The bride of Fort Edward founded on an incident of the Revolution |
 | 1. |
| 2. |
| 3-1. |
| 4. |
 | 5. | PART FIFTH.
—
FULFILMENT.
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| 5:1. |
| 5:2. |
| 5:3. |
| 5:4. |
| 6. |
 | The bride of Fort Edward |  |
5. PART FIFTH.
—
FULFILMENT.
DIALOGUE I.
Scene. The hill. A young Soldier enters.
How gloriously, with what a lonely majesty the morning
wastes in that silent valley there; with its moving
shadows, and breeze and sunshine, and its thousand delicious
sounds mocking those desolate homes—
(He stops suddenly, and looks earnestly into the
thicket.)
This is strange, indeed. This feeling that I cannot
analyze, still grows upon me. Presentiment? Some
dark, swift-flying thought, leaves its trace, and the causeseeking
looks to the shadowy future for it.
[He passes on.
(Two Indian Chiefs, in their war-dress, emerge from
the thicket, talking in suppressed tones.)
1st Chief.
Hoogh! Hoogh! Alaska fights to revenge
his son,—we spill our blood to revenge his son, and he
thinks to win gifts besides. Hugh! A brave chief he is!
2nd Chief.
Your talk is not good, Manida. They are
our enemies,—we shall conquer them, we shall see their
chestnut locks waving aloft, we shall dance and shout
all night around them, and the eyes of the maidens shall
meet ours in the merry ring, sparkling with joy, as we
shout “Victory! victory! our enemies are slain,—our
foot is on their necks, we have slain our enemies!” What
more, Manida? Is it not enough?
1st Chief.
No. I went last night with Alaska to the
camp above, to the tent of the young sachem of the lake,
and he promised him presents, rich and many, for an errand
that a boy might do. I asked Alaska to send me for
him, and he would not.
2nd Chief.
The young white sachem was Alaska's
friend, many moons ago, when Alaska was wounded and
sick.--He must revenge young Siganaw, but he must
keep his faith to his white friend, too.
1st Chief.
Ah, but I know where the horse is hidden
and the paper. When the tomahawks flash here, and
will share the prize with you.
2nd Chief.
No, I will tell my brother chief that Manida
is a treacherous friend.
1st Chief.
You cannot. It is too late. Hist! Quick,
lower—lower—
[They crouch among the trees.
(Another Soldier emerges from the wood-path, singing,)
It summons the brave to the plain,
Where heroes contend for the home
Which perchance they may ne'er see again.”
(Pausing abruptly.)
Well, we are finely manned
here!
(1st Soldier re-enters.)
2nd Sol.
How many men do you think we have in all,
upon this hill, Edward?
1st Sol.
Hist!—more than you count on, perhaps.
2nd Sol.
Why? What is the matter? Why do you
look among those bushes so earnestly?
1st Student.
It is singular, indeed. I can hardly tell
you what it is, but twice before in my round, precisely
in this same spot, the same impression has flashed upon
me, though the sense that gives it, if sense it is, will not
bide an instant's questioning. There! Hist! Did
nothing move there then?
2nd Sol.
I see nothing. This comes of star-gazing,
when you should have slept. Though as to that, I have
nothing to complain of, certainly. I had to thank your
taste that way, last night, for an hour of the most delicious
slumber. It was like that we used to snatch of
old, between the first stroke of the prayer-bell and its dying
peal.
1st Sol.
I am glad you could sleep. For myself, such
a world of troubled thoughts haunted me, I found more
repose in waking.
2nd Sol.
Then I wish you could have shared my
dream with me, as indeed you seemed to, for you were
with me through it all. A blessed dream it was, and
yet—
1st Sol.
Well, let me share it with you now.
2nd Sol.
I cannot tell you how it was, that in honor
and good conscience we had effected it, but somehow,
methought our part in this sickening warfare was accomplished,
and we were home again. Oh the joy of
it! oh the joy of it! Even amid my dream, methought
we questioned its reality, so unearthly in its perfectness,
it seemed. We stood upon the college-green, and the
sun was going down with a strange, darkling splendor;
and from afar, ever and anon came the thunder roll of
battle; but we had nought to do with it; our part was
done; our time was out; we were to fight no more. And
there we stood, watching the student's games; and there
for never a thought of his cruel fate crossed my dream.
Suddenly we saw two ladies, arm in arm, come swiftly
down the shady street, most strangely beautiful and
strangely clad; with long white robes, and garlands in
their hair, and such a clear and silvery laugh, and something
fearful in their loveliness withal; and one of them,
as she came smiling toward us—do you remember that
bright, fair-haired girl we met in yonder lane one noon?
—Just such a smile as hers wore the lady in my dream.
Then, into the old chapel we were crowding all; that
long-deferred commencement had come on at last; we
stood upon a stage, and a strange light filled all the
house, and suddenly the ceiling swelled unto the skiey
dome, and nations filled the galleries; and I woke, to find
myself upon a soldier's couch, and the reveille beating.
1st Sol.
Well, if it cheered you, `twas a good dream
most certainly, though, yet—the dream-books might not
tell you so. Will you take this glass a moment?
2nd Sol.
What is it?
1st Sol.
That white house by the orchard, in the door
—do you see nothing?
2nd Sol.
Yes, a figure, certainly;—yes, now it moves.
I had thought those houses were deserted,—it is time
they were I think, for all the protection we can give
them. How long shall we maintain this post, think you,
with such a handful?
1st Sol.
Till the preparations below are complete, I
trust so at least, for we have watchers in these woods, no
doubt, who would speedily report our absence.
2nd Sol.
Well, if we all see yonder sun go down, 'tis
more than I count on.
1st Sol.
A chance if we do—a chance if we do. Will
the hour come when this infant nation shall forget her
bloody baptism?—the holy name of truth and freedom,
that with our hearts' blood we seal upon her in these days
of fear?
2nd Sol.
Ay, that hour may come.
1st Sol.
Then, with tears, and blood if need be, shall
she learn it anew; and not in vain shall the bones of the
martyrs moulder in her peopled vales. For human nature,
in her loftiest mood, was this beautiful land of old
built, and for ages hid. Here—her cradle-dreams behind
her flung; here, on the height of ages past,
her solemn eye down their long vistas turned, in a
new and nobler life she shall arise here. Ah, who knows
but that the book of History may show us at last on its
long-marred page—Man himself,—no longer the partial
and deformed developments of his nature, which each
successive age hath left as if in mockery of its ideal,—
but, man himself, the creature of thought,—the high, calm,
majestic being, that of old stood unshrinking beneath
his Maker's gaze. Even, as first he woke amid the gardens
smile again,—a perfect thing.
2nd Sol.
In your earnestness, you do not mark these
strange sounds, Edward. Listen.(He grasps his
sword.)
(A Soldier rushes down the path.)
3nd Sol.
We are surrounded! Fly. The Indians are
upon us. Fly.
[Rushes on.
(Another Soldier bursts from the woods.)
4th Sol.
God! They are butchering them above there,
do not stand here!
[Rushes down the hill.
2nd Sol.
Resistance is vain. Hear those shrieks!
There is death in them. Resistance is vain.
1st Sol.
Flight is vain. Look yonder! Francis,—
the dark hour hath come!
2nd Sol.
Is it so? Mother and sister I shall see no
more.
(A number of Indians, disfigured with paint and blood,
and brandishing their knives, come rushing down
the road, uttering short, fierce yells. Others from
below, bringing buck the fugitives.)
1st Sol.
We shall die together. God of Truth and
Freedom, unto thee our youthful spirits trust we.
(The Indians surround them. Fighting to the last,
they fall.)
DIALOGUE II.
Scene. The deserted house—the chamber—Helen by
the table—her head bowed and motionless. She
rises slowly from her drooping posture.
Helen.
It is my bridal day. I had forgotten that.
(Looking from the window.)
Is this real? Am I here
alone? My mother gone? The army gone? brothers
and sisters gone, and those woods full of armed Indian?
I am awake. This is not the light of dreams,—'tis the
sun that's shining there. Not the fresh and tender morning
sun, that looked in on that parting. Hours he has
climbed since then, to turn those shadows thus,—hours that
to me were nothing.—Alone?—deserted—defenceless?
Of my own will too? There was a law in that will,
though, was there not? (Turning suddenly from the
window.)
Shall I see him again? The living real of
my thousand dreams, in the light of life, will he stand
here to-day?—to-day? No, no. Is this swift flow of
being leading on to that? Oh day of anguish, if in
thine awful bosom, still, that dazzling instant sleeps, I
can forgive the rest.
(She stands by the toilette, and begins to gather once
more the long hair from her shoulders. Suddenly
Canadian servant looks in.)
Jan.
I ask your pardon—Shall I come in,Ma'amselle?
Helen.
Ay, ay, come in. How strangely any voice
sounds amid this loneliness. I am glad you are here.
Jan.
(Entering.)
Beautiful! Santa Maria! How
beautiful! May I look at these things, Ma'amselle?
(Stopping by the couch strewn with bridal gear.)
Real
Brussels! And the plume in this bonnet, was there ever
such a lovely droop?
Helen.
Come, fasten this clasp for me, Netty. I thought
to have had another bridesmaid once, but—that is past—
Yes, I am a bride to-day, and I must not wait here unadorned.
(Aside.)
He shall have no hint from me this
day of “altered fortunes.” As though these weary
years had been but last night's dream, and my wedding-day
had come as it was fixed, so will I meet him.—Yet
I thought to have worn my shroud sooner than this
robe.
Jan.
This silk would stand alone, Ma'amselle,—and
what a lovely white it is! Just such a bodice as this
I saw my Lady Mary wear, two years ago this summer,
in Quebec; only, this is a thought deeper. But, Santa
Maria! how it becomes a shape like yours!
Helen.
What a world of buried feeling lives again as
these years have changed me?
Jan.
(Aside.)
I do not like that altered mien. How
the beauty flashes from her? Is it silk and lace that can
change one so? Here are bracelets too, Ma'amselle;
will you wear them?
Helen.
Yes. Go, look from the window, Janette,
down the lane to the woods. I am well-nigh ready now.
He will come,—yes, he will come.
(Janette retreats to the window,—her eye still following
the lady.)
Jan.
I have seen brides before, but never so gay a one
as this. It is strange and fearful to see her stand here
alone, in this lonesome house, all in glistening white,
smiling, and the light flashing from her eyes thus. She
looks too much like some radiant creature from another
world, to be long for this.
Helen.
He will come, why should he not? Netty, fix
your eye on that opening in the woods, and if you see
but a shadow crossing it, tell me quickly.
Jan.
I can see nothing—nothing at all. Marie sanctissima!—how
quiet it is! The shadows are straight here
now, Miss Helen.
Helen.
Noon—the very hour has come! Another
minute it may be.—Noon, you said, Netty?
(Joining Janette at the window.)
Yes, quite—you can see; and hark, there's the
clock. Oh, isn't it lonesome though? See how like the
Sunday those houses look, with the doors all closed and
the yards and gardens still as midnight. If we could but
hear a human voice!—whose, I would not care.
Helen.
How like any other noon-day it comes! The
faint breeze plays in those graceful boughs as it did yesterday;
that little, yellow butterfly glides on its noiseless
way above the grass, as then it did;—just so, the shadows
sleep on the grassy road-side there;—yes, Netty,
yes, 'tis very lonely.—Hear those merry birds!
Jan.
But I would rather hear that signal, Miss Helen,
a thousand times, than the best music that ever was
played.
Helen.
I shall see him again. That wild hope is wild
no longer. To doubt were wilder now. Ay, Fate must
cross my way with a bold hand, to snatch that good from
me now. And yet,—alas, in the shadowy future it lieth
still, and a dark and treacherous realm is that! The joys
that blossom on its threshold are not ours—It may be, even
now, darkness and silence everlasting lie between us.
Jan.
Hark—Hark!
Helen.
What is it?
Jan.
Hark!—There!—Do you hear nothing?
Helen.
Distant voices?
Jan.
Yes—
Helen.
I do—
Jan.
Once before,—'twas when I stood in the door below,
I heard something like this; but the breeze just then
brought the sound of the fall nearer, and drowned it.
There it is!—Nearer. The other window, Miss Helen.
Helen.
From that hill it comes, does it not?
Jan.
Yes--yes, I should think it did. Oh yes. There
is a guard left there—I had forgotten that. Mon Dieu!
How white your lips are! Are you afraid, Ma'amselle?
(Helen stands gazing silently from the window.)
Jan.
There is no danger. It must have been those
soldiers that we heard,—or the cry of some wild animal
roaming through yonder woods—it might have been,—
how many strange sounds we hear from them. At another
time we should never have thought of it. I think
we should have heard that signal though, ere this,—I do,
indeed.
Helen.
What is it to die? Nor wood nor meadow, nor
winding stream, nor the blue sky, do they see; nor the voice
of bird or insect do they hear; nor breeze, nor sunshine,
nor fragrance visits them. Will there be nothing left that
makes this being then? The high, Godlike purpose—
the life whose breath it is,—can that die?—the meek
trust in Goodness Infinite,—can that perish? No.—This
is that building of the soul which nothing can dissolve,
that house eternal, that eternity's wide tempests cannot
move. No—no—I a m not afraid. No--Netty, I am not
afraid.
Jan.
Will you come here, Miss Helen?
Helen.
Well.
Jan.
Look among those trees by the road-side—those
pine trees, on the side of the hill, where my finger
points.—
Helen.
Well—what is it?
Jan.
Do you see—what a blinding sunshine this is—
do you see something moving there?—wait a moment—
—they are hid among the trees now—you will see them
again presently—There!—there they come, a troop of them,
see.
Helen.
Yes—Indians—are they not?
Jan.
Ay—it must have been their yelling that
we heard.—We need not be alarmed.—They are from
the camp—they have come to that spring for water. The
wonder is, your soldiers should have let them pass.—
You will see them turning back directly now.
Helen.
(Turning from the window.)
Shelter us—all
power is thine.
Jan.
Holy Virgin!—they are coming this way. Those
creatures are coming down that hill, as I live. Yes,
there they come.
This strip of wood hides them now. What keeps
them there so long? Ay, ay,—I see now—I am sorry I
should have alarmed you so, Ma'amselle, for nothing too
they are going back to their camp by the lower route.
Helen.
No.
Jan.
It must be so. There is no doubt of it. Indeed,
we might be sure they would never dare come here.—
They cannot know yet that your army are gone. Besides,
we should have heard from them ere this. They
could never have kept their horrid tongues to themselves
so long, I know.—Well, if it were to save me, I
cannot screw myself into this shape any longer. (Rising
from the window.
Helen.
Listen.
Jan.
'Tis nothing but the sound of the river. You
can make nothing else of it, Ma'amselle,—unless it is
these locusts that you hear. I wish they would cease
their everlasting din a moment.
How that breeze has died away! Every leaf is still
now! There's not a cloud or a speck in all the sky.
Helen.
Look in the west—have you looked there?
Jan.
Yes, there are a few little clouds beginning to
gather there indeed. We shall have a shower yet ere
night.
(The war-whoop is heard, loud and near.)
Jan.
Mon Dieu! Here they are! It is all over with
us! We shall be murdered!
(She clasps her hands, and shrieks wildly.
Hush! hush! Put down that window, and
come away. We must be calm now.
Jan.
It is all over with us,—what use is there? Do
you hear that trampling?—in the street!—they are
coming!
Helen.
Janette—Hear me. Will you throw away
your life and mine? For shame! Be calm. These
Indians cannot know that we are here. They will see
these houses all deserted. Why should they stop to
search this? Hush! hush! they are passing now.
Jan.
They have stopped!—the trampling has stopped!—I
hear the gate,—they have come into the yard.
(A long wild yell is heard under the window. They
stand, looking silently at each other. Again it
trembles through the room, louder than before.)
Helen.
I am sorry you stayed here with me. Perhaps
—Hark! What was that? What was that? Was it
not Maitland they said then? It was—it is—Don't
grasp me so.
Jan.
Nay—what would you do?
Helen.
I must speak with them. Let go my arm! Do
you not hear? 'Tis Maitland they are talking of. How
strangely that blessed name sounds in those tones!
Jan.
You must not—we have tempted Heaven already—this
is madness.
Helen.
Let go, Janette. It is not you they seek. You
can conceal yourself. You shall be safe.
Jan.
She is wild! Nay, I was mad myself, or I should
never have stayed here. It were better to have lived
always with them, than to be murdered thus.
(Helen opens the window, and stands for a moment,
looking silently down into the court. She turns
away, shuddering.)
Helen.
Can I meet those eyes again?
(Again the name of Maitland mingles with the wild
and unintelligible sounds that rise from without.)
Helen.
Can I? (She turns to the window.)
What
can it mean? His own beautiful steed! How fiercely
he prances beneath that unskilful rein. Where's your
master, Selma, that he leaves me to be murdered here?
A letter! He bids me unfasten the door, Janette.
Jan.
And will you?
Helen.
They are treacherous I know. This will do.—
(Taking a basket from the toilette.)
Give me that cord.
(She lets down the basket from the window, and draws
it up, with a letter in it.)
Helen.
(Looking at the superscription.)
'Tis his!
I thought so. Is it ink and paper that I want now?
(Breaking it open.)
Ah, there's no forgery in this. 'Tis
his! 'tis his!
Jan.
How can she stand to look at that little lock of
hair now?—smiling as if she had found a bag of diamonds.
But there's bad news there. How the color
fades out, and the light in her eye dies away. What can
it be?
Helen.
(Throwing the letter down, and walking the
floor hastily.)
This is too much! I cannot, I cannot,
I cannot go with them! How could he ask it of me?
This is cruel.
He knew, perfectly well, how I have always feared
them—I cannot go with them.
(She takes up the letter.)
(Reading.)
“Possible”—“If it were possible”—he
does not read that word as I did when I kept this promise
—Possible? He does not know the meaning that
love gives that word—“If I had known an hour sooner,”
—Ay, ay, an hour sooner!—“Trust me, dear Helen,
they will not harm you.” Trust me, trust me. Won't
I?
Jan.
She is beckoning them, as I live!
Helen.
Bring me that hat and mantle, Netty. I must
go with these savages.
Jan.
Go with them!
Helen.
There is no help for it.
Jan.
With these wild creatures,—with these painted
sure. Ah see, see them in their feathers and blankets,
and that long wild hair. See the knives and the tomahawks
in their girdles! Holy Mary! Here's one within
the court!
Helen.
Yes, there he stands—there's life in it now.—
There they stand—the chesnut boughs wave over them
—this is the filling up of life. They are waiting for me.
'Tis no dream.
Jan.
Dare you go with them? They will murder
you.
Helen.
If they were but human, I could move them—
and yet it is the human in them that is so dreadful. To
die were sad enough—to die by violence, by the power
of the innocent elements, were dreadful, or to be torn of
beasts; to meet the wild, fierce eye, with its fixed and
deadly purpose, more dreadful; but ah, to see the human
soul, from the murderers eye glaring on you, to encounter
the human will in its wickedness, amid that wild
struggle—Oh God! spare me.
Jan.
If you fear them so, surely you will not go with
them.
Helen.
This letter says they are kind and innocent.
One I should believe tells me there is no cause for fear.
In his haste he could not find no other way to send for
them.
Jan.
But Captain Grey will come back here again
this afternoon. Stay,—stay, and we will go with him.
Helen.
You can—yes, you will be safe. For myself, I
will abide my choice. Surely I need not dread to go
where my betrothed husband trusts me so fearlessly. I
count my life worth little more than the price at which he
values it. Clasp this mantle, Netty.—And is it thus I go
forth from these blessed walls at last?—Through all those
safe and quiet hours of peace and trust, did this dark end
to them lie waiting here?—Are they calling me?
Jan.
Yes.
Helen.
Well,—I am ready. (Lingering in the door.)
I
shall sit by that window no more. Never again shall I
turn those blinds to catch the breeze or the sunshine.
Yes—(returning)
, let me look down on that orchard
once again. Never more—never more.
(She walks to the door, again pausing on the threshold.
Helen.
(solemnly.)
Oh God, here, from childhood to
this hour, morning and evening I have called on thee—
forget me not. Farewell, Netty, you will see my mother
—you will see them all—that is past.—Tell her I had
seen the Indians, and was not afraid.
[She goes out.
It won't take much to make an angel of her,
there's that in it.
(Looking cautiously through the shutters.)
There she comes! How every eye in that wild group
flashes on her! And yet with what a calm and stately
bearing she meets them. Holy Mary! she suffers that
savage creature to lift her to her horse, as though he
were her brother, and the long knife by his side too, glancing
in the sunshine! The horse, one would think, he
knew the touch of that white hand on his neck. How
gently he rears his beautiful head. There they go.
Adieu! Was there ever so sad a smile?
Another glimpse I shall have of them yet beyond those
trees.—Yes, there they go—there they go. I can see
that lovely plume waving among the trees still.—Was
there ever so wild a bridal train?
DIALOGUE III.
Scene. British Camp. The interior of a Tent richly
furnished. An Officer seated at a table covered
with papers and maps. A Servant in waiting.
The Officer.
(Sipping his wine, and carefully examining
a plan of the adjacent country.)
About here,
we must be—let me see.—I heard the drum from their
fort this morning, distinctly. Turn that curtain; we
might get a faint breeze there now.
Ser't.
But the sun will be coming that side, Sir. It's
past two o'clock.
Off.
Past two—a good position—very. Well, well,
—we'll take our breakfast in Albany on Friday morning,
and if our soldiers fast a day or two ere then, why
they'll relish it the better;—once in the rich country beyond—Ay,
it will take more troops than this General will
have at his bidding by that time, to drain the Hudson's
borders for us.
(A Servant enters with a note.)
Off.
(Reading.)
“The Baroness Reidesel's compliments—do
her the honor—Voisin has succeeded.”—
Ay, ay,—Voisin has succeeded,—I'll warrant that. That
caterer of hers must be in league with the powers of
the air, I am certain. General Burgoyne will be but too
happy, my Lady—(writing the answer.)
[The Servant goes out.
Off.
Past two! The cannon should be in sight ere
this. This to Sir George Ackland.
[Exit the Attendant.
Off.
Tuesday—Wednesday.—If the batteaux should
get here to-morrow. One hundred teams—
(Another Officer enters the tent.)
How goes it abroad, Colonel St. Leger?
2nd Off.
Indeed, Sir, the camp is as quiet as midnight.
It's a breathless heat. But there are a few dark heads
swelling in the west. We may have a shower yet ere
night.
Bur.
Good news that. But here is better, (giving
the other an open letter.)
St. Leger.
Ay, ay, that reads well, Sir.
Bur.
And here is another as good. Yes Sir, yes Sir,—
they are flocking in from all quarters—the insurgents are
laying down their arms by hundreds. It must be a
miserable fragment that Schuyler has with him by this.
St. L.
General Burgoyne, is not it a singular circumstance,
that the enemy should allow us to take possession
of a point like that without opposition,—so trifling a
detachment, too? Why, that hill commands the fort,—
certainly it does.
Bur.
Well—well. They are pretty much reduced,
I fancy, Sir. We shall hardly hear much more from
them. Let me see,—this is the hill.
St. L.
A pity we could not provoke them into an
engagement, though! They depend so entirely upon
the popular feeling for supplies and troops, and the whole
machinery of their warfare, that it is rather hazardous
reckoning upon them, after all. If we could draw
Bur.
Yes, yes; we must contrive to do that ere
long. Rather troublesome travelling companions they
make, that's certain. Like those insects that swarm
about us here,—no great honor in fighting them, but a
good deal of discomfort in letting them alone. We must
sweep them out of our way, I think, or at all events give
them a brush, that will quiet them a little.
St. L.
Or they might prove, after all, like the gadfly
in the fable. I do not think this outbreak will be
any disadvantage in the end, General.
Bur.
Not a whit—not a whit—they have needed this,
It will do them good, Sir.
St. L.
The fact is, these colonies were founded in
the spirit of insubordination, and all the circumstances
of their position have hitherto tended to develope only
these disorganizing elements.
Bur.
It will do them good, Sir. Depend upon it,
they'll remember this lesson. Pretty well sickened of
war are they all. They'll count the cost ere they try it
again.
St. L.
We can hardly expect the news from General
Reidesel before sunset, I suppose.
Bur.
If my messenger returns by to-morrow's sunrise,
it is better fortune than I look for.
(Col. St. Leger goes out.)
(Burgoyne resumes his plan.)
A Ser't.
(At the door.)
Capt. Maitland, Sir.
Bur.
Capt. Maitland!
Ser't.
From Fort Ann, Sir.
(Maitland enters.)
Bur.
Captain Maitland! Good heavens, I thought
you were at Skeensborough by this,—what has happened?
or am I to congratulate myself that the necessity of your
embassy is obviated. You met them, perhaps?—
Maitland.
There's but little cause of congratulation,
Sir, as these dispatches will prove to you. I returned
only because my embassy was accomplished.
Bur.
Do you mean to say, Captain Maitland, that you
have seen the waters of Lake Champlain, since you left
here this morning?
Mait.
I do, Sir.
Bur.
On my word, these roads must have improved
since we travelled them some two days agone. I am
sorry for your horses, Sir. You saw General Reidesel?
Mait.
I left him only at nine o'clock this morning.
(Burgoyne examines the dispatches.)
Bur.
“Twelve oxen to one batteaux!”—“and but fifty
I think,—but fifty teams?—Captain Maitland, had those
draught horses from Canada not arrived yet?
Mait.
They were just landing this morning as I left,
but only one-fourth of the number contracted for.
Bur.
Humph! I would like to know what time, at
this rate—sit down, Captain Maitland, sit down—we
are like to spend the summer here, for aught I see,
after all. (A long pause, in which Burgoyne resumes
his reading.)
Mait.
General Burgoyne, I am entrusted with a message
from General Reidsel to the Baroness. If this is
all—
Bur.
What were you saying?—The Baroness—ay,
ay—that's all well enough,—but Captain Maitland is
aware, no doubt, there are more important subjects on
the tapis just now than a lady's behests.
Mait.
Sir?—
Bur.
(Pushing the papers impatiently from him.)
This will never do. St. George! We'll give these
rebels other work ere many days, than driving away cattle
and breaking down bridges for our convenience. Meanwhile
we must open some new source of supplies, or
we may starve to death among these hills yet. Captain
Maitland, I have a proposal to make to you. You are
impatient, Sir.
Mait.
General Burgoyne!—
Bur.
Nay, nay,—there's no haste about it. It were
cruel to detain you now, after the toil of this wild journey.
You'll find your quarters changed, Captain Maitland.
We sent a small detachment across the river just
now. Some of our copper-colored allies had got into a
fray with the enemy there.
Mait.
Ha! (returning.)
Bur.
Nothing of consequence, as it turns out. We
hoped it would have ended in something. A few of the
enemy, who were stationed as a guard on a hill not far
from Fort Edward, were surprised by a party of Indians,
and killed, to a man, I believe. Afterwards, the victors
got into a deadly fray among themselves as usual. A
quarrel between a couple of these chiefs, at some famous
watering place of theirs, and in the midst of it, a party
from the fort drove them from the ground;—this is
Alaska's own story at least.
Mait.
Alaska's!
Bur.
Alaska?—Alaska?—yes, I think it was,—one of
these new allies we have picked up here.
Mait.
(In a whisper.)
Good God!
Bur.
By the time our detachment arrived there, however,
the ground was cleared, and they took quiet possession.
Are you ill, Captain Maitland?
Mait.
A little,—it is nothing. I am to cross the
river.
Bur.
Yes. You will take these papers to Captain
Andre. You have over-fatigued yourself. You should
have taken more time for this wild journey.
(Maitland goes out.)
Bur.
I do not like the idea of division, but it cannot be
helped now. This gallant young soldier were a fitting
leader for such an enterprize.
DIALOGUE IV.
Scene. The ground before Maitland's Tent.
(Maitland and the Indian Chief, Manida, enter.)
Mait.
This is well. (He writes on a slip of paper,
and gives it to the Indian.)
Take that, they will give
you the reward you ask for it. Let me see your face no
more, that is all.
Manida.
Ha, Monsieur?
Mait.
Let me see your face no more, I say. Do you
understand me?
Manida.
(Smiling.)
Oui.
(Maitland turns from him. The Indian goes off in
the opposite direction. He stops a moment, and steals
a look at Maitland,—throws his head back with a
long silent laugh, and then goes on toward the
woods.)
Mait.
(Musing.)
I like this. This is womanly!
Nay, perhaps there is no capriee about it. I may have
misinterpreted that letter in my haste last night. Very
likely. Well,—better this, than that Helen Grey should
come to evil through fault of mine,—better this, than the
anguish of the horrible misgivings that haunted me amid
my journey.
And so pass these faery visions! Nay, not thus. It
will take longer than this to unlink this one day's hope
from its thousand fastnesses. I thought, ere this, to have
met the spirit of those beaming eyes, to have taken to my
heart for ever this soft, pure being of another life.
And yet, even as I rode through those lonely hills this
morning, with every picture my hope painted, there came
a strange misgiving;—like some scene of laughing noon-day
loveliness, darkening in the shadow of a summer's
cloud.
Strange that Alaska should abandon my trust! I cannot
understand it. Why, I should never have trusted
her with this rascal Indian. There was something in
his eye, hateful beyond all thought,—and once or twice
I caught a strange expression in it, like malignant triumph
it seemed. It may be—no, he must have seen
God!—what if—I think my old experience should
have taught me there was little danger of her risking
much in my behalf. Well—even this is better, than that
Helen Grey should have come to evil through fault of
mine.
| The bride of Fort Edward | |