Читать книгу A Pageant of Victory - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 14

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The days have multiplied to weeks and the weeks to a month and more. In these British Colonies, north and south, a thousand miles or thereabouts, is a ceaseless stir, an ominous, never-ending hum that shall presently wax and swell to thunder of desperate strife, screams of sharp agony, cries and moans of despair, wild cheers and triumphant shouts,--an elemental tumult to herald the advent of a mighty nation, a great, new people that out from the smoke and roar, the bloody confusion of battle, shall come marching, resolute to meet its destiny.

In city, town and village is roll and ruffle of drums, hoarse commands and tramp of feet where once-peaceful citizens are transforming themselves by the thousand into soldiers eager for war.

In the wilderness, far amid the dark aisles of primeval forest, stealthy shapes, painted for war, flit unheard, unseen, yet to desperate purpose; Indian raiding parties these, thirsting for bloody vengeance upon all and any invaders of their lands and spoilers of their hunting grounds, be they white men or red; tomahawks and scalping knives glitter amid the green.

In Cambridge town, Ensign Francis Wilding, handsomer than ever in his new regimentals, glances dubiously at the ragged files of his Colonial riflemen, dismayed by their unsoldierly bearing until, noting their resolute faces and the unconsciously purposeful handling of their rifles that is eloquent of habit and long usage, his doubts of these slack-seeming, homely fellows, gives place to hope and a resolution keen as their own.

In New York, this polite hotbed of loyalty and Toryism, Captain lord Charles Charteris, very gallant in his King's uniform, glances proudly along the serried ranks of his redcoated infantry, this smart-moving company of picked men with their shakoes, white cross-belts and heavy muskets topped with glittering bayonets, these many that move as one, this crack, white-gaitered company of a crack English regiment that is become the joy of his heart, second only to the small, lovely creature whose bright eyes meet his so often across the wide parade-ground, where she stands forgetful (almost) of the gay throng about her; thus, Charles glances proudly at his smart company, gazes adoringly at Priscilla as she at him, and no wonder, for in a few hours they are to be wed.

And here also, astride noble charger, is the Earl himself, a soldierly figure from plume to spurs, in scarlet and gold, and upright as his son, riding stately at the head of his newly enlisted troop of gentlemen volunteers, each of these superbly armed, mounted and accoutred, one and all of them pertinaciously drilling and joyfully eager for a 'brush with these demd Yankee rebels.' So, at word of command, this splendid troop wheels to right, to left, splits itself into sections, transforms itself into a long line of tossing plumes, rearing horses and flashing sabres; it trots, gallops and charges, in mimic fury, with rolling thunder of hoofs, recovers and halts with jingling clash; and every man of them very conscious of the lovely eyes that watch their efforts, even as my lord the Earl himself who now, smoothing the glossy neck of his charger, bows to the ladies and turns to the very ornate officer beside him, saying:

"Extreme pretty women here this morning, eh, Marquis? Now what I say is, my dear fellow, I say there is no time more apt for love and weddings and so forth than the eve of war. I say,--let us make sure of the next generation ere we peril this."

"Parfaitement!" exclaims the Marquis, kissing his sabre hilt towards the many fluttering scarves and petticoats in a kind of ecstasy. "Here is par example, le mot juste, milord! It is indeed the duty we owe to ourselves and Nature! Su-perb! My own thought precisely milord, mordieu--oh, yes!"

And thus in due course, forth into the glad sunshine comes lord Charles Charteris, his small lady and beauteous wife upon his arm, walking from church door beneath a long arch of glittering swords that soon shall be dimmed by more awful stain than rust; but little reck they of this, since their thoughts are for, and their eyes behold, only each other.

Meantime in a narrow boulder-strewn defile amid the green gloom of the forest, Anthony sat crouched lonely beside a small fire, scowling at the blackened cooking pot thereon though it gave forth very appetising savour. He sat in the shade of a great boulder, close beside the opening of a little cave that gaped in the rocky bush-grown steep above him, a gaunt, haggard, travel-worn figure his left forearm swathed in a bloody bandage where a Mohawk arrow had smitten him a week ago; and though he muttered frequent curses on the throbbing smart of this wound, his scowl was for the absent Blodwen who, avoiding him as usual, was away with the Sagamore somewhere on the wooded heights above, watching lest their stealthy foes should surprise them again, for this was the heart of the Indian territory.

Now being thus lonely and a little fevered with his wound, Anthony's bitter reflections ran on this wise:

'Avoiding him as she always did now! And why? Simply because he had once kissed the little prudish fool. Since when she had shown for him a passionless contempt, a placid disregard beyond all reason and not to be endured. Even when the arrow had transfixed his arm she had evinced little or no concern. A hard, unlovely creature! True she had broken and extracted the shaft neatly enough, and dressed and bound up the ugly wound and tended it regularly ever since, but--with not so much show of compassion as she would have bestowed on a dog. A bitterly unforgiving creature, not that she had anything to forgive,--and therefore callous, vindictive and more implacable than any man, and all because of a momentary folly! Weeks of ceaseless travel and constant peril, wherein she had borne her share unflinching, had made her but the more sullen, a sexless creature who could fight like any man and shoot far better than most ... a round-limbed, deep-bosomed anomaly he would be mighty glad to part from, and would to God Philadelphia were nearer. As it was, he must be patient and endure, coldly remote as she--'

A rustle in the bush-grown ledge behind him and, reaching instinctively for his rifle, he glanced up, saw a black shape in the air above him and was smitten headlong. Death was on him as he knew for, though his powerful fingers gripped and held its furry throat, death was glaring at him, stifling him with hot and fœtid reek. Yes, here was his end, and an evil one ... claws and fangs to rip him, tear him! An instant's wild flurry of despairing effort, a momentary stillness ... then, above wild-beast snarl and human gasping, was the loud report of a rifle. The puma snarled again, whimpered and rolling away, writhed convulsively and was still.

Then Anthony rose to quaking knees and saw Blodwen high on the steep above, grasping her smoking rifle.

"Blodwen!" cried he, breathlessly, "Oh, girl, it ... was you saved my life ...?"

"Yes," she nodded, "and what pity to kill such beautiful creature!" So saying she descended the precipitous slope, her moccasined feet very swift and sure, and leaned on her rifle to look from dead animal to living man with her serene, golden eyes. "Are you anyways hurt, Mr. Anthony?" she enquired, gently.

"Oh, what matter?" said he, bitterly. "Cherish your damned puma." And turning from her he took up his rifle with a hand that dripped blood.

"Surely," said she, recharging and priming her own weapon with quick, dexterous fingers, "it is strange to find puma so far north."

"We are west also. And your grief for killing this murderous beast ... ha, by God, madam, I believe you have heart of stone!"

"Also a true eye and trigger-finger, Mr. Anthony."

"Yes," said he, frowning, "it was marvellous shot!"

"It had to be!" she nodded. "Oh, poor, proud man, is it such shame to owe your life to me because I am a woman?"

"No, merely because you are Blodwen!"

"However," sighed she, setting down her rifle, "I see your arm is bleeding again, let me tend it while I may--come!"

"Thank you, I'll contrive it myself."

"Oh foolishness!" she exclaimed, gently scornful. "You act like silly child. If the Indians heard my shot and come down on us again, we may be fighting for our lives very soon and you will do better with that arm properly bandaged."

Very unwillingly he suffered her ministrations, watching her dexterous fingers and intent, too-placid face, this firm mouth, these long-lashed eyes that showed no least quiver, no least sign of a tear.

"Indeed," said he at last bitterly as he might, "you should have been a man!"

"A man?" she repeated, flashing a quick look up at him while her fingers yet soothed and cherished his smart. "Is this compliment or reproach, I wonder?"

Anthony merely shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you commend me, sir, because I have never troubled you with any least complaint in all these weary, weary days--?"

"Have they seemed so very wearisome, Blodwen?"

"Do you honour me," she demanded, "because I have hidden my fears of battle and horror for bloodshed, or ... do you upbraid and sneer at me because I despise kisses lightly given and love that is no more than sport and pastime? Tell me your true thoughts, if you dare."

"Very well!" said he, leaning back against the great boulder. "I think you are a proud, blind, self-deluding little fool that will not see the so obvious thing. And mighty glad am I that Nature framed you so womanly because, Madam Folly, if ever we win out of this to safety, I am determined to make you the mother of my children ... my wife. Yes, by God, even though I must compel you to it by--"

"Wife?" she repeated, like one amazed. "Oh, but--"

"There are no buts between us henceforth, there shall be none!"

"Your ... wife!" she murmured again. "So this ... this is how you love me!"

"I have not said so, Mistress Fool! No, by heavens, I'd marry you now even though I hated you, ay I would, if but to avenge all your vile misconception of me. Do I show such a damned loose fish, such libertine, such lecherous satyr you must forever keep me at arm's length and avoid me all these weeks? Is it my Manhood shames your sickly prudery that you must abhor me for but once touching your lips with mine? Well, my lady, we'll change all this ... what now, do you fear already?"

"No, Anthony."

"Then why must you tremble? You that shoot better than ever I saw, that are bold in fight as any man, why must you shiver and shake now?"

"Not with ... fear, Anthony," she answered softly, and though she met his look unquailing, her rich colour deepened to painful flush. Then Anthony laughed, though very unconvincingly, and reaching out his arms, beckoned with imperious hand.

"Blodwen," said he, "little fool that has flouted love and me all these weeks, you that are mine and know it even better than I, come now and kiss me."

"Anthony," she murmured, brokenly, "Oh Anthony ... if ... if you can say you ... truly love me--"

"No!" he answered, "I name you 'wife' instead. Shall not this suffice?" Speechlessly she turned from him,--then from the height above them a rifle cracked answered by shrill and dreadful screaming.

The feathered head of a Mohawk warrior hideous with warpaint, a gleaming axe! These Anthony glimpsed as the Indian leapt ... and Blodwen was down, inert and lying at her assailant's mercy: a deadly tomahawk glittered above her defenceless head, flashed down and was met by the stock of Anthony's rifle, biting deep, then he and this Mohawk warrior were locked in mortal grapple, the Indian striving desperately to draw his knife, Anthony waiting and watching for chance of disabling blow with fist or knee. To and fro they reeled, panting, straining, breast to breast, sinewy bodies quivering with unceasing effort; but as they stood thus rigid, Anthony glimpsed Blodwen's motionless form and tightened his grip, heard his antagonist gasp, saw the painted face, so near his own, all suddenly convulsed with agony ... blood spouted and as the Mohawk fell, Anthony saw him transfixed by a long, tufted shaft that he knew for one of the Sagamore's war arrows.

Then Blodwen's body was in his arms and so like death that he groaned as he bore her to the comparative safety of the little cave. Catching up their two rifles he wrenched the tomahawk from his own, reprimed it and crouching behind the great boulder, waited for the sudden fury of attack that he knew must follow, while his keen eyes quested the steep slope to his left for some sign of the Sagamore.

Heat, and an utter stillness, for the afternoon sun was ablaze and no wind stirred: an ominous quiet that, as the moments dragged, became more threatening; the hands grasping his rifle grew moist but were steady as ever, sweat trickled on brow and cheek, yet the grey eyes beneath this brow were wide and resolute, eyes that narrowed suddenly to shining slits, for his quick senses had warned him, he crouched lower.... A stealthy rustling and this narrow defile was athrong with his ferocious assailants ghastly with warpaint green and yellow and scarlet; the air rang with their dreadful quavering battle cries ... arrows whizzed about him, muskets roared, bullets spattered and chipped splinters from the sheltering rocks while, crouched behind his great boulder, Anthony fired twice and with deadly precision. But on they came, these Mohawk warriors, to be met by a madman whose long clubbed rifle, swung by powerful arms, checked and drove them back upon each other in howling confusion for in this narrow ravine their very numbers hampered them; and in this moment, before they might loose shaft or hurl tomahawk, Anthony was among them smiting amain with heavy rifle-butt.

Then from the steep above, rose the Sagamore's deep and terrible war whoop, the killing shout of the Tuscaroras of the Lynx; a Mohawk tossed up his arms and fell clutching at the arrow in his throat. Thus while the mighty sweep of Anthony's clubbed rifle held them, the Sagamore's long war-arrows smote them from above until these Mohawks, valiant though they were, gave way at last, broke and scattered and were gone.

Breathless and spent, Anthony leaned on his rifle and presently glancing about, saw he was alone save for their fallen assailants who writhed feebly or lay very still, and gasping he called:

"Ho, Mah--tocheega!"

"Here am I!" And down the tree clad slope came the Tuscarora, bow in one hand, gleaming scalping knife in the other.

"Good, my friend," panted Anthony in the dialect, "now but for thee dead were I ... and hairless ..."

"Oh my brother," smiled the Sagamore happily, "Warriors great and mighty are we! Seven, my brother, seven have we slain, wherefore do I love and honour thee oh my An--to--nee." So saying, he slung his deadly bow and descending into this place of battle, proceeded to dispatch the wounded and scalp these fallen Mohawks very methodically while Anthony, having recharged and primed the rifles, brought water into the cave and did what he might to rouse Blodwen from her swoon.

He bathed the purple bruise that marred her brow, he kissed it tenderly with reverent lips, he called her name: but she still lying like one dead, fear seized him and a great despair. Sitting down he took this soft, inert body in his arms, her pale cheek upon his breast, and strove desperately to woo her back to life; holding her close upon his heart, touching her pallid cheek with trembling hand, smoothing back her raven hair and, with every caress, staining her with the blood of his reopened wound.

"Blodwen," he whispered breathlessly, "Don't die, girl! Oh my dear ... don't leave me! Brave, true comrade that you were ... without you I am lost, for you ... you are my very life! Blodwen, if you die now, by God I'll die too ... follow you out ... out into the unknown, into the dark or light ... to find you again. Blodwen come back ... live for me. Ah, d'you hear me, d'you hear?"

Lying thus in the despairing passion of his embrace, stirring not and scarce breathing, she spoke at last, whispering:

"Oh, Anthony ... say you ... love me."

"God knows I do!" he answered passionately. "I love you more than life and beyond death, Blodwen. I love you with my every breath, I ... I think I always have and I know I always shall."

Slowly her arms crept up to clasp about his neck.