Part 22

Everard was troubled beyond expression by MacIlvesty’s continued absence; first, because of a genuine and humane fear that he would suffer a horrible death at the hands of the treacherous Indians, especially as the imminent departure of the troops could not be postponed on the desperate hope of a still further search for the willful runagate, and Callum would necessarily be left alone and at their mercy in the savage wilds. Nevertheless, the anger of the officer burned with great rancor. He believed that he would not have suffered the least pity had a court-martial gone the extreme length of sentencing MacIlvesty to be shot. That he should be brought to the degradation of the lash seemed to the lieutenant most meet and fitting whenever he felt the smart of that scarlet diagonal line, beginning to turn slightly blue, across his cheek. Punishment MacIlvesty had richly deserved, but the accident of torture by savages could not be accounted retribution for the crime of striking his officer. Nor could Everard, as his officer, feel justified in abandoning the Highlander to such a fate except at the last extremity, although he would not have regretted the righteous exaction of every pang of the penalty to which a court-martial might sentence the culprit. Therefore, impatient of the mysterious locutions and doubts, and alternate promises and withdrawals, by which the Cherokees sought to magnify the importance of their disclosure, Everard took no heed of personal prudence and was ready to put foot in the stirrup when suddenly there appeared at the flap of his tent one of the commissioners, fresh from an outing, clad in a long and dapper riding “Joseph,” his head cowled with a comfortable “trot cosy,” a suave smile upon his lips, and a bland “May I?” upon his tongue.

Everard in another moment had cause to curse his folly that he did not refuse the commissioner entrance; but he imputed much importance to a request which he anticipated, and therefore seated himself upon a stump of a tree, which had been sawed off smoothly to serve as a table, and resigned the single camp stool to the guest.

“The _Magnolia auriculata_,” Mr. Taviston said with a sigh of pleasure, “the most pompous beauty of the forest.”

He held forth a leaf of a tree, which a greater botanist has since rapturously described as “superbly crowned or crested with the fragrant flower representing a white plume, succeeded by a very large crimson cone or strobile.”

The officer gazed at it with uninterested and unrecognizing eyes. The only magnolia which he could identify was the growth which we call _grandiflora_, and which he had seen farther south.

“I have spent the day among the magnolias,” said the botanist, smiling consciously and with a sort of gloating reminiscence, as if Daphne herself had entertained him in the boskiest bowers. “And here,” presenting a gigantic leaf, “is the _Magnolia tripetala_--and this, the _Magnolia pyramidata--foliis ovatis, oblongis, acuminatis, basi auriculatis, strobilo oblongo ovato._”

“Good God, sir!” the petulant officer interposed, hastily rising in desperation. “I cry you mercy! My duties”--he hesitated, then stopped short.

For the trip must needs seem of his own choosing,--to attend a feast made in his honor by the Cherokees because of his seeming interest in Indian life and ceremonial. The thought of the postponement of his ride and its important object greatly perturbed him. He had hoped to avoid delay by admitting his tormentor. Twice, nay thrice, after the botanist’s baggage had been consigned to the locality where the pack-train was to be loaded had the quartermaster sergeant, who officiated as chief of transportation, reported to the commanding officer various vexatious requests of the worshipful Herbert Taviston to be allowed another deposit therein of trophies of bark and leaves, and, for aught I know, caterpillars and beetles,--natural specimens, which he did not hesitate in the interests of science to insert amongst his immaculate and high-minded toggery. The lieutenant, anticipating the renewal of such requests, had intended to peremptorily refuse another overhauling of the baggage, because of the confusion entailed upon the somnolent and orderly camp, and possible delay on the morrow. Hence he was thrown out of his calculations, and flushed and bit his lip with vexation. Nevertheless he could not rid himself perfunctorily of the presence of his unwelcome visitor by the plea of the pressure of official duties. The preparations for the morrow’s march were obviously complete, the camp asleep; moreover, his spurs jingled at his heels and his horse pawed at the door of the tent. The pretext of his own diversion was necessary to protect or satisfy his Cherokee informants and to furnish a reason for his quitting the camp. He looked with sudden hopefulness at Mr. Taviston, who also rose, but the motion was merely mechanical, without a parting instinct. The smile yet resting upon the botanist’s face was inattentive, undiscerning. The officer was a natural specimen the study of which did not allure him in the least. He scarcely listened to the lieutenant’s words, so absorbed was he in the subject.

“The soil of this region is rich, sir, incredibly rich for mountain slopes. This redundant example of the _Magnolia acuminata_, sir, hangs positively over a precipice, craggy steeps, imposing and horrid. If you would but give yourself the trouble to step with me to the door, I could point out to you, even in the darkness, the height of the location where I found it,--an altitude of fully two thousand feet. The precipice is distinctly imposed upon the sky against the constellation Perseus, which must be well risen now if the clouds--ah--ah--ah!”

The officer, moving alertly toward the door, following his guest in the hope of ultimate release outside, had held up the flap that the botanist might emerge, and frowned heavily as he heard Mr. Taviston’s voice rising into a quavering exclamation of surprise.

“What cracker next!” Everard cried impatiently.

In a moment the words died upon his lips, and he stood staring out into the night, half dazed with his sudden revulsion of feeling and the extraordinary sight that met his eyes.

For the woods of Chilhowee Mountain were not invisible in the purple night and under the black cloud, but splendidly agleam in the shadows. All red and gold they showed, and wreathed about with scroll-like involutions of blue smoke. Volleying here and there at wide intervals were jets of flame, vivid white, tinged with red at the verges. Now and then strange meteors flew through the dense forests in airy arabesques, lace-like in their tenuity, where the blazes caught at sparse series of dead leaves still hanging sere and dry in wind-denuded areas. The ranges in the distance were suddenly evoked from the darkness and stood as in a trance, motionless. Further still, in the ultimate scope of vision, vague, illusory suggestions of mountain forms continually trembled and flickered as the flames rose and fell. The fire was fierce and furious along the lower reaches of Chilhowee where the trading-path crossed, for much light wood of undergrowth was among the great trees, and the elastic blazes that could only leap hound-like about the huge boles, as if seeking to seize their prey in the branches, easily enveloped the slender saplings, which now and again sent forth cracklings as of a sudden volley of musketry. All the black cloud above looked down in sullen dismay at the aghast earth, thus roused out of the abyss of darkness and night, with a strange, unnatural aspect upon the familiar contours of the landscape.

The Cherokee towns along the river were all astir. Here and there upon the banks flitted scantily clad Indian figures, gazing at the mountain and speculating upon the mystery of the ignition of the woods; for the Chilhowee Mountain is many miles in length, and it would seem that some region nearer to the distant burning forests, unseen and far to the north, must have been first fired. Although because of the recent drought the woods were dry, they would never have burned without extraneous kindling.

Everard had turned instinctively to his horse, with the intention of riding forth to investigate. His Cherokee guide checked him.

“No can ride to Talassee--no can cross mountain fire--fire--all fire!”

The amazement, the dismay, and something more--the deep, cogitating speculation on the man’s face--fixed Everard’s attention. The light of the burning scene was full upon it, glimmering upon the feathers on the top of the Indian’s head as he bent forward to gaze, but the shadow annulled the rest of his body, and his aspect in the weird effects of the flicker was as if he had been decapitated. When Everard next turned to speak to him the man had disappeared. Inquiry revealed the fact that he had quitted the camp. For the first time Everard experienced a sudden doubt of him. What significance did he perceive in the fire? And why should he look so downcast, so defeated, so despairing--as at the end?

The camp had been roused by the crackle and roar of the flames and the wide, blaring illumination, as if the world were afire. The officer doubled the camp guard by way of precaution against any disturbance, lest the kindling of this conflagration be attributed to the agency of the soldiers as a bit of bravado on their part, and rouse the wrath of the Indians to reprisal. Then he went back into his tent and sat down on the camp stool beside the table, rudely fashioned of the stump of a great tree, and tried to think out some new solution of the problem of the capture of MacIlvesty. The candle was still burning with a timid, white, pearly lustre, all pallid and dim against the great yellow flare outside, which showed through the translucent canvas walls. The gigantic leaves of the _Magnolia tripetala_ still lay on the improvised table, and he had his elbows among them and his head in his hands, when suddenly he was aware of the corporal of the guard standing and saluting in the doorway.

“Ready with some new foolery?” Everard demanded tartly.

“Yes, sir,” the corporal replied with anxious deprecation. “Here’s a messenger, sir. I can’t make out who she comes from. But she seemed possessed to get a word with you, sir. She was so excited and hasty that, though I had no orders, I was afraid of letting important news slip if I sent her away.”

“What’s her name?” demanded Everard, in frowning haste. The moments at this crisis were important.

“I don’t know the Injun lingo, sir, but they call her the ‘Cherokee Rose.’”

“Then hale her off!” cried Everard, bringing his hand down on the table with a force that made the candle jump in its socket. “I want no rosaceous specimens here, native or foreign. No--_the Cherokee Rose_--I have done with botany forever, I swear!” He spoke as if he had given many years of unrequited and fruitless study to that ungrateful science. “Send the baggage about her business! _The Cherokee Rose_, forsooth!” he repeated fleeringly.

He turned suddenly, hearing a slight scuffle without, and the next moment the flap of his tent was drawn back and the girl stood in the doorway, the flaming night behind her, and all her amber and white attire showing in soft splendor and full detail in the refined, subdued, pearly light of the single candle. The discomfited corporal, who had sought to detain her by as much force as he dared to exert, was vaguely glimpsed in the background, sullenly resigning himself to wait to conduct her out of camp, as he saw that Everard had a mind now to give her an audience. Her first words had arrested the lieutenant’s attention. He could not have constructed the sentences that issued from her trembling scarlet lips, but the sound of the Cherokee language had grown familiar in many weeks’ sojourn here, and he understood its drift and made shift to reply.

“I have found your plaid-man,” she cried. “Oh, the wicked one!” casting up her liquid eyes in aspiration. “Cut off his head! Cut it off clean!”

“But where? when was he found?” Everard exclaimed eagerly.

“Oh, now you have lent your ear to listen!” she cried triumphantly. She glanced warily over her shoulder to make sure that the corporal had not also lent his ear for the same purpose. Then leaning forward, the flap of the tent still in one hand, her finger now and again cautiously laid on her lips, she detailed the strange metamorphosis of the Ancient Warrior into a Highland soldier which she had witnessed, and every word that he had said she repeated in English as she had heard it, with a faithful duplication of accent and gesture.

“You were to come to Talassee, and he would not let you,--you the great red Capteny, and he the dust of the earth!--where a feast was made for you, and the headmen waited, and many young and beautiful were to dance, and I was to dance. See!--was I not to dance?”

Her anklets of white beads jingled in unison as she moved her slender restless feet in their buskins of fine white dressed doeskin.

“And he wept--the plaid-man! and cried for the French gold! and said, ‘He maunna ride at a’ the nicht! He maunna ride--he maunna gang to Talassee wi’ the French gowd o’ saxty-twa! Ohonari! Ohonari! He maunna ride at a’ the nicht.’ And then this plaid-man he sobbed much, and straightway said to himself that the smoke of far-away burning woods hurt his eyes--when it is because he is a squaw-man that he sheds tears, and is no great red Capteny and soldier. And does he not wear a petticoat every day of his life, like the woman that he is? _He sheds tears!_ And then he crept out, saying all the time, ‘Oh, gude God, he maunna ride to Talassee--he maunna ride at a’ the nicht!’ And I, all unseen, followed him like his shadow, like his soul, through the night to the foot of the mountain where the trading-path skirts Chilhowee, and there he struck a flint and set the dry leaves afire, and then with a lighted torch he ran--ran like a deer--firing the woods here, there, everywhere! Two Indians, coming from a hunt, saw him, but he gave them the slip. And the headmen are having the woods scoured for him. And I--I lost him in the night--for he ran very fast!”

As he stood listening Everard more than once changed color, and finally sat down, looking very grave.

The girl with only a momentary pause recommenced: “And then I knew that you could not go to Talassee through the fiery woods, although the feast was made, and the headmen waited, and many were to dance, and I, too, was to dance, because that creature, in his plaid petticoat, said you had his French gold. Was it his, forsooth? I do not understand! And I lost him, but I went back from the mountain to Chilhowee Town, and there--oh, joy!--there he stood once more in the likeness of the Ancient Warrior,--who must be very wroth, if there ever was any Ancient Warrior,--in his hunting-shirt and war-crown. And softly, very softly, like the mist slipping down the mountain-side I crept away here, and left him there, that the great red Capteny may descend upon him, and capture him, and wreak vengeance upon him, and break his great ugly bones, and give his woman’s petticoat to the dogs to tear!”

“And is he there yet?” demanded Everard eagerly. “Is he unaware that he is discovered?”

Her animated diction had left her breathless and speechless. She could only bow her head in assent, her lustrous eyes still fiery, her lips trembling with her panting breath.

Everard sprang up, tense and alert, keen and quick to see his error.

“You shall have the French gold as a reward for your story if I find my tartan man as you say at Chilhowee. Say nothing to any one till I send you the French gold by the hand of Yachtino, the chief of Chilhowee,” he said, hoping that thus the headmen might think that he had failed to notice the significant date of the coinage of the louis d’ors, since he parted so lightly from them. Thus he would avoid further dangerous machinations, for of course the pieces were not themselves essential to the validity of his report.

He was calling out hasty orders to the corporal in the pauses of his sentences to her, and in the next few moments he rode out of the camp at the head of a dozen mounted infantry-men, their red coats and burnished accoutrements showing in the flames still rioting along the mountain-side.

A sense of dawn was presently in the air,--the vague, undiscriminated, indescribable perception of the awakening of nature. It was not night, let the darkness gloom as it might. It was not night, let the light delay as it would. It was a new day, and every nerve acclaimed the fact with a revival of power. Everard met this new day in emerging from the forests near Chilhowee Town. The flames were dying out upon the mountain. A thin rain was falling, and misty moisture enveloped the higher slopes, where nevertheless here and there a pennant of fire waved through dull gray involutions of vapor. The smell of charred timber was rife on the air. The slate-tinted sky, the darkly looming purple mountains of the distance, the black, fire-swept steeps closer at hand, the Indian town as yet silent and still, the long, level stretches of the pallid, sere cornfields dimly striped with fine lines of the misting rain,--all were visible in the dull gray light as the party halted on the verge of the woods. Everard dismounted and went forth alone into the cornfields.

Callum MacIlvesty, facing in the opposite direction, heard naught, and saw naught but the dreary fire-smirched scene before him and the rain slowly descending with a steadiness which promised to make a day of it. He was too exhausted to think, to scheme further. He only knew that his ruse had succeeded; that Everard had not been decoyed to a terrible death; that the commissioners and their military escort would march to-day. But when he sought to forecast how he would fare, left alone and helpless in the country of the savage Cherokees, the puzzling problem so baffled his tired brain--without food, as he was, aching in every muscle, and drenched to the very bones by the persistent rain--that he would fall asleep, still standing half supported by the pole, his war-bonnet and gourd head nodding after a fashion which must have revealed the sham that he was, had any discerning Indian chanced to pass that way. He dreamed strange things in these meagre snatches of sleep,--so strange that he thought he was still dreaming when, recovering his balance with a start and lifting his heavy eyelids, he saw Lieutenant Everard striding across the wet cornfield and heard his friendly voice calling, “Callum Bane! Callum Bane!” as of yore.

Callum’s heart plunged and then stood still, as he perceived the reality of his impressions. Before he could decide upon his course the voice sounded anew, with a queer tremor in it:--

“For God’s sake, Callum Bane, don’t hide from me! I wouldn’t hurt a hair of your head for all the Cherokee country!”

In his rough, young-man fashion Everard had begun to tear off the Ancient Warrior’s war-bonnet and gourd vizard and hunting-shirt that, long subject to the weather’s hard usage, had grown ragged and rent with the climbing in and out of it by the stalwart Highlander, and before the transformation was complete the story of each was elicited. As they faced each other, Callum, conscience-stricken at the enormity of his offense and overwhelmed by the magnanimity of his friend, albeit debtor for his life, in forgiving him, suddenly burst into tears, exclaiming, “Ohon! Ohon! I wish you would kill me!” and cast himself, in all his smoke-grimed, rain-soaked tartans, into the arms of the smart officer.

Everard chose to consider the blow as delivered under the extremity of provocation and in the quality of friend over a convivial bowl, and therefore his own personal affair. He was willing to risk the carping comment of his mess, should it ever come to their knowledge that he had received this insult without requital from a man who had saved his life with so much forethought and ingenuity, and danger to his own,--a man who deemed he would have profited immeasurably by the officer’s destruction, thus escaping the death which menaced him, or an ignominious punishment more terrible to him than death itself.

Everard, however, with his larger experience of life and wider outlook, saw the plot differently, perfectly rounded and in its entirety. He knew that the Cherokees would not dare to lure him to Talassee had they not some innocuous device by which to account for his disappearance thence. Their subtle intelligence had doubtless seized upon the fortuitous escape of the Highlander from custody as a thread to work into their web. For it was most natural that to this man, who had offended the officer and had cause to fear him, should be attributed his murder and consequent disappearance. The Highlander himself, easily found, seized, and destroyed after the departure of the troops from the country, could gainsay naught.

The lieutenant’s military conscience, however, would not permit him to forgive so easily the escape from the guard-house and the lurking in hiding, these being notorious offenses of evil example and to the prejudice of good order and discipline. For not even the corporal who had had the custody of the prisoner knew that Callum had struck the officer, and the only witness, Mr. Taviston, had utterly forgotten the blow as a matter of no consequence,--being frantic with excitement concerning a new species of _Stuartia_, here found and at that time unknown to any catalogue, but since called _Stuartia montana_. The corporal and the other soldiers supposed only that Callum had become intoxicated in the society of his superiors and had drunkenly and foolishly contrived a troublesome escape from custody. For this breach of discipline, Callum was destined to undergo in due time extra guard duty.

Everard was explaining this to him as being a part of his military obligations and not to gratify a personal grudge. “You are still under arrest, you know, Callum Bane!” Everard reminded him.

“I care na, I care na--onything ye will! Only I maun hae a word wi’ ye the noo, lad.”

This word, albeit he was faint from fatigue, both ahungered and athirst, cold and shivering, having been drenched for hours with the keen chill rain, Callum so clamored to be allowed to speak that Everard could not constrain him to wait till after he should have been fed and warmed and clad anew.

“Na, na!” Callum persisted, waving away the flask which the officer pressed upon him, but still clutching his friendly hand, “if I tak but ae sup ye wad say I am drunk when ye hear what I hae to tell ye!” He paused for a moment to add weight to his words. “I hae seen that Frenchman wha hae made sic clavers an’ turmoil amang the Cherokees.”

“Where? when?” Everard asked breathlessly, his face suddenly grave.

Callum pointed down at the Ancient Warrior lying at his feet in all the dreary dislocations of disillusionment,--the tattered, befringed garments, the quaintly painted gourd head, with its ghastly effect of decapitation, its glorious war-bonnet bedraggled and forlorn. “When I was that daft gomeril,--that big Injun,” he replied.

“A white man?”

Callum nodded and leaned against the officer. He could hardly stand. He felt too weak almost to speak, unless indeed he must.