The Hidden Children. Robert W. Chambers
Loskiel?"
I discovered the man standing at the open door, his warn hands clasped behind him, and staring stupidly at the cloudless sky. He followed me back to the taproom, and we reckoned with him. Somehow, I thought he had not expected to be paid a penny—yet he did not thank us.
"Are you not Benjamin Hays?" inquired Boyd, carelessly retying his purse.
The fellow seemed startled to hear his own name pronounced so loudly, but answered very quietly that he was.
"This house belongs to a great villain, one James Holmes, does it not?" demanded Boyd.
"Yes, sir," he whispered.
"How do you come to keep an ordinary here?"
"The town authorities required an ordinary. I took it in charge, as they desired."
"Oh! Where is this rascal, Holmes?"
"Gone below, sir, some time since."
"I have heard so. Was he not formerly Colonel of the 4th regiment?"
"Yes, sir."
"And deserted his men, eh? And they made him Lieutenant-Colonel below, did they not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Colonel—of what?" snarled Boyd in disgust.
"Of the Westchester Refugee Irregulars."
"Oh! Well, look out for him and his refugees. He'll be back here one of these days, I'm thinking."
"He has been back."
"What did he do?"
The man said listlessly: "It was like other visits. They robbed, tortured, and killed. Some they burnt with hot ashes, some they hung, cut down, and hung again when they revived. Most of the sheep, cattle, and horses were driven off. Last year thousands of bushels of fruit decayed in the orchards; the ripened grain lay rotting where wind and rain had laid it; no hay was cut, no grain milled."
"Was this done by the banditti from the lower party?"
"Yes, sir; and by the leather-caps, too. The leather-caps stood guard while the Tories plundered and killed. It is usually that way, sir. And our own renegades are as bad. We in Westchester have to entertain them all."
"But they burn no houses?"
"Not yet, sir. They have promised to do so next time."
"Are there no troops here?"
"Yes, sir."
"What troops?"
"Colonel Thomas's Regiment and Sheldon's Horse and the Minute Men."
"Well, what the devil are they about to permit this banditti to terrify and ravage a peaceful land?" demanded Boyd.
"The country is of great extent," said the man mildly. "It would require many troops to cover it. And His Excellency has very, very few."
"Yes," said Boyd, "that is true. We know how it is in the North—with hundreds of miles to guard and but a handful of men. And it must be that way." He made no effort to throw off his seriousness and nodded toward me with a forced smile. "I am twenty-two years of age," he said, "and Mr. Loskiel here is no older, and we fully expect that when we both are past forty we will still be fighting in this same old war. Meanwhile," he added laughing, "every patriot should find some lass to wed and breed the soldiers we shall require some sixteen years hence."
The man's smile was painful; he smiled because he thought we expected it; and I turned away disheartened, ashamed, burning with a fierce resentment against the fate that in three years had turned us into what we were—we Americans who had never known the lash—we who had never learned to fear a master.
Boyd said: "There is a gentleman, one Major Ebenezer Lockwood, hereabouts. Do you know him?"
"No, sir."
"What? Why, that seems strange!"
The man's face paled, and he remained silent for a few moments. Then, furtively, his eyes began for the hundredth time to note the details of our forest dress, stealing stealthily from the fringe on legging and hunting shirt to the Indian beadwork on moccasin and baldrick, devouring every detail as though to convince himself. I think our pewter buttons did it for him.
Boyd said gravely: "You seem to doubt us, Mr. Hays," and read in the man's unsteady eyes distrust of everything on earth—and little faith in God.
"I do not blame you," said I gently. "Three years of hell burn deep."
"Yes," he said, "three years. And, as you say, sir, there was fire."
He stood quietly silent for a space, then, looking timidly at me, he rolled back his sleeves, first one, then the other, to the shoulders. Then he undid the bandages.
"What is all that?" asked Boyd harshly.
"The seal of the marauders, sir."
"They burnt you? God, man, you are but one living sore! Did any white man do that to you?"
"With hot horse-shoes. It will never quite heal, they say."
I saw the lieutenant shudder. The only thing he ever feared was fire—if it could be said of him that he feared anything. And he had told me that, were he taken by the Iroquois, he had a pistol always ready to blow out his brains.
Boyd had begun to pace the room, doubling and undoubling his nervous fingers. The landlord replaced the oil-soaked rags, rolled down his sleeves again, and silently awaited our pleasure.
"Why do you hesitate to tell us where we may find Major Lockwood?" I asked gently.
For the first time the man looked me full in the face. And after a moment I saw his expression alter, as though some spark—something already half dead within him was faintly reviving.
"They have set a price on Major Lockwood's head," he said; and Boyd halted to listen—and the man looked him in the eyes for a moment.
My lieutenant carried his commission with him, though contrary to advice and practice among men engaged on such a mission as were we. It was folded in his beaded shot-pouch, and now he drew it out and displayed it.
After a silence, Hays said:
"The old Lockwood Manor House stands on the south side of the village of Poundridge. It is the headquarters and rendezvous of Sheldon's Horse. The Major is there."
"Poundridge lies to the east of Bedford?"
"Yes, sir, about five miles."
"Where is the map, Loskiel?"
Again I drew it from my hunting shirt; we examined it, and Hays pointed out the two routes.
Boyd looked up at Hays absently, and said: "Do you know Luther Kinnicut?"
This time all the colour fled the man's face, and it was some moments before the sudden, unreasoning rush of terror in that bruised mind had subsided sufficiently for him to compose his thoughts. Little by little, however, he came to himself again, dimly conscious that he trusted us—perhaps the first strangers or even neighbours whom he had trusted in years.
"Yes, sir, I know him," he said in a low voice.
"Where is he?"
"Below—on our service."
But it was Luther Kinnicut, the spy, whom we had come to interview, as well as to see Major Lockwood, and Boyd frowned thoughtfully.
I said: "The Indians hereabout are Mohican, are they not, Mr. Hays?"
"They were," he replied; and his very apathy gave the answer a sadder significance.
"Have they all gone off?" asked Boyd, misunderstanding.
"There were very few Mohicans to go. But they have gone."
"Below?"
"Oh, no, sir. They and the Stockbridge Indians, and the Siwanois are friendly to our party."
"There