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CARDIGAN




  [Illustration: See p. 40
   CARDIGAN AND SILVER HEELS]




     _Cardigan_

     _By_ ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

     Author of "The Maid-at-Arms," "The Tree of Heaven,"
     "Fighting Chance," etc.

     Illustrated

     A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
     NEW YORK

     Published by arrangement with Harper & Brothers




     BOOKS BY
     ROBERT W. CHAMBERS


LORRAINE. Post 8vo $1.25

THE CONSPIRATORS. Ill'd. Post 8vo 1.50

A YOUNG MAN IN A HURRY. Ill'd. Post 8vo 1.50

CARDIGAN. Illustrated. Post 8vo 1.50

THE MAID-AT-ARMS. Illustrated. Post 8vo 1.50

THE KING IN YELLOW. Post 8vo 1.50

THE MAIDS OF PARADISE. Ill'd. Post 8vo 1.50

IN SEARCH OF THE UNKNOWN. Ill'd. Post 8vo 1.50

OUTDOORLAND. Ill'd in Colors. Sq. 8vo, net 1.50

ORCHARDLAND. Ill'd in Colors. Sq. 8vo, net 1.50

RIVERLAND. Ill'd in Colors. Sq. 8vo, net 1.50

THE MYSTERY OF CHOICE. 16mo 1.25


HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, N. Y.




     Copyright, 1901, by ROBERT W. CHAMBERS.
     _All rights reserved._




     TO
     MY FATHER
     AND
     MOTHER




INTRODUCTION


     This is the Land of the Pioneer,
         Where a life-long feud was healed;
     Where the League of the Men whose Coats were Red
     With the Men of the Woods whose Skins were Red
       Was riveted, forged, and sealed.
     Now, by the souls of our Silent Dead,
     God save our sons from the League of Red!

           Plough up the Land of Battle
             Here in our hazy hills;
           Plough! to the lowing of cattle;
             Plough! to the clatter of mills;
           Follow the turning furrows'
             Gold, where the deep loam breaks,
           While the hand of the harrow burrows,
             Clutching the clod that cakes;
           North and south on the harrow's line,
             Under the bronzed pines' boughs,
           The silvery flint-tipped arrows shine
             In the wake of a thousand ploughs!

     Plough us the Land of the Pioneer,
       Where the buckskinned rangers bled;
     Where the Redcoats reeled from a reeking field,
       And a thousand Red Men fled;
     Plough us the land of the wolf and deer,
     The land of the men who laughed at fear,
       The land of our Martyred Dead!

           Here where the ghost-flower, blowing,
             Grows from the bones below,
           Patters the hare, unknowing,
             Passes the cawing crow:
           Shadows of hawk and swallow,
             Shadows of wind-stirred wood,
           Dapple each hill and hollow,
             Here where our dead men stood:
           Wild bees hum through the forest vines
             Where the bullets of England hummed,
           And the partridge drums in the ringing pines
             Where the drummers of England drummed.

     This is the Land of the Pioneer,
       Where a life-long feud was healed;
     Where the League of the Men whose Coats were Red
     With the Men of the Woods whose Skins were Red
       Was riveted, forged, and sealed.
     Now, by the blood of our Splendid Dead,
     God save our sons from the League of Red!

       R. W. C.
       BROADALBIN.




PREFACE


Those who read this romance for the sake of what history it may
contain will find the histories from which I have helped myself more
profitable.

Those antiquarians who hunt their hobbies through books had best drop
the trail of this book at the preface, for they will draw but a blank
covert in these pages. Better for the antiquarian that he seek the
mansion of Sir William Johnson, which is still standing in Johnstown,
New York, and see with his own eyes the hatchet-scars in the solid
mahogany banisters where Thayendanegea hacked out polished chips. It
would doubtless prove more profitable for the antiquarian to thumb
those hatchet-marks than these pages.

But there be some simple folk who read romance for its own useless
sake.

To such quiet minds, innocent and disinterested, I have some little
confidences to impart: There are still trout in the Kennyetto; the
wild ducks still splash on the Vlaie, where Sir William awoke the
echoes with his flintlock; the spot where his hunting-box stood is
still called Summer-House Point; and huge pike in golden-green
chain-mail still haunt the dark depths of the Vlaie water, even on
this fair April day in the year of our Lord 1900.

     THE AUTHOR.




CARDIGAN




CHAPTER I


On the 1st of May, 1774, the anchor-ice, which for so many months had
silver-plated the river's bed with frosted crusts, was ripped off and
dashed into a million gushing flakes by the amber outrush of the
springtide flood.

On that day I had laid my plans for fishing the warm shallows where
the small fry, swarming in early spring, attract the great lean fish
which have lain benumbed all winter under their crystal roof of ice.

So certain was I of a holiday undisturbed by school-room tasks that I
whistled up boldly as I sat on my cot bed, sorting hooks according to
their sizes, and smoothing out my feather-flies to make sure the moths
had not loosened wing or body. It was, therefore, with misgiving that
I heard Peter and Esk go into the school-room, stamping their feet to
make what noise they were able, and dragging their horn-books along
the balustrade.

Now we had no tasks set us for three weeks, for our schoolmaster, Mr.
Yost, journeying with the post to visit his mother in Pennsylvania,
had been shot and scalped at Eastertide near Fort Pitt--probably by
some drunken Delaware.

My guardian, Sir William Johnson, who, as all know, was Commissioner
of Indian Affairs for the Crown, had but recently returned from the
upper castle with his secretary, Captain Walter Butler; and,
preoccupied with the lamentable murder of Mr. Yost, had found no time
to concern himself with us or our affairs.

However, having despatched a messenger with strings and belts to
remonstrate with the sachems of the Lenni-Lenape--they being, as I
have said, suspected of the murder--we discovered that Sir William had
also written to Albany for another schoolmaster to replace Mr. Yost;
and it gave me, for one, no pleasure to learn it, though it did please
Silver Heels, who wearied me with her devotion to her books.

So, hearing Esk and fat Peter on their way to the school-room, I took
alarm, believing that our new schoolmaster had arrived; so seized my
fish-rod and started to slip out of the house before any one might
summon me. However, I was seen in the hallway by Captain Butler, Sir
William's secretary, and ordered to find my books and report to him at
the school-room.

I, of course, paid no heed to Mr. Butler, but walked defiantly
down-stairs, although he called me twice in his cold, menacing voice.
And I should have continued triumphantly out of the door and across
the fields to the river had not I met Silver Heels dancing through the
lower hallway, her slate and pencil under her arm, and loudly sucking
a cone of maple sugar.

"Oh, Michael," she cried, "you don't know! Captain Butler has
consented to instruct us until the new schoolmaster comes from
Albany."

"Oh, has he?" I sneered. "What do I care for Mr. Butler? I'm going
out! Let go my coat!"

"No, you're not! No, you're not!" retorted Silver Heels, in that
teasing sing-song which she loved to make me mad withal. "Sir William
says you are to take your ragged old book of gods and nymphs and be
diligent lest he catch you tripping! So there, clumsy foot!"--for I
had tried to trip her.

"Who told you that?" I answered, sulkily, snatching at her sugar.

"Aunt Molly; she set me to seek you. So now who's going fishing, my
lord?"

The indescribable malice of her smile, her sing-song mockery as she
stood there swaying from her hips and licking her sugar-cone, roused
all the sullen obstinacy in me.

"If I go," said I, "I won't study my books anyway. I'm too old to
study with you and Peter, and I won't! You will see!"

Sir William's favourite ferret, Vix, with muzzle on, came sneaking
along the wall, and I grasped the lithe animal and thrust it at Silver
Heels, whereupon she kicked my legs with her moccasins, which did not
hurt, and ran up-stairs like a wild-cat.

There was nothing for me but to go to the school-room. I laid my rod
in the corner, pocketed the ferret, dragged my books from under the
library table, and went slowly up the stairs.

At sixteen I was as wilful a dunce as ever dangled feet in a
school-room, knowing barely sufficient Latin to follow Caesar through
Gaul, loathing mathematics, scorning the poets, and even obstinately
marring my pen-writing with a heavy backward stroke in defiance of Sir
William and poor Mr. Yost.

As for mythology, my tow-head was over-crammed with kennel-lore and
the multitude of small details bearing upon fishing and the chase, to
accommodate the classics.

Destined, against my will, for Dartmouth College by my guardian, who
very well understood that I desired to be a soldier, I had resolutely
set myself against every school-room accomplishment, with the result
that, at sixteen, I presented an ignorance which should have shamed a
lad of ten, but did not mortify me in the least.

And now, to my dismay and rage, Sir William had set me once more in
the school-room--and under Mr. Butler, too!

"Master Cardigan," said Mr. Butler when I entered the room, "Sir
William desires you to prepare a recitation upon the story of
Proserpine."

I muttered rebelliously, but jerked my mythology from the pile of
books and began to thumb the leaves noisily. Presently tiring of dingy
print, I moved up to the bench where sat the children, Peter and Esk,
a-conning their horn-books.

Silver Heels pulled a face at me behind her French grammar book, and I
pinched her arm smartly for her impudence. Then, casting about for
something to do, I remembered the ferret in my pocket, and dragged it
out. Removing the silver bit I permitted the ferret to bite Peter's
tight breeches, not meaning to hurt him; but Peter screeched and Mr.
Butler birched him well, knowing all the while it was no fault of
Peter's; yet such was the nature of the man that, when angry, the
innocent must suffer when the guilty were beyond his wrath.

I had remuzzled the ferret, and Peter was smearing the tears from his
cheeks, when Sir William came in, very angry, saying that Mistress
Molly could hear us in the nursery, and that the infant had fallen
a-roaring with his new teeth.

"I did it, sir," said I, "and Mr. Butler punished Peter--"

"Silence!" said Sir William, sharply. "Put that ferret out the
window!"

"The ferret is your best one--Vix," I answered. "She will run to the
warren and we shall have to dig her out--"

"Pocket her, then," said Sir William, hastily. "Who gave you leave to
pouch my ferrets? Eh? What has a ferret to do in school? Eh? Idle
again? Captain Butler, is he idle?"

"He is a dunce," said Mr. Butler, with a shrug.

"Dunce!" echoed Sir William, quickly. "Why should he be a dunce when I
have taught him? Granted his Latin would shame a French priest, and
his mathematics sicken a Mohawk, have I not read the poets with him?"

Mr. Butler, a gentleman and an officer of rank and fortune, whose
degraded whims led him now to instruct youth as a pastime, sharpened a
quill in silence.

"Gad," muttered Sir William, "have I not read mythology with him till
I dreamed of nymphs and satyrs and capered in my dreams till Mistress
Molly--but that's neither here nor there. Micky!"

"Sir," I replied, sulkily.

Then he began to question me concerning certain gods and demi-gods,
and I gaped and floundered as though I were no better than the inky
rabble ruled over by Mr. Butler.

Sir William lounged by the window in his spurred boots and scarlet
hunting-coat, and smelling foul of the kennels, which, God knows, I do
not find unpleasant; and at every slap of the whip over his boots, he
shot me through and through with a question which I had neither
information nor inclination to answer before the grinning small fry.

Now to be hectored and questioned by Sir William like a sniffling lad
with one eye on the birch and the other on Mr. Butler, did not please
me. Moreover, the others were looking on--Esk with ink on his nose,
Peter in tears, a-licking his lump of spruce, and that wild-cat thing,
Silver Heels--

With every question of Sir William I felt I was losing caste among
them. Besides, there was Mr. Butler with his silent, deathly laugh--a
laugh that never reached his eyes--yellow, changeless eyes, round as a
bird's.

Slap came the whip on the polished boot-tops, and Sir William was at
it again with his gods and goddesses:

"Who carried off Proserpine? Eh?"

I looked sullenly at Esk, then at Peter, who put out his tongue at me.
I had little knowledge of mythology beyond what concerned that
long-legged goddess who loved hunting--as I did.

"Who carried off Proserpine?" repeated Sir William. "Come now, you
should know that; come now--a likely lass, Proserpine, out in the bush
pulling cowslips, bless her little fingers--when--ho!--up
pops--eh?--who, lad, who in Heaven's name?"

"Plato!" I muttered at hazard.

"What!" bawled Sir William.

I felt for my underlip and got it between my teeth, and for a space
not another word would I speak, although that hollow roar began to
sound in Sir William's voice which always meant a scene. His whip,
too, went slap-slap! on his boots, like the tail of a big dog rapping
its ribs.

He was perhaps a violent man, Sir William, yet none outside of his own
family ever suspected it or do now believe it, he having so perfect a
control over himself when he chose. And I often think that his
outbursts towards us were all pretence, and to test his own capacity
for temper lest he had lost it in a long lifetime of self-control. At
all events, none of us ever were the worse for his roaring, although
it frightened us when very young; but we soon came to understand that
it was as harmless as summer thunder.

"Come, sir! Come, Mr. Cardigan!" said Sir William, grimly. "Out with
the gentleman's name--d'ye hear?"

It was the first time in my life that Sir William had spoken to me as
Mr. Cardigan. It might have pleased me had I not seen Mr. Butler
sneer.

I glared at Mr. Butler, whose face became shadowy and loose, without
expression, without life, save for the fixed stare of those round
eyes.

Slap! went Sir William's whip on his boots.

"Damme!" he shouted, in a passion, "who carried off that slut
Proserpine?"

"The Six Nations, for aught I know!" I muttered, disrespectfully.

Sir William's face went redder than his coat; but, as it was ever his
habit when affronted, he stood up very straight and still; and that
tribute of involuntary silence which was always paid to him at such
moments, we paid, sitting awed and quiet as mice.

"Turn the children free, Captain Butler," said Sir William, in a low
voice.

Mr. Butler flung back the door. The children followed him, Esk
bestowing a wink upon me, Peter grinning and toeing in like a Devon
duck, and that wild-cat thing, Silver Heels--

"You need not wait, Captain Butler," said Sir William, politely.

Mr. Butler retired, leaving the door swinging. Out in the dark hallway
I fancied I could still see his shallow eyes shining. I may have been
mistaken. But all men know now that Walter Butler hath eyes that see
as well by dark as by the light of the sun; and none know it so well
as the people of New York Province and of Tryon County.

"Michael," said Sir William, "go to the slate."

I walked across the dusty school-room.

"Chalk!" shouted Sir William, irritated by my lagging steps.

I picked up a lump of chalk, balancing it in my palm as boys do a
pebble in a sling.

Something in my eyes may have infuriated Sir William.

