perth; Ride! for the rebel is running to earth!"
And the shrill, fierce Highland cry, "Gralloch him!" echoed the infamous catch, till the night air rang faintly in the starlight.
"Cruachan!" shouted Captain Campbell; "the wild myrtle to clan Campbell, the heather to the McDonalds! An"t--Arm, chlanna!"
And a great shout answered him: "The army! Sons of the army!"
Sullen and troubled and restless, I paced the porch, and at length sat down on the steps to cool my hot forehead in my hands.
And as I sat, there came my cousin Dorothy to the porch to look for me, fanning her flushed face with a great, plumy fan, the warm odor of roses still clinging to her silken skirts.
"Have they ended?" I asked, none too graciously.
"They are beginning," she said, with a laugh, then drew a deep breath and waved her fan slowly. "Ah, the sweet May night!" she murmured, eyes fixed on the north star. "Can you believe that men could dream of war in this quiet paradise of silence?"
I made no answer, and she went on, fanning her hot cheeks: "They"re off to Oswego by dawn, the whole company, gallant and baggage." She laughed wickedly. "I don"t mean their ladies, cousin."
"How could you?" I protested, grimly.
"Their wagons," she said, "started to-day at sundown from Tribes Hill; Sir John, the Butlers, and the Glencoe gentlemen follow at dawn. There are post-chaises for the ladies out yonder, and an escort, too. But n.o.body would stop them; they"re as safe as Catrine Montour."
"Dorothy, who is this Catrine Montour?" I asked.
"A woman, cousin; a terrible hag who runs through the woods, and none dare stop her."
"A real hag? You mean a ghost?"
"No, no; a real hag, with black locks hanging, and long arms that could choke an ox."
"Why does she run through the woods?" I asked, amused.
"Why? Who knows? She is always seen running."
"Where does she run to?"