68. CHAPTER LXVIII.
A VIRGINIA GIANT.
On the next day Mr. St. John presented himself, clad
with the most scrupulous ceremony, at the door of Governor
Dunmore's palace.
He was shown into the receiving room by a solemn major
domo in black velvet, and thus found himself in the presence
of the Governor.
Lord Dunmore was seated, as always, in his great carved
chair covered with red damask, the portraits of the king
and queen, respectively, facing and behind him, and at a
table, the members of the council, together with Captain
Foy, were ranged in a long and imposing array.
There was another personage seated at some distance,
whom Mr. St. John had never before seen, and this man
attracted perforce, as it were, his attention.
He was almost gigantic in stature, with limbs moulded
like those of a Hercules, and his massive head, with its long
hair, rose from a pair of shoulders, which, like those of Atlas,
seemed vigorous enough to bear aloft a world. The
broad collar was turned down, and the throat of this singular
personage was thus revealed—a mass of iron muscles,
and sinews like whip cords. He was clad in a pair of huge
horseman's boots, to which were affixed heavy spurs with
enormous rowels; knee breeches of buckskin, secured at
the knee by thongs instead of buckles, and over this lower
costume fell the folds of a hunting shirt, gathered round
the waist by a broad leather belt, from which depended an
enormous broad-sword.
The air of this man had in it a collected and invincible
resolution, mingled with a sort of wild and primitive ease;
but it was the ease of a stern and rugged nature, which
does not care for the etiquette of courts. As though to
confirm this impression, the strange-looking personage held
in his hand, as if from habit, a short Indian pipe, which he
passed backwards and forwards through his fingers, as he
gazed with a careless air at the Governor.
St. John exchanged a glance with the individual as he
entered, and remembered afterwards the penetrating eyes
which flashed beneath the shaggy brows.
“Well, sir,” said the Governor, without returning the
young man's bow in the least, “pray what is your pleasure?”
“I have indicated it in the paper which lies before your
Excellency,” returned St. John, coldly, pointing to the table,
and again bowing.
Lord Dunmore raised the paper with a supercilious air
and looked at it carelessly. Then he looked again at the
young man, and tried, after the fashion usual with his lordship,
to brow-beat him.
As may be imagined, it had little effect. The cruel distress
of the young man's mind was a triple shield against
any thing which the words or looks of the Governor could
express.
He felt rather wearied standing, while being subjected to
this scrutiny—that was all—and looked round for a chair.
There was none vacant, and although a handbell upon the
table at his Excellency's elbow would have summoned a
servant in a moment, it remained untouched.
“So this is from yourself, is it, sir?” said his lordship,
tapping the paper with his finger and then throwing it
down.
“Yes, my lord, as you may perceive, it bears my signature.”
“The signature of `H. St. John,' I believe,” said the Governor,
coldly.
“That is my name, your lordship.”
“The name of one who grossly insulted me, sir!” said
his Excellency, frowning, “and you now expect me to forgive
and forget that, and commission you anew, after your
insulting treatment of my last.”
Mr. St. John replied, with his old gloomy calmness,
“Precisely, my lord.”
Lord Dunmore looked for a moment at the young man
with silent anger, and then moving about in his chair, as
was his habit when growing more and more angry, said
rudely,
“And upon what grounds do you presume, sir, to make
this request?”
“Will I be permitted to inform your Excellency?” said
St. John.
“What do you mean, sir? Have I not demanded the information.”
“It is true that your Excellency has done so, and I only
request permission to speak, uninterrupted.”
The flush on Lord Dunmore's brow grew deeper, and the
vein in his forehead swelled.
“Mr. St. John,” he said, with a scowl, “you seem to
think it necessary to bandy reproaches with me whenever
you appear before me. On former occasions I have overlooked
this, but I advise you, for your own good, not to repeat
them.”
“I do not wish to do so, my lord. I wish, on the present
occasion, simply to say, with the highest respect for the authority
of your lordship, that I am constitutionally subject
to irritation when not permitted to speak in my own way,
and for this reason I solicit permission from your lordship to
speak without interruption.”
“Speak, then, sir!” said Lord Dunmore, more angry
than ever, but beaten by his adversary's superior coolness;
“speak, and as briefly as possible.”
“I will, my lord. Your lordship asked me the grounds
upon which I apply for this commission—”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Well I reply to your lordship as briefly as possible, as
you request. I resigned my former commission because the
duties which it involved were unpleasant to me. In Virginia
we are so accustomed to be served, that we can not
ourselves serve, as gentlemen do, I am told, in the old world.
The duties of my office of lieutenant, in a word, were distasteful
to me, and I resigned my commission. I see that
your lordship is thinking of the scene on that occasion. It
was unfortunate. I beg that your lordship will make allowance
for a somewhat excitable temperament. After that
scene I should certainly not apply for a new commission in
my own name, as it were, to the nobleman with whom I had
had an altercation. It is simply as an educated Virginian
who can furnish testimonials of fitness, that I apply to the
Governor of the colony of Virginia for a commission to fight
the battles of Virginia. I have endeavored to be as brief
as possible in laying before your lordship the state of the
case, and need only add that I do not ask a favor. It is
simply permission to join the forces of the colony which I
ask—a commission in the service of his Majesty.”
And Mr. St. John bowed, and was silent.
“Have you done, sir?” said his Excellency, suppressing
his anger, and speaking in a tone of striking coldness and
spitefulness, if we may use the word.
“I have said all, my lord.”
“And you wish a reply?”
“As soon as is convenient to your lordship.”
“It is quite convenient now,” said the Governor, with a
sneer; “I require no delay, sir, in deciding whether I will
commission a person of your description in his Majesty's
service. No, sir! I regard your conduct and your character
as seditious, and you may congratulate yourself upon
personal immunity after your deportment here upon a former
occasion. I refuse you the commission, sir! I need no
time to reflect! I treat your special pleading about `educated
Virginians' and `Governors of this colony' with the
contempt which it deserves! I have still another word to
add, sir! Beware how you again cross this threshold with
your arrogant air, and your insults! Hitherto I have spared
your—for the future, beware! Now, go sir! I have done
with you!”
A flash of his old passion for an instant illuminated, like
lurid lightning, the young man's haughty eyes, but this soon
disappeared. His face again became pale and cold—his
eyes colder still.
“I am glad to reciprocate your Excellency's desire, that
in future we go separate ways,” he said with courtly calmness;
“I did not seek your Excellency formerly, you sought
me; and now I depart, careless of your Excellency's hatred
or regard.”
Mr. St. John accompanied these words with a low bow,
and went out of the apartment and the palace.
On the same afternoon he was going along Gloucester
street, in front of the Raleigh tavern, when he heard a
grave, deep voice utter the words:
“Give you good day, Mr. St. John.”
The young man raised his head, and saw, standing upon
the portico of the tavern, the tall personage whom he had
seen in the receiving room of Lord Dunmore. At the other
end of the porch, a number of men, who seemed to be
recruits, were assembled, engaged in laughing, talking and
drinking. Their suddenly-assumed military air, added to
the tarnished uniforms worn by some of the company, communicated
to the Raleigh the air of a camp.
As to the tall personage who thus saluted Mr. St. John,
he was clad, as before, in his rude costume of the backwoods,
and carried in his hand the short pipe, which now, however,
was smoking.
As he stood erect, apart from the rest, his stature
appeared more gigantic than before; and the young man
saw that his vigorous frame was moulded with extraordinary
symmetry.
“Give you good day, Mr. St. John,” repeated the
stranger, in his deep voice. “Do you still hold to your
determination, expressed this morning to his lordship, of
going to the frontier?”
“I do, sir,” said St. John, inclining his head. “It is my
purpose to volunteer in the ranks.”
“In the ranks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As a common soldier?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“That shall not be necessary, sir,” said the stranger, in
the same deep, reserved voice; “I will commission you.”
“You?” said the young man, in some astonishment.
“Yes, sir,” said his companion, calmly. “A man of your
coolness, and so disposed to serve the country, shall not
fight in the ranks, though many gentlemen will. You
deserve a commission, sir, and I make you Lieutenant in
Colonel Fleming's battalion. My name is Lewis—Andrew
Lewis, of Botetourt, and I listened, with pleasure, to your
observations this morning.”
St. John bowed to the man of whom he had so often
heard—the commissioner for Virginia in the treaty of Fort
Stanwix—of whom the Governor of New York declared
that “the earth seemed to tremble under him as he walked
along.”
“I am a rough backwoodsman,” said General Lewis,
“and make few protestations, sir. I nevertheless say that
I like your face. I'll commission you without further
acquaintance. If his lordship objects, it will not move me.
If he does not like me, let him seek another commander for
the forces. You will rendezvous at Camp Union, otherwise,
Fort Savannah, on the first of next month, which is near at
hand,” and General Lewis calmly inserted his pipe between
his lips, and commenced smoking.[1]
After some more
arrangements, Mr. St. John took his leave, and went to his
lodgings.
“Well,” he murmured, as he stretched himself upon the
sofa, “that is the first step toward the struggle and oblivion.
If a tomahawk or a bullet interpose, what matter? 'T is the
same, for the end will be reached.”
As he spoke, Tom Alston entered, and his friend laid
before him all his plans, which he had hitherto concealed.
To paint the dismay and sorrow of honest Tom Alston at
this mad resolution, as he called it, would be impossible.
He exhausted his strength, and grew positively hoarse in the
attempt to change the resolution of his friend.
In vain did he protest, however. In vain he declared
that the state of things, in regard to Bonnybel, could not
last—that every one at Vanely had as perfect an affection
for him as at any previous time. In vain did he represent
that the mystery of the young girl's demeanor could not
long remain unsolved, and that a single word would show
the injustice she had been guilty of—the groundless nature
of her sudden dismissal of her lover.
To all this, the young man opposed either gloomy silence
only, or the words, incessantly repeated, “I am ruined, I
have lost all.”
Tom Alston returned again to his expostulations, and
used every possible argument to prove the madness of his
friend's course. The family at Vanely had felt the greatest
solicitude about his illness; had only been prevented from
seeing him by the physician's orders; they had sent all the
delicacies which were so grateful to him in his convalescence;
the girls had even come to Williamsburg, and had
stolen into his chamber, in his sleep. At this, the young
man started; and, all at once, the vision, as he had considered
it, flashed on his mind, and a look of wonder greeted
the announcement of the reality of the appearance. But he
was no more convinced than before. “I am ruined, I have
lost all,” was all that his friend could extract from him;
and, after three hours of expostulation, honest Tom Alston
sank back, pale and exhausted, and gave up the struggle.
Two days afterward, Mr. St. John and his friend
exchanged a silent grasp of the hand. The young man
mounted his horse, and, throwing a last look upon the window
through which she had shone on him, like a vision of
the night, in the luminous halo, he set forward.
As before, Tallyho tossed his head, and careered merrily
along; but his head was not turned toward home.
Camp Union, or, as we now say, Lewisburg, was the
young man's destination; and, going along, not smiling, as
before, but gloomy and despairing, he murmured:
“A tomahawk or bullet—'t is the same!”
