The Last of the Foresters - John Esten Cooke
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"Burn Jinks!" cried Mr. Rushton, "he's a jack-a-napes, and if he
comes within the reach of my cane, I'll break it over his rascally
shoulders! I'd rather have this Indian cub who has just left us."
"That's all very well; but you can't get him."
"Can't get him?" asked Rushton, grimly, as he got into the saddle.
"He would never consent to coop himself up in Winchester. True, my
little Redbud, who is a great friend of his, has taught him to read,
and even to write in a measure, but he's a true Indian, whether such
by descent or not. He would die of the confinement. Remember what
I said about _character_ just now, and acknowledge the blunder you
committed when you took the position that there was no such thing."
Rushton growled, and bent his brows on the laughing Squire.
"I said," he replied, grimly, "that there was no character to be found
anywhere; and you may take it as you choose, you'll try and extract an
argument out of it either way. I don't mean to take part in it. As to
this cub of the woods, you say I couldn't make anything of him--see if
I don't! You have provoked me into the thing--defied me--and I accept
the challenge."
"What! you will capture Verty, that roving bird?"
"Yes; and make of this roving swallow another bird called a secretary.
I suppose you've read some natural history, and know there's such a
feathered thing."
"Yes."
"Very well," said Mr. Rushton, kicking his horse, and cramming his
cocked hat down on his forehead. "I'll show you how little you know of
human nature and character. I'll take this wild Indian boy, brought up
in the woods, and as free and careless as a deer, and in six months
I'll change him into a canting, crop-eared, whining pen-machine, with
quills behind his ears, and a back always bending humbly. I'll take
this honest barbarian and make a civilized and enlightened individual
out of him--that is to say, I'll change him into a rascal and a
hypocrite."
With which misanthropic words Mr. Rushton nodded in a surly way to the
smiling Squire, and took his way down the road toward Winchester.
"Well, well," said the old gentleman, looking after him, "Rushton
seems to be growing rougher than ever;--what a pity that so noble
a heart should have such a husk. His was a hard trial, however--we
should not be surprised. Rough-headed fellow! he thinks he can do
everything with that resolute will of his;--but the idea of chaining
to a writing-desk that wild boy, Verty!"
And the old gentleman re-entered the house smiling cheerfully, as was
his wont.
CHAPTER IV.
HOW VERTY THOUGHT, AND PLAYED, AND DREAMED.
Verty took his weary way westward through the splendid autumn woods,
gazing with his dreamy Indian expression on the variegated leaves,
listening to the far cries of birds, and speaking at times to Longears
and Wolf, his two deer hounds.
Then his head would droop--a dim smile would glimmer upon his lips,
and his long, curling hair would fall in disordered masses around
his burnt face, almost hiding it from view. At such moments Verty
dreamed--the real world had disappeared--perforce of that imagination
given him by heaven, he entered calm and happy into the boundless
universe of reverie and fancy.
For a time he would go along thus, his arms hanging down, his head
bent upon his breast, his body swinging from side to side with every
movement of his shaggy little horse. Then he would rouse himself, and
perhaps fit an arrow to his bow, and aim at some bird, or some wild
turkey disappearing in the glades. Happy birds! the arrow never
left the string. Verty's hand would fall--the bow would drop at his
side--he would fix his eyes upon the autumn woods, and smile.
He went on thus through the glades of the forest, over the hills, and
along the banks of little streams towards the west. The autumn reigned
in golden splendor--and not alone in gold: in purple, and azure and
crimson, with a wealth of slowly falling leaves which soon would pass
away, the poor perished glories of the fair golden year. The wild
geese flying South sent their faint carol from the clouds--the swamp
sparrow twittered, and the still copse was stirred by the silent croak
of some wandering wild turkey, or the far forest made most musical
with that sound which the master of Wharncliffe Lodge delighted in,
the "belling of the hart."
Verty drank in these forest sounds, and the full glories of the
Autumn, rapturously--while he looked and listened, all his sadness
passed away, and his wild Indian nature made him happy there, in the
heart of the woods. Ever and anon, however, the events of the morning
would occur to him, sweeping over his upraised brow like the shadow of
a cloud, and dimming the brightness of his dreamy smiles.
"How red the maples grow!" he said, "they are burning away--and the
dogwood! Poor oaks! I'm sorry for you; you are going, and I think
you look like kings--going? That was what Redbud said! She was going
away--going away!"
And a sigh issued from Verty's lips, which betrayed the importance
he attached to Redbud's departure. Then his head drooped; and he
murmured--"going away!"
Poor Verty! It does not require any very profound acuteness to divine
your condition. You are one more added to the list which Leander heads
in the old Grecian fable. Your speech betrays you.
"Wild geese! They are early this year. Ho, there! good companions that
you are, come down and let me shoot at you. 'Crake! crake!' that is
all you say--away up there in the white clouds, laughing at me, I
suppose, and making fun of my bow. Listen! they are answering me from
the clouds! I wish I could fly up in the clouds! Travelling, as I
live, away off to the south!--leaving us to go and join their fellows.
They are wild birds; I've shot many of em'. Hark, Longears! see up
there! There they go--'crake! crake! crake!' I can see their long
necks stretched out toward the South--they are almost gone--going away
from me--like Redbud!"
And Verty sighed piteously.
"I wonder what makes my breast feel as if there was a weight upon it,"
he said, "I'll ask _ma mere_."
And putting spurs to Cloud, Verty scoured through the pine hills, and
in an hour drew near his home.
It was one of those mountain huts which are frequently met with to
this day in our Virginian uplands. Embowered in pines, it rather
resembled, seen from a distance, the eyrie of some huge eagle, than
the abode of human beings, though eagles' eyries are not generally
roofed in, with poles and clapboards.
The hut was very small, but not as low pitched as usual, and the place
had about it an air of wild comfort, which made it a pleasant object
in the otherwise unbroken landscape of pines, and huge rocks, and
browling streams which stretched around it. The door was approached
by a path which wound up the hill; and a small shed behind a clump of
firs was visible--apparently the residence of Cloud.
Verty carefully attended to his horse, and then ascended the hill
toward the hut, from whose chimney a delicate smoke ascended.
He was met at the door by an old Indian woman, who seemed to have
reached the age of three-score at least. She was clad in the ordinary
linsey of the period; and the long hair falling upon her shoulders was
scarcely touched with grey. She wore beads and other simple trinkets,
and the expression of her countenance was very calm and collected.
Verty approached her with a bright smile, and taking her hand in his
own, placed it upon his head; then saying something in the Delaware
tongue, he entered the hut.
Within, the mountain dwelling was as wild as without. From the brown
beams overhead were suspended strings of onions, tin vessels, bridles,
dried venison, and a thousand other things, mingled in inextricable
confusion. In the wide fire-place, which was supplied with stones for
and-irons, a portion of the lately slaughtered deer was broiling on
an impromptu and primitive species of gridiron, which would have
disgusted Soyer and astonished Vatel. This had caused the smoke; and
as Verty entered, the old woman had been turning the slices. Longears
and Wolf were already stretched before the fire, their eyes fixed upon
the venison with admiring attention and profound seriousness.
In ten minutes the venison was done, and Verty and his mother ate in
silence--Verty not forgetting his dogs, who growled and contended for
the pieces, and then slept upon the rude pine floor.
The boy then went to some shelves in the corner, just by the narrow
flight of steps which led to the old woman's room above, and taking
down a long Indian pipe, filled it with tobacco, and lit it. This
having been accomplished, he took his seat on a sort of wicker-work
bench, just outside of the door, and began to smoke with all the
gravity and seriousness of a Sachem of the Delawares.
In a moment he felt the hand of the old woman on his shoulder.
"Verty has been asleep and dreamed something," she said, calmly, in
the Delaware tongue.
"No, _ma mere_, Verty has been wide awake," said the boy, in the same
language.
"Then the winds have been talking to him."
"Hum," said Verty.
"Something is on my son's mind, and he has tied his heart up--_mal_!"
"No, no," said Verty, "I assure you, _ma mere_, I'm quite happy."
And having made this declaration, Verty stopped smoking and sighed.
The old woman heard this sigh, slight as it was, with the quick ear of
the Indian, and was evidently troubled by it.
"Has Verty seen the dove?" she said.
The young man nodded with a smile.
"Did they laugh?"
"They laughed."
"Did he come away singing?"
Verty hesitated, then said, with an overshadowed brow--
"No, no, _ma mere_--I really believe he did not."
The old woman pressed his hand between her own.
"Speak," she said, "the dove is not sick?"
Verty sighed.
"No; but she is going away," he said, "and Miss Lavinia would not tell
me where. What a hawk she is--oh! she shall not harm my dove!"
And Verty betook himself to gazing with shadowy eyes upon the sky. The
old Indian was silent for some time. Then she said--
"Trust in the Good Spirit, my son. We are not enough for ourselves.
We think we are strong and mighty, and can do everything; but a wind
blows us away. Listen, there is the wind in the pines, and look how it
is scattering the leaves. Men are like leaves--the breath of the Great
Spirit is the wind which scatters them."
And the old Indian woman gazed with much affection on the boy.
"What you say is worthy to be written on bark, mother," he said,
returning her affectionate glance; "the Great Spirit holds everything
in the hollow of his hand, and we are nothing. Going away!" added
Verty after a pause--"Going away!"
And he sighed.
"What did my son say?" asked the old woman.
"Nothing, _ma mere. Ah le bon temp que ce triste jour_!" he murmured.
The old woman's head drooped.
"My son does not speak with a straight tongue," she said; "his words
are crooked."
"_Non non_" said Verty, smiling; "but I am a little unwell, _ma mere_.
All the way coming along, I felt my breast weighed down--my heart was
oppressed. Look! even Longears knows I'm not the Verty of the old
time."
Longears, who was standing at the door in a contemplative attitude,
fancied that his master called him, and, coming up, licked Verty's
hand affectionately.
"Good Longears!" said. Verty, caressing him, "lie down at my feet."
Longears obeyed with much dignity, and was soon basking in the
sunlight before the door.
"Now, _ma mere_" Verty said, with his habitual smile, "we have been
calling for the clouds to come up, and shut out the sun; let us call
for the sunlight next. You know I am your Verty, and every day as I
grow, I get able to do more for you. I shall, some day, make a number
of pistoles--who knows?--and then think how much I could buy for you.
Good mother!--happy Verty!"
And taking the old woman's hand, Verty kissed it.
Then, leaning back, he reached through the window, and took down a
rude violin, and began to play an old air of the border, accompanying
the tune with a low chant, in the Indian fashion.
The old woman looked at him for some moments with great affection, a
sad smile lighting up her aged features; then saying in a low tone, as
if to herself, "good Verty!" went into the house.
Verty played for some time longer. Tired at last of his violin, he
laid it down, and with his eyes fixed upon the sand at his feet, began
to dream. As he mused, his large twilight eyes slowly drooped their
long lashes, which rested finally on the ruddy cheek.
For some moments, Verty amused himself tracing figures on the sand
near Longears' nose, causing that intelligent animal to growl in his
sleep, and fight imaginary foes with his paws.
From the window, the old Indian woman watched the young man with great
affection, her lips moving, and her eyes, at times, raised toward the
sky.
Verty reclined more and more in his wicker seat; the scenes and images
of the day were mingled together in his mind, and became a dim wrack
of cloud; his tangled hair shaded his face from the sun; and, overcome
by weariness, the boy sank back, smiling even in his sleep. As he did
so, the long-stemmed Indian pipe fell from his hand across Longears'
nose, half covering the letters he had traced with it on the sand.
Those letters were, in rude tracing:
REDBUD.
And to these Verty had added, with melancholy and listless smiles, the
further letters:
GOING TO--
Unfortunately he was compelled to leave the remainder of the sentence
unwritten.
CHAPTER V.
WINCHESTER.
Having followed the Indian boy from Apple Orchard to his lodge in the
wilderness, and shown how he passed many of his hours in the hills, it
is proper now that we should mount--in a figurative and metaphorical
sense--behind Mr. Rushton, and see whither that gentleman also bends
his steps. We shall thus arrive at the real theatre of our brief
history--we mean at the old town of Winchester,
Every body knows, or ought to know, all about Winchester. It is not a
borough of yesterday, where the hum of commerce and the echo of the
pioneer's axe mingle together, as in many of our great western cities
of the Arabian Nights:--Winchester has recollections about it, and
holds to the past--to its Indian combats, and strange experiences
of clashing arms, and border revelries, and various scenes of wild
frontier life, which live for us now only in the chronicles;--to
its memories of Colonel Washington, the noble young soldier, who
afterwards became, as we all have heard, so distinguished upon a
larger field;--to Thomas Lord Fairfax, Baron of Cameron, who came
there often when the deer and the wolves of his vast possessions
would permit him--and to Daniel Morgan, who emptied many fair cups on
Loudoun-street, and one day passed, with trumpets sounding, going
to Quebec; again on his way to debate questions of importance with
Tarleton, at the Cowpens--lastly, to crush the Tory rising on Lost
River, about the time when "it pleased heaven so to order things,
that the large army of Cornwallis should be entrapped and captured at
Yorktown, in Virginia," as the chronicles inform us. All these men of
the past has Winchester looked upon, and many more--on strange, wild
pictures, and on many histories. For you walk on history there and
drink the chronicle:--Washington's old fort is crumbling, but still
visible;--Morgan, the strong soldier, sleeps there, after all his
storms;--and grim, eccentric Fairfax lies where he fell, on hearing of
the Yorktown ending.
When we enter the town with Mr. Rushton, these men are elsewhere, it
is true; but none the less present. They are there forever.
The lawyer's office was on Loudoun-street, and cantering briskly along
the rough highway past the fort, he soon reached the rack before his
door, and dismounted. The rack was crooked and quailed--the house was
old and dingy--the very knocker on the door frowned grimly at the
wayfarer who paused before it. One would have said that Mr. Rushton's
manners, house, and general surrounding, would have repelled the
community, and made him a thousand enemies, so grim were they. Not at
all. No lawyer in the town was nearly so popular--none had as much
business of importance entrusted to them. It had happened in his
case as in a thousand others, which every one's experience must have
furnished. His neighbors had discovered that his rude and surly
manners concealed a powerful intellect and an excellent heart--and
even this rudeness had grown interesting from the cynical dry humor
not unfrequently mingled with it.
A huge table, littered with old dingy volumes, and with dusty rolls
of papers tied with red tape--a tall desk, with a faded and
ink-bespattered covering of brown cloth--a lofty set of "pigeon
holes," nearly filled with documents of every description--and a set
of chairs and stools in every state of dilapidation:--there was the
ante-room of Joseph Rushton, Esq., Attorney-at-Law and Solicitor in
Chancery.
No window panes ever had been seen so dirty as those which graced the
windows--no rag-carpet so nearly resolved into its component elements,
had ever decorated human dwelling--and perhaps no legal den, from
the commencement of the world to that time, had ever diffused so
unmistakeable an odor of parchment, law-calf, and ancient dust!
The apartment within the first was much smaller, and here Mr. Rushton
held his more confidential interviews. Few persons entered it,
however; and even Roundjacket would tap at the door before entering,
and generally content himself with thrusting his head through the
opening, and then retiring. Such was the lawyer's office.
CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH MR. ROUNDJACKET FLOURISHES HIS RULER.
Roundjacket was Mr. Rushton's clerk--his "ancient clerk"--though the
gentleman was not old. The reader has heard the lawyer say as much.
Behold Mr. Roundjacket now, with his short, crisp hair, his cynical,
yet authoritative face, his tight pantaloons, and his spotless shirt
bosom--seated on his tall stool, and gesticulating persuasively. He
brandishes a ruler in his right hand, his left holds a bundle of
manuscript; he recites.
Mr. Rushton's entrance does not attract his attention; he continues to
brandish his ruler and to repeat his poem.
Mr. Rushton bestows an irate kick upon the leg of the stool.
"Hey!" says Roundjacket, turning his head.
"You are very busy, I see," replies Mr. Rushton, with his cynical
smile, "don't let me interrupt you. No doubt perusing that great poem
of yours, on the 'Certiorari.'"
"Yes," says Mr. Roundjacket, running his fingers through his hair,
and causing it to stand erect, "I pride myself on this passage. Just
listen"--
"I'd see your poem sunk first; yes, sir! burned--exterminated. I would
see it in Chancery!" cried the lawyer, in the height of his wrath.
Mr. Roundjacket's hand fell.
"No--no!" he said, with a reproachful expression, "you wouldn't be so
cruel, Judge!"
"I would!" said Mr. Rushton, with a snap.
"In Chancery?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Mr. Rushton."
"Sir?"
"Are you in earnest?"
"I am, sir."
"You distinctly state that you would see my poem consigned to--"
"Chancery, sir."
"Before you would listen to it?"
"Yes, sir!"
Roundjacket gazed for a moment at the lawyer in a way which expressed
volumes. Then slowly rubbing his nose:
"Well, sir, you are more unchristian than I supposed--but go on! Some
day you'll write a poem, and I'll handle it without gloves. Don't
expect any mercy."
"When I write any of your versified stuff, called poetry, I give you
leave to handle it in any way you choose," said the Judge, as we may
call him, following the example of Mr. Roundjacket. "Poetry is a thing
for school-boys and bread and butter Misses, who fancy themselves in
love--not for men!"
Roundjacket groaned.
"There you are," he said, "with your heretical doctrines--doctrines
which are astonishing in a man of your sense. You prefer law to
poetry--divine poetry!" cried Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler.
"Roundjacket," said Mr. Rushton.
"Judge?"
"Don't be a ninny."
"No danger. I'm turning into a bear from association with you."
"A bear, sir?"
"Yes sir--a bear, sir!"
"Do you consider me a bear, do you?"
"An unmitigated grizzly bear, sir, of the most ferocious and
uncivilized description," replied Roundjacket, with great candor.
"Very well, sir," replied Mr. Rushton, who seemed to relish these
pleasantries of Mr. Roundjacket--"very well, sir, turn into a bear
as much as you choose; but, for heaven sake, don't become a poetical
bear."
"There it is again!"
"What, sir?"
"You are finding fault with the harmless amusement of my leisure
hours. It's not very interesting here, if your Honor would please to
remember. I have no society--none, sir. What can I do but compose?"
"You want company?"
"I want a wife, sir; I acknowledge it freely."
Mr. Rushton smiled grimly.
"Why don't you get one, then?" he said; "but this is not what I meant.
I'm going to give you a companion."
"A companion?"
"An assistant, sir."
"Very well," said Mr. Roundjacket, "I shall then have more time to
devote to my epic."
"Epic, the devil! You'll be obliged to do more than ever."
"More?"
"Yes--you will have to teach the new comer office duty."
"Who is he?"
"An Indian."
"What?"
"The Indian boy Verty--you have seen him, I know."
Mr. Roundjacket uttered a prolonged whistle.
"There!" cried Mr. Rushton--"you are incredulous, like everybody!"
"Yes, I am!"
"You doubt my ability to capture him?"
"Precisely."
"Well, sir! we'll see. I have never yet given up what I have once
undertaken. Smile as you please, you moon-struck poet; and if you
want an incident to put in your trashy law-epic, new nib your pen to
introduce a wild Indian. Stop! I'm tired talking! Don't answer me. If
any one calls, say I'm gone away, or dead, or anything. Get that old
desk ready for the Indian. He will be here on Monday."
And Mr. Rushton passed into his sanctum, and slammed the door after
him.
On the next day the lawyer set out toward the pine hills. On the
road he met Verty strolling along disconsolately. A few words passed
between them, and they continued their way in company toward the old
Indian woman's hut. Mr. Rushton returned to Winchester at twilight.
On Monday morning Verty rode into the town, and dismounted at the door
of the law office.
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH ROUNDJACKET READS HIS GREAT POEM.
Three days after the events which we have just related, or rather
after the introduction of the reader to the three localities with
which our brief history will concern itself, Mr. Roundjacket was
sitting on his high stool in one corner of the office, preparing the
papers in a friendly suit in Chancery.
It was about ten o'clock in the morning, and Verty, who rode home
every evening, had just come in and had taken his seat at the desk
in the corner appropriated to him, beneath the small dingy window,
looking out upon the yard. Longears was stretched at his feet.
Verty's face was more dreamy and thoughtful than ever. The dim smile
still dwelt upon his lips, and though his countenance had as much of
the forest Indian character as ever, there was a languor about the
drooping eyelids, with their long lashes, and a stoop in the usually
erect neck, which betrayed the existence in the boy's mind of some
ever-present sadness. His costume was just what it had always
been--moccasins, deerskin leggings, a shaggy forest _paletot_, and
fringed leather gauntlets, which now lay by him near his white fur
hat. He had not changed by becoming a lawyer's clerk; but, on the
contrary, grown more wild, apparently from the very contrast between
his forest appearance and the dingy office.
At times Verty would stretch out his hand, and, taking his cedar bow
from a chair, bend it thoughtfully, and utter the low Indian murmur,
which has been represented by the letters, "_ough_" so unsuccessfully;
then he would allow the weapon to slide from his nerveless hand--his
head would droop--the dim dreamy smile would light up his features
for an instant, and he would lean upon the desk and ponder--his
countenance half enveloped by the long tangled chestnut hair which
still flowed upon his shoulders in wild luxuriance.
Tired of thinking at last, Verty sighed, and took up his pen. For some
moments it glided slowly over the law parchment, and the contortions
of Verty's face betrayed the terrible effort necessary for him to
make in copying. Then his eyes no longer sought the paper to be
transcribed--his face lit up for a moment, and his pen moved faster.
Finally, he rose erect, and surveyed the sheet, which he had been
writing upon, with great interest.
Just beneath the words, "messuages, tenements, water courses, and all
that doth thereunto pertain," Verty had made a charming sketch of a
wild-fowl, with expanded wings, falling from the empyrean, with an
arrow through his breast.
For some moments, the drawing afforded Verty much gratification: it
finally, however, lost its interest, and the boy leaned his head upon
his hand, and gazed through the window upon the waving trees which
overshadowed the rear of the building.