Читать книгу A Pageant of Victory - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 18

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A new young Nation has come into being at last and is battling desperately to live, is struggling for a place in this grim, old world.

These British Colonies, welding themselves into a very Brotherhood of Freedom, have declared themselves One Indivisible, the United States of America, and are proclaiming to this same old, weary, world a gospel of equality for all men and their God-given right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Beneath a flag never seen before, they have risen to front their own kith and kin on the battlefield, despite the common blood and because of it, and are locked in desperate strife.

Thus stand they embattled against each other, these people of the same blood, loyal English-Americans with soldiers of England against Englishmen of the New America with their fellow colonists Dutch, Irish, German and Scot, fighting races and passionate lovers of freedom all, and willing to perish, if they must, but as freemen of this new race, now first known as the United States of America.

So the young Nation is fighting for life. Its people have already known the fierce triumph of brief victory, they have suffered bitter hardships, have become acquainted with grief and the terrors and despair of loss and defeat, and are to learn much of the bloody hatefulness of war ere they have proved themselves and win a place among the nations of the earth, with a mighty power that shall endure.

But as they face each other, these white men that are to do and die, upon the flanks of both their armies hang clouds of painted savages to carry death and merciless destruction far beyond the common usages of war and to work such atrocities as may scarce be told. Yankee rifle, British musket and bayonet, with blasting artillery, are at their usual deadly work; so also the stealthy arrow, the merciless tomahawk and ghastly scalping knife, sparing neither age nor sex nor babe in cradle.

At the belts of Indian warriors hang the long tresses of women, the silky curls of children, the white locks of aged and feeble; by lonely rivers and in desolate valleys are trampled wastes and smoking ruins of village, settlement and farmstead.

Vague whispers of all this had reached Anthony, from time to time, in his forest home, making his present happiness only the more precious, yet filling him with dreadful apprehension and the ever recurring question,--how long was he to be so blessed?

Since his marriage and home-coming, all had gone well; to-day his fields were teeming to harvest; beyond the river the little settlement was thriving; by reason of his friendship with Mahtocheega and influence with his tribe, the Tuscaroras hereabouts were peaceful and content; but, ever and anon, came faint echoes of that tremendous strife afar.

To-day therefore as he rode across his wide lands between Tom Laurie his bailiff, and Nick Brewer his chief forester, though each of these was full of cheery talk concerning bumper crops and the new road they were cutting through the forest beyond their flourishing settlement of Falconbridge, Anthony, being lost in troublous thought, paid scant heed until said Tom: "And yonder's your lady, sir, waiting for you in the oak grove as usual. Jee--hoshaphat, 'tis wonderful what changes she's worked among us all! Carries joy wherever she goes."

"Ay so!" quoth Nick. "An' white-skin or red, she knows the names of all the children in the settlement, and there a'n't a Tuscarora, warrior, squaw or papoose as a'n't glad of her. 'Happiness'--that's your lady's second name, I reckon, Mr. Anthony, ah and with a capital aitch!" But even as he spoke Anthony spurred his horse to a gallop and was away; and now as they watched him, quoth Tom:

"But what I can't mek out, Nick, is why he'll get so 'tarnation dismal all at once, laughing and cheery one minute but gloomy as Old Scrat the next."

"Ah!" nodded Tom. "And 'tes growing on him, he's been a sight worse o' late."

Meanwhile Anthony, reaching her who waited him in the shade of the oaks, leapt from the saddle and leaving his horse to trot away stablewards, caught Blodwen in his yearning arms. And presently, looking deep within each other's eyes, they went on side by side, their hands clasped and very close together, walking in a communion too deep for expression and far beyond words. But ever and anon her fingers would tighten on his, and in her golden eyes he saw a light that set him wondering, until he paused at last and, lifting her head with finger beneath her rounded chin, saw these same lovely eyes misted with sudden tears.

"Why, Blodwen," said he, drawing her near, "sweet-heart, what is your trouble?"

"Oh, Anthony!" she whispered. "Oh my dear love!" And clinging to him she was silent awhile and he wondering the more.

"Dear heart o' me," he murmured, smoothing her glossy, night-black hair, "what's amiss?" And now, feeling how she trembled, he chilled with the old dread of parting and farewell. "Blodwen," said he, hoarsely, "is there ... have you news of the war ... ill tidings?"

"Ah no, no!" she murmured. "It is ... something shall make you very glad ... I hope."

"Good news?" he questioned. "Then why are your dear eyes so large ... so wistful? Are you afraid?"

"No, my dearest, blindest man, only a little, just a little ... anxious. For ... oh my own love, soon ... I think ... we shall be ... three. And I have been praying God He will give us a ... little Anthony--"

Then his loving arms were fast about her, and he so mute that presently she raised her head and uttered a little choking cry of gladness to see him looking at her through sparkle of tears and with such reverent, adoring eyes; yet all he said was:

"Oh, my Blodwen!"

Thus then they wandered on, heedless of direction and all else save each other, talking in rapt murmurs of the wonder that was to be,--and of that dark vale a woman must tread alone to come back crowned and glorified with Motherhood, bringing up from the very shadow of death a little, helpless creature for their cherishing, to be in time their blessing or their bane. ... And now thinking on all this, Anthony grew tremulous with fearful anxiety for her, and she, clinging to kiss him, all radiant with gratitude and joy. So they talked together of this young life coming to them out of the mysterious Infinitude.

"And if, oh if I should give you a son, my Anthony, he must needs be like his father, nay, he will be, for your dear image is surely printed deep on my heart."

"And if a daughter," said he, kissing her with a new reverence, "then I pray God she may look at me with your glorious golden eyes and, like you, be, one day, some man's joy and inspiration--" He checked suddenly and felt again that same dreadful premonition, for striding towards them came a very tall man clad in the green-fringed shirt and fur cap of a rifleman. Now, glancing from this ominous, warlike figure to Blodwen he saw her very pale and trembling.

"Oh, my Anthony!" she whispered.

"My dear," said he, as the big rifleman halted to salute them, "this is Septimus Tutt, an old hunting friend of mine."

"But now a sergeant of rifles. Mist' Anthony," quoth Septimus with flash of white teeth, "a Ranger, sir."

"And what brings you here, Sep?"

"Dooty, sir. I come to guide your cousin, Cap'n Wilding, sir, wi' letters for ye from the General."

And presently they saw the house and, before its wide portico, their servants, men and women, grouped about jaded horses and their weary riders and one of these, a slender person in blue and buff regimentals, at sight of which Anthony halted again, feeling Blodwen's fingers tighten on his, heard her shuddering breath and broken whisper:

"Dear God ... has it come ... so very soon?"

"Heaven forbid!" he muttered and drawing her tremulous hand close within his arm, went on to meet his destiny.

Aware of their approach the little, eager crowd opened as Captain Wilding dismounting stiffly, came to meet them hat in hand, though walking like a man very weary. His once smart uniform showed worn and stained by hard service, his handsome face thin and haggard; but he bowed gallantly to Blodwen and reached forth an eager hand to Anthony, his left, for his right was in a sling.

"It seems, cousin Anthony, that I am to congratulate you," said he, smiling on them rather sadly, "and indeed I do from my heart.... Though I fear your lady will think me a bird of ill-omen."

"Meaning, cousin?" enquired Anthony, dry-lipped.

"I bear you a letter from General Washington and a colonel's commission. He tells me how you and he are old comrades of the French campaign in Canada."

"Yes," nodded Anthony. "I was a lieutenant in his company."

"But," said Blodwen, "you are wounded, Mr. Francis. Come indoors and let me look to it."

"A Hessian bayonet in the affair at Brooklyn, madam, and no great matter. But I am happy you have not quite forgot me, Mistress Blodwen--"

"Come in, Frank, and refresh yourself, come in and let us talk," said Anthony. "Let us hear your news and see this momentous epistle."

They brought him into the house, where servants came with wine and cold meats, then, while he ate and drank, talking aside with Blodwen, who questioned him of the war in a tremulous soft anxiety, Anthony broke the seal of this most unwelcome letter and having read it, sat staring before him with troubled eyes.

"Frank," said he suddenly, "Washington writes here that the army is in full retreat ... things seem going none too well, cousin."

Mr. Wilding set down his wineglass and shook his head.

"My dear Anthony," he sighed, "things are going very ill, though considering our raw levies, and especially the militia, it could have been much worse, our men are splendid individually but as troops they lack discipline and to-day, what with wounded, captured, and deserters, we are in a something desperate plight."

"So I gather," said Anthony, frowning at the open letter before him, "George Washington was always very blunt and outspoken and never more so than in this letter."

"Ah, and with reason!" exclaimed Captain Wilding. "Our needs are many and very pressing. Anthony, if our new Federation, this United States, is to live we must be prepared to die ... we must have unswerving devotion and--men and more men, but specially officers and, above all, veteran officers such as yourself, able and used to command."

"Indeed," said Anthony, still frowning at the letter, "Washington writes very ill of the new militia, for instance listen to this: 'Their want of discipline, the indulgencies they claim and have been allowed, their unwillingness and, I may add, their refusal to submit to that regularity and order essential in every army, occasioned a great deal of confusion and disorder.' And here again he writes of: 'abominable desertions,' adding that 'fifty thousand pounds would not induce me again to undergo what I have done.' And lastly of the militia he says this: 'If I was called upon to declare upon oath whether the militia have been most serviceable or hurtful upon the whole, I should subscribe to the latter.' Well, so writes George Washington!"

"And all but too true!" sighed Captain Wilding. "And thus it is that, knowing I am your cousin, he sends me with this plain statement of affairs that you may know how desperate is the need of this young nation for such men as yourself, cousin."

"However," said Anthony, folding the letter and dropping it on the desk before him, "I cannot go."

Captain Wilding sat up in his chair and nearly gaped.

"Cannot?" he repeated in tone of amazed disbelief. "You, Anthony--? You ... actually mean--?"

"That I cannot and will not!"

Now here Blodwen, watching her husband's so loved face, his frowning brow, grimly determined mouth and averted gaze, closed her own eyes and clenched her hands, like one in quick anguish.

"Then am I to understand," said Captain Wilding in the same incredulous tone, "you refuse this commission ... that Washington summons you in vain?"

"Perfectly, Frank."

Frowning now in his turn, Captain Wilding rose.

"You can wilfully close your ears to this distressful cry of your country?" he demanded.

"By no means!" answered Anthony, his dark gaze still averted. "Be good enough to step to this window." Wondering, and a little stiffly, his cousin obeyed.

"Look yonder," said Anthony, pointing, "away there between the river and forest! What do you see?"

"An Indian village."

"Precisely. And there at this moment, Frank, are some five hundred Tuscaroras, warriors of the Lynx, living content and at peace with all men, and, while I am here, so will they remain."

"Can you be sure of this?"

"I can. As sure as I am of anything in this changing world."

"Yet these are but so many savages ... but America, this young nation, is ready to die almost before it has lived. I tell you, cousin Anthony, if it is not to perish from the earth, it needs all our strength and every man of us. Well, you are a man, Anthony, of honourable name and past achievement. And God knows you are wanted, waited for ... so think man, think how you shall answer...."

The eager voice seemed to shake with the speaker's passionate sincerity, his eyes glowed, his pale cheek flushed, he reached out his one arm in gesture of eloquent entreaty. But Anthony still kept his frowning gaze averted and made no attempt to answer; so for a long painful moment they stood thus, each of them silent and very still; then both started to Blodwen's smooth, soft voice:

"Pray Mr. Francis, when do you return to your duty?"

"Madam, I start for General Washington's head-quarters to-morrow at dawn."

"Then ... to-morrow at dawn my husband will surely go with you."