Chambers Robert William
The Hidden Children
"No—no—" I could not utter another word.
She sighed, gazing at space.
"And the cold! Well—this is July, and I must try to put it from my mind. But at times it seems to be still in my bones—deep bitten to the very marrow. Ai-me! I have seen two years of centuries. Their scars remain."
She rocked slightly forward and backward where she sat, her fingers interlaced, twisting and clenching with her memories.
"Ai-me! Hunger and cold and men! Hunger and—men. But it was solitude that nigh undid me. That was the worst of all—the endless silence."
The rain now swept the roof of bark above us, gust after gust swishing across the eaves. Beyond the outer circle of the lantern light a mouse moved, venturing no nearer.
"Lois?"
She lifted her head. "All that is ended now. Strive to forget."
She made no response.
"Ended," I said firmly. "And this is how it ends. I have with my solicitor, Mr. Simon Hake, of Albany, two thousand pounds hard sterling. How I first came by it I do not know. But Guy Johnson placed it there for me, saying that it was mine by right. Now, today, I have written to Mr. Hake a letter. In this letter I have commanded some few trifles to be bought for you, such as all women naturally require."
"Euan!" she exclaimed sharply.
"I will not listen!" said I excitedly. "Do you listen now to me, for I mean to have my way with you—say what you may–"
"I know—I know—but you have done too much already–"
"I have done nothing! Listen! I have bespoken trifles of no value—nothing more—stockings, and shifts, and stays, and powder-puffs, and other articles–"
"I will not suffer this!" she said, an angry colour in her cheeks.
"You suffer now—for lack even of handkerchiefs! I must insist–"
"Euan! My shifts and stays and stockings are none of your affair!" she answered hotly.
"I make them mine!"
"No—nor is it your privilege to offer them!"
"My—what?"
"Privilege!" she said haughtily, flushing clear to her curly hair; and left me checked. She added: "What you offer is impertinence—however kindly meant. No friendship warrants it, and I refuse."
I know not what it was—perhaps my hurt and burning silence under the sudden lash of her rebuff—but presently I felt her hand steal over mine and tighten. And looked up, scowling, to see her eyes brimming with tears and merriment.
"How much of me must you have, Euan? Even my privacy and pride? You have given me friendship; you have clothed me to your fancy. You have had scant payment in exchange—only a poor girl's gratitude. What have I left to offer in return if you bestow more gifts? Give me no more—so that you take from me no more than—gratitude."
"Comrades neither give nor take, Lois. What they possess belongs to both in common."
"I know—it is so said—but—you have had of me for all your bounty only my thanks—and–" she smiled tremulously, "–a wild rose-bud. And you have given so much—so much—and I am far too poor to render–"
"What have I asked of you!" I said impatiently.
"Nothing. And so I am the more inclined to give—I know not what."
"Shall I tell you what to offer me? Then offer me the privilege of giving. It is the rarest gift within your power."
She sat looking at me while the soft colour waned and deepened in her cheeks.
"I—give," she said in a voice scarce audible.
"Then," said I, very happily, "I am free to tell you that I have commanded for your comfort a host of pretty things, and a big box of wood and brass, with a stout hide outside, to keep your clothing in! The lady of Captain Cresson, of the levies, has a noble one. Yours is its mate. And into yours will fit your gowns and shoon, patches and powder, and the hundred articles which every woman needs by day and night. Also I've named you to Mr. Hake, so that, first writing for me upon a slip of paper that I may send it to him—then writing your request to him, you may make draughts for what you need upon our money, which now lies with him. Do you understand me, Lois? You will need money when the army leaves."
Her head moved slightly, acquiescent.
"So far so good, then. Now, when this army moves into the wilderness, and when I go, and you remain, you will have clothing that befits you; you will have means to properly maintain you; and I shall send you by batteau to Mr. Hake, who will find lodging suitable for you—and be your friend, and recommend you to his friends not only for my sake, but, when he sets his eyes on you, for your own sake." I smiled, and added:
"Hiero! Little rosy-throated pigeon of the woods! Loskiel has spoken!"
Now, as I ended, this same and silly wild-thing fell silently a-crying; and never had I dreamed that any maid could be so full o' tears, when by all rights she should have sat dimpling there, happy and gay, and eager as I.
Out o' countenance again, and vexed in my mind, I sat silent, fidgetting, made strange and cold and awkward by her tears. The warm flush of self-approval chilled in my heart; and by and by a vague resentment grew there.
"Euan?" she ventured, lifting her wet eyes.
"What?" said I ungraciously.
"H—have you a hanker? Else I use my scandalous skirt again–"
And the next instant we both were laughing there, she still in tears, I with blithe heart to see her now surrender at discretion, with her grey eyes smiling at me through a starry mist of tears, and the sweet mouth tremulous with her low-voiced thanks.
"Ai-me!" she said. "What manner of boy is this, to hector me and have his will? And now he sits there laughing, and convinced that when the army marches I shall wear his finery and do his bidding. And so I shall—if I remain behind."
"Lois! You can not go to Catharines-town! That's flat!"
"I've wandered hungry and ragged for two years, asking the way. Do you suppose I have endured in vain? Do you suppose I shall give up now?"
"Lois!" I said seriously, "if it is true that the Senecas hold any white captives, their liberation is at hand. But that business concerns the army. And I promise you that if your mother be truly there among those unhappy prisoners she shall be brought back safely from the Vale Yndaia. I will tell Major Parr of this; he shall inform the General. Have no fear or doubt, dear maid. If she is there, and human power can save her, then is she saved already, by God's grace."
She said in a quiet voice:
"I must go with you. And that is why—or partly why—I asked you here tonight. Find me some way to go to Catharines-town. For I must go!"
"Why not inquire of me the road to hell?" I asked impatiently. She said between her teeth:
"Oh, any man might show me that. And guide me, too. Many have offered, Euan."
"What!"
"I ask your pardon. Two years of camps blunts any woman's speech."
"Lois," said I uneasily, "why do you wish to go to Catharines-town, when an armed force is going?"
She sat considering, then, in a low, firm voice:
"To tell you why, is why I asked you here.... And first I must show you what my packet held.... Shall I show you, Euan?"
"Surely, little comrade."
She drew the packet from her bosom, unlaced the thong, unrolled the deer-hide covering.
"Here is a roll of bark," she said. "This I have never had interpreted. Can you read it for me, Euan?"
And there in the lantern light I read it, while she looked down over my shoulder.
"KADON!
"Aesa-yat-yen-enghdon, Lois!
"Etho!
[And here was painted a white dog lying dead, its tongue hanging out sideways.]
"Hen-skerigh-watonte.
"Jatthon-ten-yonk, Lois!
"Jin-isaya-dawen-ken-wed-e-wayen.
[Here was drawn in outline the foot and claws of a forest lynx.]
"Niyi-eskah-haghs, na-yegh-nyasa-kenra-dake, niya-wennonh!" [Then a white symbol.]
For a long time I gazed at the writing in shocked silence. Then I asked her if she suspected what was written there in the Canienga dialect.
"I never have had it read. Indians refuse, shake their heads, and look askance at me, and tell me nothing; interpreters laugh at me, saying there is no meaning in the lines. Is there, Euan?"
"Yes," I said.
"You can interpret?"
"Yes."
"Will you?"
I was silent, pondering the fearful meaning which had been rendered plainer and more hideous by the painted symbols.
"It has to do with the magic of the Seneca priesthood," I muttered. "Here is a foul screed—and yet a message, too, to you."
Then, with an effort I found courage to read, as it was written:
"I speak! Thou, Lois, mightest have been destroyed! Thus! (Here the white dog.) But I will frustrate their purpose. Keep listening to me, Lois. That which has befallen you we place it here (or, 'we draw it here'—i. e., the severed foot and claws of a lynx). Being born white (literally, 'being born having a white neck'), this happened." And the ghastly sign of Leshi ended it.
"But what does it all signify?" she asked, bewildered.
And even as she spoke, out of the dull and menacing horror of the symbols, into my mind, leaped terrible comprehension.
I said coolly: "It must have been Amochol—and his Erie sorcerers! How came you in Catharines-town?"
"I? In Catharines-town!" she faltered. "Was I, then, ever there?"
I pointed at the drawing of the dead white dog.
"Somebody saved you from that hellish sacrifice. I tell you it is plain enough to read. The rite is practiced only by the red sorcerers of the Senecas.... Look! It was because your 'neck' was 'white'! Look again! Here is the symbol of the Cat-People—the Eries—the acolytes of Amochol—here! This spread lynx-pad with every separate claw extended! Yet, it is drawn severed—in symbol of your escape. Lois! Lois! It is plain enough. I follow it all—almost all—nearly—but not quite–"
I hesitated, studying the bark intently, pausing to look at her with a new and keenly searching question in my gaze.
"You have not shown me all," I said.
"All that is written in the Iroquois tongue. But there were other things in the packet with this bark letter." She opened it again upon her lap.
"Here is a soldier's belt-buckle," she said, offering it to me for my inspection.
It was made of silver and there were still traces of French gilt upon the device.
"Regiment de la Reine," I read. "What regiment is that, Lois? I'm sure I've heard of it somewhere. Oh! Now I remember. It was a very celebrated French regiment—cut all to pieces at Lake George by Sir William Johnson in '55. This is an officer's belt-buckle."
"Was the regiment, then, totally destroyed?"
"Utterly. In France they made the regiment again with new men and new officers, and call it still by the same celebrated name."
"You say Sir William Johnson's men cut it to pieces—the Regiment de la Reine?" she asked.
"His Indians, British and Provincials, left nothing of it after that bloody day."
She sat thoughtful for a while, then, bestirring herself, drew from the deerhide packet a miniature on ivory, cracked across, and held together only by the narrow oval frame of gold.
There was no need to look twice. This man, whoever he might be, was this girl's father; and nobody who had ever seen her and this miniature could ever doubt it.
She did not speak, nor did I, conscious that her eyes had never left my face and must have read my startled mind with perfect ease.
Presently I turned the portrait over. There was a lock of hair there under the glass—bright, curly hair exactly like her own. And at first I saw nothing else. Then, as the glass-backed locket glanced in the lantern-light, I saw that on the glass something had been inscribed with a diamond. This is what I read, written across the glass:
"Jean Coeur a son coeur cheri."
I looked up at her.
"Jean Coeur," I repeated. "That is no name for a man–" Suddenly I remembered, years ago—years and years since—hearing Guy Johnson cursing some such man. Then in an instant all came back to me; and she seemed to divine it, for her small hand clutched my arm and her eyes were widening as I turned to meet them.
"Lois," I said unsteadily, "there was a man called Jean Coeur, deputy to the adventurer, Joncaire. Joncaire was the great captain who all but saved this Western Continent to France. Captain Joncaire was feared, detested, but respected by Sir William Johnson because he held all Canada and the Hurons and Algonquins in the hollow of his hand, and had even gained part of the Long House—the Senecas. His clever deputy was called Jean Coeur. Never did two men know the Indians as these two did."
I thought a moment, then: "Somewhere I heard that Captain Joncaire had a daughter. But she married another man—one Louis de Contrecoeur–" I hesitated, glanced again at the name scratched on the glass over the lock of hair, and shook my head.
"Jean Coeur—Louis de Contrecoeur. The names scarce hang together—yet–"
"Look at this!" she whispered in a low, tense voice, and laid a bit of printing in my hand.
It was a stained and engraved sheet of paper—a fly-leaf detached from a book of Voltaire. And above the scroll-encompassed title was written in faded ink: "Le Capitaine Vicomte Louis Jean de Contrecoeur du Regiment de la Reine." And under that, in a woman's fine handwriting: "Mon coeur, malgre; mon coeur, se rendre a Contrecoeur, dit Jean Coeur; coeur contre coeur."
"That," she said, "is the same writing that the birch bark bears, sewed in my moccasins."
"Then," I said excitedly, "your mother was born Mademoiselle Joncaire, and you are Lois de Contrecoeur!"
She sat with eyes lowered, fingering the stained and faded page. After a moment she said:
"I wrote to France—to the Headquarters of the Regiment de la Reine—asking about my—father."
"You had an answer?"
"Aye, the answer came.... Merely a word or two.... The Vicomte Louis Jean de Contrecoeur fell at Lake George in '55–" She lifted her clear eyes to mine. "And died—unmarried."
A chill passed through me, then the reaction came, taking me by the throat, setting my veins afire.
"Then—by God!" I stammered. "If de Contrecoeur died unmarried, his child shall not!"
"Euan! I do not credit what they wrote. If my father married here perhaps they had not heard."
"Lois! Dearest of maids—whichever is the truth I wish to marry you!"
But she stopped her ears with both palms, giving me a frightened look; and checked, but burning still, I stared at her.
"Is that then all you are?" she asked. "A wisp of tow to catch the first spark that flies? A brand ever smouldering, which the first breath o' woman stirs to flame?"
"Never have I loved before–"
"Love! Euan, are you mad?"
We both were breathing fast and brokenly.
"What is it then, if it be not love!" I asked angrily.
"What is it?" she repeated slowly. Yet I seemed to feel in her very voice a faint, cool current of contempt. "Why, it is what always urges men to speak, I fancy—their natural fire—their easily provoked emotions.... I had believed you different."
"Did you not desire my friendship?" I asked in hot chagrin.
"Not if it be of this kind, Euan."
"You would not have me love you?"
"Love!" And the fine edge of her contempt cut clean. "Love!" she repeated coolly. "And we scarcely know each other; have never passed a day together; have never broken bread; know nothing, nothing of each other's minds and finer qualities; have awakened nothing in each other yet except emotions. Friendships have their deeps and shallows, but are deathless only while they endure. Love hath no shallows, Euan, and endures often when friendship dies.... I speak, having no knowledge. But I believe it. And, believing nobly of true love—in ignorance of it, but still in awe—and having been assailed by clamours of a shameful passion calling itself love—and having builded in my heart and mind a very lofty altar for the truth, how can I feel otherwise than sorry that you spoke—hotly, unthinkingly, as you did to me?"
I was silent.
She rose, lifted the lantern, laid open the trap-door.
"Come," she whispered, beckoning.
I followed her as she descended, took the lantern from her hand, glanced at the shadowy heap, asleep perhaps, on the corner settle, then walked to the door and opened it. A thousand, thousand stars were sparkling overhead.
On the sill she whispered:
"When will you come again?"
"Do you want me?" I said sullenly.
She made no answer for a moment; suddenly she caught my hand and pressed it, crushing it between both of hers; and turning I saw her almost helpless with her laughter.
"Oh, what an infant have I found in this tall gentleman of Morgan's corps!" said she. "A boy one moment and a man the next—silly and wise in the same breath—headlong, headstrong, tender, and generous, petty and childish, grave and kind—the sacred and wondrous being, in point of fact, known to the world as man! And now he asks, with solemn mien and sadly ruffled and reproachful dignity whether a poor, friendless, homeless, nameless girl desires his company again!"
She dropped my hand, caught at her skirt's edge, and made me a mocking reverence.
"Dear sir," she said, "I pray you come again to visit me tomorrow, while I am mending regimental shirts at tuppence each–"
"Lois!" I said sadly. "How can you use me so!"
She began to laugh again.
"Oh, Euan, I can not endure it if you're solemn and sorry for yourself–"
"That is too much!" I exclaimed, furious, and marched out, boiling, under the high stars. And every star o' them, I think, was laughing at the sorriest ass who ever fell in love.
Nevertheless, that night I wrote her name in my letter to Mr. Hake; and the ink on it was scarce sanded when an Oneida runner had it and was driving his canoe down the Mohawk River at a speed that promised to win for him the bonus in hard money which I had promised for a swift journey and a swift return.
And far into the July morning I talked with the Sagamore of Amochol and of Catharines-town; and he listened while he sat tirelessly polishing his scalping-knife and hatchet.
CHAPTER VIII
OLD FRIENDS
The sunrise gun awoke me. I rolled out of my blanket, saw the white cannon-smoke floating above the trees, ran down to the river, and plunged in.
When I returned, the Sagamore had already broken his fast, and once more was engaged in painting himself—this time in a most ghastly combination of black and white, the startling parti-coloured decorations splitting his visage into two equal sections, so that his eyes gleamed from a black and sticky mask, and his mouth and chin and jaw were like the features of a weather-bleached skull.
"More war, O Mayaro, my brother?" I asked in a bantering voice. "Every day you prepare for battle with a confidence forever new; every night the army snores in peace. Yet, at dawn, when you have greeted the sun, you renew your war-paint. Such praiseworthy perseverance ought to be rewarded."
"It has already been rewarded," remarked the Indian, with quiet humour.
"In what manner?" I asked, puzzled.
"In the manner that all warriors desire to be rewarded," he replied, secretly amused.
"I thought," said I, "that the reward all warriors desire is a scalp taken in battle."
He cast a sly glance at me and went on painting.
"Mayaro," said I, disturbed, "is it possible that you have been out forest-running while I've slept?"
He shot a quick look at me, full of delighted malice.
And "Ho!" said he. "My brother sleeps sounder than a winter bear. Three Erie scalps hang stretched, hooped, and curing in the morning sun, behind the bush-hut. Little brother, has the Sagamore done well?"
Straightway I whirled on my heel and walked out and around the hut. Strung like drying fish on a willow wand three scalps hung in the sunshine, the soft July breeze stirring the dead hair. And as soon as I saw them I knew they were indeed Erie scalps.
Repressing my resentment and disgust, I lingered a moment to examine them, then returned to the hut, where the Siwanois, grave as a catamount at his toilet, squatted in a patch of sunshine, polishing his features.
"So you've done this business every night as soon as I slept," said I. "You've crept beyond our outer pickets, risking your life, imperilling the success of this army, merely to satisfy your vanity. This is not well, Mayaro."
He said proudly: "Mayaro is safe. What warrior of the Cat-People need a Sagamore of the Siwanois dread?"
"Do you count them warriors then, or wizards?"
"Demons have teeth and claws. Look upon their scalp-locks, Loskiel!"
I strove to subdue my rising anger.
"You are the only reliable guide in the army today who can take us straight to Catharines-town," I said. "If we lose you we must trust to Hanierri and his praying Oneidas, who do not know the way even to Wyalusing as well as you do. Is this just to the army? Is it just to me, O Sagamore? My formal orders are that you shall rest and run no risk until this army starts from Lake Otsego. My brother Mayaro knew this. I trusted him and set no sentry at the hut door. Is this well, brother?"
The Sagamore looked at me with eyes utterly void of expression.
"Is Mayaro a prisoner, then?" he asked quietly.
Instantly I knew that he was not to be dealt with that way. The slightest suspicion of any personal restraint or of any military pressure brought to bear on him might alienate him from our cause, if not, perhaps, from me personally.
I said: "The Siwanois are free people. No lodge door is locked on them, not even in the Long House. They are at liberty to come and go as the eight winds rise and wane—to sleep when they choose, to wake when it pleases them, to go forth by day or night, to follow the war-trail, to strike their enemies where they find them.
"But now, to one of them—to the Mohican Mayaro, Sagamore of the Siwanois, Sachem of the Enchanted Clan, is given the greatest mission ever offered to any Delaware since Tamenund put on his snowy panoply of feathers and flew through the forest and upward into the air-ocean of eternal light.
"A great army of his embattled brothers trusts in him to guide them so that the Iroquois Confederacy shall be pierced from Gate to Gate, and the Long House go roaring up in flames.
"There are many valiant deeds to be accomplished on this coming march—deeds worthy of a war-chief of the Lenni-Lenape—deeds fitted to do honour to a Sagamore of the Magic Wolf.
"I only ask of my friend and blood-brother that he reserve himself for these great deeds and not risk a chance bullet in ambush for the sake of an Erie scalp or two—for the sake of a patch of mangy fur which grows on these Devil-Cats of Amochol."
At first his countenance was smooth and blank; as I proceeded, he became gravely attentive; then, as I ended, he gave me a quick, unembarrassed, and merry look.
"Loskiel," he said laughingly, "Mayaro plays with the Cat-People. A child's skill only is needed to take their half-shed fur and dash them squalling and spitting and kicking into Biskoonah!"
He resumed his painting with a shrug of contempt, adding:
"Amochol rages in vain. Upon this wizard a Mohican spits! One by one his scalped acolytes tumble and thump among the dead and bloody forest leaves. The Siwanois laugh at them. Let the red sorcerer of the Senecas make strong magic so that his cats return to life, and the vile fur grows once more where a Mohican has ripped it out!"
"Each night you go forth and scalp. Each morning you paint. Is this to continue, Sagamore?"
"My brother sees," he said proudly. "Cats were made for skinning."
There was nothing to do about it; no more to be said. I now comprehended this, as I stood lacing my rifle-shirt and watching him at his weird self-embellishment.
"The war-paint you have worn each day has seemed to me somewhat unusual," I said curiously.
He glanced sharply up at me, scowled, then said gravely:
"When a Sagamore of the Mohicans paints for a war against warriors, the paint is different. But," he added, and his eyes blazed, and the very scalp-lock seemed to bristle on his shaven head, "when a Lenape Sachem of the Enchanted Clan paints for war with Seneca sorcerers, he wears also the clean symbols of his sacred priesthood, so that he may fight bad magic with good magic, sorcery with sorcery, and defy this scarlet priest—this vile, sly Warlock Amochol!"
Truly there was no more for me to say. I dared not let him believe that his movements were either watched or under the slightest shadow of restraint. I knew it was useless to urge on him the desirability of inaction until the army moved. He might perhaps have understood me and listened to me, were the warfare he was now engaged in only the red knight-errantry of an Indian seeking glory. But he had long since won his spurs.
And this feud with Amochol was something far more deadly than mere warfare; it was the clash of a Mohican Sagamore of the Sacred Clan with the dreadful and abhorred priesthood of the Senecas—the hatred and infuriated contempt of a noble and ordained priest for the black-magic of a sorcerer—orthodoxy, militant and terrible, scourging blasphemy and crushing its perverted acolytes at the very feet of their Antichrist.
I began to understand this strange, stealthy slaughter in the dark, which only the eyes of the midnight sky looked down on, while I lay soundly sleeping. I knew that nothing I could say would now keep this Siwanois at my side at night. Yet, he had been given me to guard. What should I do? Major Parr might not understand—might even order the Sagamore confined to barracks under guard. The slightest mistake in dealing with the Siwanois might prove fatal to all our hopes of him.
All the responsibility, therefore, must rest on me; and I must use my judgment and abide by the consequences.
Had it been, as I have said, any other nation but the Senecas, I am certain that I could have restrained the Indian. But the combination of Seneca, Erie, and Amochol prowling around our picket-line was too much for the outraged Sagamore of the Spirit Wolf. And I now comprehended it thoroughly.
As I sat thinking at our bush-hut door, the endless lines of wagons were still passing toward Otsego Lake, piled high with stores, and I saw Schott's riflemen filing along in escort, their tow-cloth rifle-frocks wide open to their sweating chests.
Almost all the troops had already marched to the lake and had pitched tents there, while Alden's chastened regiment was damming the waters so that when our boats were ready the dam might be broken and the high water carry our batteaux over miles of shallow water to Tioga Point, where our main army now was concentrating.
When were the Rifles to march? I did not know. Sitting there in the sun, moodily stripping a daisy of its petals, I thought of Lois, troubled, wondering how her security and well-being might be established.
The hour could not be very distant now before our corps marched to the lake. What would she do? What would become of her if she still refused to be advised by me?
As for her silly desire to go to Catharines-town, the more I thought about it the less serious consideration did I give it. The thing was, of course, impossible. No soldiers' wives were to be permitted to go as far as Wyalusing or Wyoming. Even here, at this encampment, the officers' ladies had left, although perhaps many of them might have remained longer with their husbands had it been known that the departure of the troops for Otsego Lake was to be delayed by the slow arrival of cattle and provisions.
In the meantime, the two companies of my regiment attached to this brigade were still out on scout with Major Parr; and when they returned I made no doubt that we would shoulder packs, harness our wagons, and take the lake road next morning.
And what would become of Lois? Perplexed and dejected, I wandered about the willow-run, pondering the situation; sat for a while on the river-bank to watch the batteaux and the Oneida canoes; then, ever restless with my deepening solicitude for Lois, I walked over to the fort. And the first man I laid eyes on was Lieutenant Boyd, conversing with some ladies on the parade.
He did not see me. He had evidently returned from the main body with a small scout the night before, and now was up and dressed in his best, spick and span and gay, fairly shining in the sunlight as he stood leaning against a log prop, talking with these ladies where they were seated on one of the rustic settles lately made by Alden's men.
Venturing nearer, I found that I knew all of the ladies, for one was the handsome wife of Captain Bleecker, of the 3rd New York, and another proved to be Angelina Lansing, wife of Gerrit Lansing, Ensign in the same regiment.
The third lady was a complete surprise to me, she being that pretty and vivacious Magdalene Helmer—called Lana—the confidante of Clarissa Putnam—a bright-eyed, laughing beauty from Tribes Hill, whom I had known very well at Guy Park, where she often stayed with her friend, Miss Putnam, when Sir John Johnson was there.
As I recognised them, Boyd chanced to glance around, and saw me. He smiled and spoke to the ladies; all lifted their heads and looked in my direction; and Lana Helmer waved her handkerchief and coolly blew me a kiss from her finger-tips.
So, cap in hand, I crossed the parade, made my best bow and respects to each in turn, replaced my cap, and saluted Lieutenant Boyd, who returned my salute with pretended hauteur, then grinned and offered his hand.
"See what a bower of beauty is blossomed over night in these dreary barracks, Loskiel. There seems to be some happiness left in the world for the poor rifleman."
"Do you remain?" I asked of Mrs. Bleecker.
"Indeed we do," she said, laughing, "provided that my husband's regiment remains. As soon as we understood that they had not been ordered into the Indian country we packed our boxes and came up by batteau last night. The news about my husband's regiment is true, is it not?"
"Colonel Gansevoort's regiment is not to join General Sullivan, but is to be held to guard the Valley. I had the news yesterday for certain."
"What luck!" said Boyd, his handsome eyes fixed on Lana Helmer, who shot at him a glance as daring. And it made me uneasy to see she meant to play coquette with such a man as Boyd; and I remembered her high spirits and bright daring at the somewhat loose gatherings at Guy Park, where every evening too much wine was drunk, and Sir John and Clarissa made no secret of the flame that burned between them.
