X
THERE stood a quaint, grotesque figure in the midst of the level spaces about Chilhowee, Old Town. It maintained its stiff, stanch pose alike through shadow and sheen; oblivious of night or day; unmindful of the rain that the sudden mountain storms now and again sent surging down from over the summit of the Chilhowee Range, looming high above; disdainful of the wind that fluttered the fringes of its buckskin shirt and leggings and slanted the feathers of its war-bonnet askew, and flouted and buffeted its aged, painted, fantastic face.
So like a grim old warrior in good truth was the adroitly constructed effigy that Callum MacIlvesty long remembered the day when first he beheld it upon entering the Cherokee town of Chilhowee, and was moved to wrath because of its surly, important, inimical attitude and fixed aggressive stare. Only the closest scrutiny enabled him to realize that it was but a scarecrow, albeit the cleverest of its type, with a painted gourd for a head and a gaudily arrayed body of fagots and straw. But he did not then even vaguely divine that he was ever to hold a closer association with the image, or that years afterward and far away the mere recollection of its aspect in his sleeping fancies would wake him to a breathless fright and dreary reminiscences of a most troublous episode in a chequered history.
The scene was bright with the varying luminosity of the azure tints of the mountains of the distance; nearer the hue of the wooded heights deepened to the richest autumnal crimson and bronze as they drew close about the gap where the Tennessee River flows through the Great Smoky Mountains and pierces the Chilhowee Range to the very heart. The metallic lustre of the water was now like silver, now like steel, and again showed a burnished copper glister where its surges had washed a bank of red clay; occasionally a white drift of swans was on its current, or a deer swam gallantly across; and once a group of buffaloes, pausing to drink at the margin, lifted their heads, apparently as unafraid as tame neat cattle, to gaze with a dull bovine curiosity at the party of equestrians and the detachment of British foot-soldiers on the opposite shore.
All the ancient Cherokee customs were still in vogue, although destined soon to fall away with a suddenness that confounds history and almost baffles tradition, suggesting, indeed, the instantaneous transition to dust of some prehistoric skeleton at the first touch of the disintegrating air. Even at that date, however, with the obvious doom of evanescence upon them, a certain curiosity concerning them was very general among those equipped for the archaic speculations in which Laroche had found an interest; there was a general quickening of the pace of the horses as several riders closed about a sedate, middle-aged personage, spare and tall, of great length of limb and evident strength and toughness, who wore a suit of buckskin and was a surveyor of long experience on the frontier, and who proceeded to explain the reason for the extraordinary vraisemblance of the effigy.
“The Indians have aye a crafty turn,” he said. In illustrating this fact he narrated how the “second man” of the town, “a bailiff belike,” induced the young people to believe that the scarecrow was the reincarnated spirit of an ancient warrior, an ancestor, who had come back to overlook their work. Keeping them at a sufficient distance, the “second man” was wont to tell wonderful stories of the exploits of the mythical warrior of Chilhowee, the evil influences of his anger against the idle, and the benefits of pleasing him by industry. The women and girls would believe this, and thus to song and story the work would go merrily on.
The gentleman directly addressed by the surveyor was apparently of a higher and more fastidious grade. He was sprucely arrayed in brown cloth of a trim cut and a fine texture, with a cocked hat, dapper yet sober. His fresh pink cheek and chin were smoothly shaven, the first slightly wrinkled, the latter cleft with a line that duplicated its contours. His black “solitaire” was accurately adjusted about his neck. His bag-wig was the most decorous appendage of that fantastic sort that ever swung behind a well-furnished and elaborately trained brain. That he was the exponent of some kind of careful scientific learning was apparent to the most undiscerning wight at the first glance. Indeed, the English surveyor in offering this bit of information as to Indian customs was making but a scant return for the largess of botanical lore that had strewn the way from Charlestown full five hundred miles thicker than ever were leaves in Vallombrosa.
As the botanist contemplated the broad fields in cultivation he began to speak. “This pompion, now,—the variety of Cucurbita Pepo,—that the Indians grow,”—and at the phrase a British officer resplendent in scarlet coat, white breeches, cocked hat, and powdered hair, with a look of shocked revolt checked his horse so suddenly as to throw the animal back upon the haunches and to discommode the advance of the infantry escort that followed, consisting of thirty English soldiers of his own company and a detachment of twenty Scotch Highlanders.
If Lieutenant John Francis Everard could, he would have banished from the memory of man all Latin plant names, for before he was fifty miles out from Charlestown he was glutted with information concerning the vegetable products of the earth on which he lived. He felt that had he a retroactive power in cosmogony this world should have been created a leafless ball. From the beginning of the march his spirit quailed in the presentiment of the tortures of learned converse that were destined to wreck the pleasure and almost the possibility of the expedition. Indeed, it was only the second day out that he summoned Callum MacIlvesty from the ranks of the marching Highlanders and bending down nearly to the saddle bow said in a bated voice of consternation, “Callum Bane, do you see that old man? Why,” in an appalled staccato, “he is almost as bad as ex-Governor Ellis of Georgia!” By which he meant to imply almost as learned, member of almost as many scientific associations, perhaps even a fellow of the Royal Society, almost as acute in making observations, atmospheric, botanic, geologic, almost as industrious in jotting them down, almost as oblivious of the gayer and more frivolous interests of life.
To Lieutenant Everard was intrusted the command of this small military force to escort certain commissioners appointed by the government to the Cherokee country for the purpose of treating with the Indians concerning the projected cession of land, which was not made, however, for several years thereafter, because of an incident of much significance here chronicled—in fact not until 1768. In view of the doubtful temper of the Cherokees and the unsettled state of the country, it was exclusively and comprehensively his duty to see to it that the heads of these gentlemen were unmolested, with their brains securely inside and their scalps securely outside, nor were they expected in return to minister in any degree to his entertainment. But it is not too much to say that Lieutenant Everard would have regarded a brisk brush with Indian enemies with less awe, despite his slight numerical strength, than the ponderous themes, the weighty presence, the worshipful gravity of the commissioners of the crown. There was not a conversable person among them, in the estimation of the gay and dapper lieutenant, and the march thither and back, with the negotiations at Choté, was calculated to occupy a matter of many weeks. The surveyor was of the same ultra-sober type, and the subordinate attendants he considered as unbefitting his society. Of course familiar association with the men of his company, having only their noncommissioned officers, was inappropriate, even if their ruder breeding had not rendered them unacceptable.
Thus it was that after a day or two of floundering out of his element, he was thrown upon Callum MacIlvesty for solace. For he knew that MacIlvesty, although serving in the ranks, was a man better born and better bred than himself. Of course he was aware that the train of woes, the attainder for treason and forfeiture of estates, following the rebellions of 1715 and 1745, wrecking a number of noble families, brought to the ground the branches as well as the parent stem; and in this instance Callum’s commanding officer had acquainted Lieutenant Everard with the “gentleman ranker’s” name and condition just before their departure from Charlestown, when this small detachment of Highlanders was ordered to reinforce the escort, as they were familiar with the wild country, a number of them having served with the British troops in this region the two preceding years during the Cherokee War.
The forlorn young officer, so grievously solitary in this expedition, soon ceased to ride with the commissioners, and fell into the habit first of riding near the Highlander as Callum MacIlvesty, alert, active, with a vivid interest in life, strode along in the marching column whose fluttering tartans played tag with the wind and whose burnished accoutrements set up a bright kaleidoscopic glitter at the vanishing point of many a winding woodland perspective. When the talk grew more animated and the interest keener, Lieutenant Everard would throw the reins to an orderly and march on foot beside his new-found friend in his lowly place; whereat the first sergeant of the English detachment would glance at the nearest corporal with meaning eyes, and all adown the column the scarlet elbows of the fours called “battle comrades” would give each other the touch with more emphasis than the effort to march in due alignment necessitated. Often, however, in fact most usually, the whole force marched with the route step, when conversation was admissible and comment freer than before. For it was obviously a derogation from the dignity of a commissioned officer to continue this familiar association with a common soldier and in so far subversive of discipline, and when the crisis came there were those amply prepared to say “I told you so!”
“The lieutenant wouldn’t demean himself by walkin’ an’ talkin’ familiar with a non-com like me,” the first sergeant of the English contingent averred. “An’ I can’t see as I am a worse man or a less loyal subjec’ ’cause I ain’t got fine, titled kin taken in open rebellion an’ attainted o’ treason—one of ’em, Callum’s great uncle, was executed for treason and his head perched up over a city gate—there yet, for aught I know!”
For this was the fate of many of the good and noble who had adhered to the political faith of their fathers.
The Highlanders of the escort, however, some of whom were rescued from imbroglio on this theme by a simple incapacity to speak or understand a word of English, and who clattered away cheerily enough together in Gaelic, deemed this association no sort of condescension on the part of Lieutenant Everard. So well aware were they of the claims to distinction of sundry ancestors of Callum MacIlvesty that this penniless scion of a line of half mythical Highland princes, extending back in dim procession into the mists of ages, seemed far superior in social status to Lieutenant Everard, whose best prospect was some day to represent a comparatively modern but well-endowed English baronetcy.
Perhaps Everard might have justified his course by the plea that the expedition was not strictly military, and thus permitted some abrogation of strictly military rule. Every detail to insure safety, however, was rigorously observed. When the tents were pitched sentinels were posted, the various guards mounted, all the discipline of a military camp preserved. When on the march scouts were thrown out, and a baggage and rear guard maintained. But, he argued, surely he could not be expected to live so long a time without a being with whom to exchange a congenial word. And if he saw fit to single out a man near his own age, of his own station in life, only constrained to serve in the ranks by reason of poverty because of political misfortunes, he did not conceive that Callum MacIlvesty was lifted out of his place as a soldier and absolved from the duty of obedience because thus admitted, unofficially, to the society of his superior in military rank.
Although both men felt the irking of the anomalous situation, their mutual relish of congenial companionship rendered them adroit in nullifying the difficulty. When Everard gave an order he addressed the Highlander as “MacIlvesty,” who simply and implicitly obeyed it as a soldier should. But if Everard spoke to him as “Callum Bane,” he received the request as from a friend and complied or not as he chose, for the sobriquet had come to be a mark of friendly familiarity, as it was not necessary on this expedition as a means of identification. While the regiment had not the disaster in nomenclature that beset the corps of the Sutherland Fencibles, in which one hundred and four men answered to the name of “William Mackay,” seventeen being in one company, still in the Forty-Second there was much patronymic repetition, and in one company there were three Callum MacIlvestys severally distinguished as “Callum Roy” (the red-haired) and “Callum Dhu” (the dark) and “Callum Bane” (the fair).
This fair-haired Callum seemed an attractive personality to Lieutenant Everard, who felt a compassionate regret that a youngster of such good parts should have no better prospects, for these were the days of the purchase of commissions, and this serious thought was often in Everard’s mind as they sat alone beside the camp-fire, making so far as opportunity favored them a convivial night of it. Callum had been grateful for the recognition of his true quality in the humble guise of the private soldier and in the coarse tartan. It was as a salve to his wounded spirit and sense of exile. It had been with a great effort at self-assertion, as a rallying of forces after a defeat, that he had been able to regain in a measure his normal poise, a semblance of his wonted brave cheerfulness, subsequent to his obvious supplantation in the favor of Lilias. Her indifference had pierced him with a pain all the keener because of his ardent sincerity. Perhaps because he had already suffered so much from untoward fate he was endued with the strength to suffer more without succumbing utterly. He was fortunate in the stubborn resources of his indomitable pride. He would not pine like a love-sick girl, he said to himself. He would nerve himself to bear this latest and bitterest fling of fortune like a man. He was the better enabled to meet it with a bold front since the continual exactions of Everard occupied his attention, and left him little time for that silent brooding so pernicious yet so precious to the youth crossed in love. There was an element of humiliation in the situation which seared his sensitive pride like actual fire. Jock Lesly had found his account in the Indian trade, and thus Lilias would have no inconsiderable inheritance, while Callum had naught to offer but his heart, which seemed no great matter after all, and the hand of an ordinary foot-soldier. He had roused himself with a loyal feeling that he owed it to his ancestry, his name, his sense of honor, and of honorable achievements in those who had gone before, his own unimpeachable record, not to think so meanly of himself; and thus the warm appreciation of his personal qualities and high descent, irrespective of his incongruously humble station which Everard had manifested, the admitted equality of their association, had aided to restore his mental calm and self-respect, and seemed at this crisis more valuable than it could be at any other time.
The responsibility and anxiety consequent upon escorting the party of the commissioners through the country of savages, so inimical and treacherous as Everard had discovered that the Cherokees still were, weighed very sensibly upon the officer’s consciousness. Therefore the relaxation at intervals afforded by congenial companionship was all the more acceptable. The tension of the situation augmented the nervous stress of his intolerance of the learned and inopportune disquisitions which the botanist forced continually upon him. He sought to dissemble his displeasure and irritation, however, for he was essentially a gentleman, according to his lights, notwithstanding his repudiation of bigwigs and botany. For all their dullness and slow decorum he had shown every respectful observance to the elderly civilians whom it was his duty to escort, and they, being civilians, thought his choice of a companion very appropriate. They all looked upon Lieutenant Everard with much favor. They could not know, of course, how often he would pause in his talk with Callum, when the two were alone beside the camp-fire, and shake his head with an unutterable thought even to hear the voice of the botanist, the well-known Herbert Taviston, as it was raised in his guarded tent to call out a string of Latin plant names of the growths of the Great Smoky region to another of the commissioners already abed under his own canopy, while the Highlander, whose ills in life were so much grimmer than boredom, laughed in glee at the officer’s dismay and disaffection. So often Everard shook his head for this cause that its decorous powder suffered, and that is saying much. For so perfect of accoutrement was he, so point-device, so solicitous in every detail of dress, that one can hardly think of the fop’s dying save in full uniform, as befitting the importance of the occasion. The fact that extremes meet is suggested in the thought that the savages, when going out to battle with another tribe, often importuned the white traders for such attire as would enable them to “make a genteel appearance in English cloth when they died.” That the highly civilized Everard would die in his boots was a foregone conclusion, but one is sure that they were elaborately polished whatever the emergency, his burnished sword in his hand, his neckcloth richly laced about his throat, his hair curled according to its graceful wont. It was a very fine head of hair, and for that reason he did not wear the fashionable wig. Of a rich brownish auburn hue, his hair rose up from his forehead in a natural undulation that gave all the fashionable effect; it curled crisply at the sides; it was thick, long, and lent itself with every address to be plaited in a queue at the back. He had brown eyes, darkly lashed, a large aquiline nose, a curling, disdainful, discontented mouth, and a complexion sunburned a permanent scarlet, for despite his fripperies he had seen much service and was by no means a tin soldier. The dashing young officer was a somewhat dazzling exponent of a position and a status which Callum felt to be his own by right, and the simply educated and much denied Highland youth listened greedily to the stories with which Everard sought to beguile the tedium: stories of cosmopolitan life, society, the gay world, the gossip of the times in high circles, London, Paris, Vienna,—for Everard had seen life,—he had seen the world! Sometimes these choice narratives were military, and Callum’s pulse would quicken, for he was ambitious of deeds of valor and the opportunity of command. Sometimes the chronicle of Everard’s experiences became boastful and coxcombical, and adroitly suggested other conquests than those of the battlefield.
Nevertheless to Everard the tedium was intolerable. They could not gamble at cards, the reigning vice and pleasure of the day, for the extremity of the poverty of Callum Bane precluded this, and Everard would have been both ashamed and sorry to win his meagre pay. Now and again they played a dreary game without hazard, merely “for the fun of the thing,” but Everard found more genuine amusement in object lessons with the cards, in which he elucidated the methods and mysteries of sundry new games, the latest rage, which he had picked up when he was last in London or Paris. This interest palled too after a time, and in reverting to the chronicle of his experiences he was even fain to elaborate questions of the cuisine; he described queer dishes of which he had partaken in out of the way quarters of the world whither his military duties had chanced to carry him; he learnedly compared the abilities of the cooks of different inns and coffee-houses in divers cities; and he vaunted the discrimination and keen discernment of his palate as a judge of wines till the “bouquet,” of which he spoke so knowingly, seemed to dispense an actual fragrance to the alert senses of the imaginative listener. None of these subtle refinements appertained to the beverage of which Everard invited Callum’s opinion one night as the two boon spirits lingered long about the camp-fire, now and again mending it as it sank, for the hour wore on to the chill of midnight.
“You have to go on guard duty anyhow presently, Callum Bane,” the officer said, “so you might as well stay here till the corporal goes out with the relief.”
They had been in high glee, and the lieutenant was loath to lose his merry company.
The camp was now pitched at Ioco Town,—by Callum, alack, so well remembered,—west of the Chilhowee Range, and the English surveyor had offered the lieutenant some particularly fierce tafia, doubtless originally distilled for the Indian trade (against the law), the “fire water” that wrought such woe among the tribes. The sober-minded civilians had not cared to deviate from their usual refreshment of brandy and water or wine which they had brought for their consumption during the journey, but the officer was disposed to experiment. Neither Everard nor Callum was accustomed to this particular drink nor pleased with it, and now and again reverted to the officer’s Scotch whiskey, wherein they demonstrated the fact that they were both Britons and compatriots. Then once more they essayed the contemned rum, and again to take the taste out drank the home-brew.
“My certie! it’s got the smell o’ the peat ontil it!” cried the Scotchman in his simple joy and bibulous patriotism.
Despite his exaltation of the Scotch product, however, the rum had no cause to complain of him when some criticism of the beverage by Everard required that it should be sampled anew, and then they once more sagely conferred together.
That Everard was more irritable than usual was amply manifest in the expression of his uplifted eyes and the cant of his eyebrows when suddenly the learned Herbert Taviston issued forth all nightcapped from his tent, and, snugly wrapped in a gaudy floriated dressing-gown, once more sought the solace of the fire.
“You seem very comfortable here, my dear sir,” he said with complacent sweetness and self-satisfaction, all unaware of the piteous spectacle his nightcapped well-informed head presented in the estimation of the military man, who was already alienated by a surfeit of botany, and whose hair, blowsing in the chill wind about his high forehead, was not even sheltered by his hat. “I find my tent quite cold. We should have done better to take up our quarters in this vacant house hard by, as it seems to be abandoned.”
He nodded the tassel of his nightcap toward the slumbering town of Ioco, the nearest conical-roofed houses showing dimly against the densely black night. Some residue of light seemed held in the Tennessee River, for now and again came a sidereal glimmer from the reflection of the stars on the invisible surface, and a mysterious vista opened between the towering forests on either bank, where the unseen stream led like some great shadowy roadway into regions of deeper darkness beyond. Ioco Town, long and narrow, stretched along the bank, still and silent. Only the wind was abroad. Of the nearest dwellings all seemed alike, but one quite apart from the others, close at hand in fact, was vacant, according to the adroitly waving tassel,—doubtless impelled by previous knowledge rather than present assurance of the circumstance.
The officer spoke up with only half masked acerbity. He felt responsible, as he was indeed, for the conduct of the expedition to the best advantage, and all details as to transportation, lodgment, the commissariat, passed under his direct supervision. No slight matter was such a march in that region in those days. Now a river had risen out of fording depth, and ferriage was to be improvised, from whatever materials could be had in the dense wilderness, and safely achieved; now an accident occurred to the baggage train, a horse going hopelessly lame, or getting astray; now a shortage supervened in certain provisions for the commissioners that had proved more acceptable than others which thus outlasted them. All the time the discipline of a military camp was to be maintained, the soldiers provided for after their kind, the thousand maladroit incidents of a march of five hundred miles to be severally met and adjusted, without assistance or advice, and reconciled to the comfort and safety of an official party of elderly civilians.
“You will do me the favor to remember, sir, that since the change in the weather I have urged you and the other civilian gentlemen to accept the invitation of the chiefs of Ioco Town and quarter yourselves in their ‘stranger-house,’ a very commodious lodging and vastly superior to yonder tumble-down hovel.”
Everard pointed with the stem of his pipe toward the stove-like “winter-house,” a mere shadow crouching low in the night and only revealed because of the far-reaching flare of the freshening camp-fire. The yellow flames sprang cheerily up with a roar and a jet of leaping red sparks. The boughs of the tall hickory trees high over their heads showed fluctuating glimpses of the amber and scarlet hues of the still redundant leafage; a star scintillated through the fringes of a pine; the tents of the little encampment glimmered white at regular intervals in the dusky aisles of the woods; now and again the dull red glow of a fire at some distance, about which was grouped the guard, asserted its fervors, “lights out” being an order held not applicable to it nor to the fire in front of the commissioners’ tents; and continually, regularly, the tramp of an unseen sentry, walking his beat, smote on the air with a dull mechanical iteration like the ticking of a clock.
“I should have placed a strong guard about the building,” Everard went on, “and as the rest of the escort lies so near Ioco you would have been as secure certainly if not safer than here as you are.”
For Everard, not unnaturally, considered the complaint of the discomforts to which the commissioners were subjected as a reflection upon his conduct of the march.
The tassel on the learned nightcap wagged in deprecation. “My dear sir, most true, most true, but”—
“I remember you insisted that you preferred the camp because of possible infection from smallpox in the Indian dwellings,” the officer mercilessly went on, with a curl of the upper lip, already so disdainfully disposed. He had that flouting scorn of the fear of contagion which a man naturally acquires whose life is in continual jeopardy from epidemics, constrained to dwell in hordes, and subject every hour to the chances of the times. “For myself,” he protested, “except that I am obliged to keep the escort in camp to avoid brawls between the soldiers and the young Cherokee braves, I should prefer to billet the whole force upon the town, in the good, cosy, dry winter-houses, since this unseasonable chilly change in the weather. There is no more danger from smallpox for you in sleeping in their ‘stranger-house’ than in the handshaking that went on in the powwowing over the terms of the cession at Choté with the headmen. Shoot me, sir, but you ought to see an epidemic in an army—something to be afraid of! Gad, sir, the men died with cholera in India like sheep—and with scurvy, too, on board ship, both going and coming.”
The tassel on the nightcap had lost its pliant urbanity. Be a man ever so scientific, so civilian, so intrusted with peaceful commissional powers, he cannot admit an inference of fear, even of disease, in taking ordinary precaution.
“All, my good sir, within the scope of civilization and the best deterrent effects of a scientifically applied materia medica. The army chirurgeons do good service—excellent, excellent. But here, among the savages, no disinfectant processes obtain, and no intelligent effort to prevent the spread of the dread scourge. Why, sir, in 1738 the Cherokees lost almost half their number by the ravages of the smallpox and their ignorance in dealing with the disease.”
“And if they had lost all their number I should not hesitate to sleep in one of their winter-houses twenty-four years later. Ha, ha, ha!” The rum was evidently getting in its work. “Hey, Benson,” the lieutenant called to his servant in the one illumined tent hard by, “make up my bed in that vacant winter-house, and hark ye, build a fire in the middle of the floor, Injun-wise! Gad! I’ll not be diddled out of the comforts of life for fear of a Cherokee distemper twenty-four years gone!”
The nightcap wished itself where it belonged, on its pillow. To retire with dignity became the most definite motive in the brain that it surmounted, and in this emprise it conceived that some aid might be secured by a few words of casual conversation with the officer’s companion, who was therefore civilly addressed.
Now the worshipful Herbert Taviston would have been excited to a frenzy by a false classification of the meanest herb of the earth, and would have repudiated it as an unrighteous pretension and a mischievous effort to subvert the accepted grades and relations of a careful and accurate system. But if aware that such elements and considerations existed in matters military, they were in his estimation of no practical moment, and he turned toward the Highland soldier with as pliant a grace of his tasseled crest as erstwhile it had borne in bending before the commander of the force. And in fact he might well be oblivious of distinctions of rank. The young Highlander had a handsome, kindly, intelligent face and a manner of refinement and dignity, and bating his coarse garb and rustic dialect he might have easily seemed a man of degree. Moreover, he was here hobnobbing familiarly with his officer.
“Do you find your pipe a solace, my dear sir?” Mr. Taviston blandly demanded, for smoking was not then the universal habit that it was sometime earlier and has been since.
“Aye, sir,” the Highlander replied politely, a trifle embarrassed by the obvious mistake as to his rank rather than his quality. “But it isna sae cantie a crony as a queigh o’ gude browst, neither,” he added blithely, with an effort to reëstablish the entente cordiale.
The young officer, with sullen, attentive eyes, that held a spark of red fire in their brown depths, glowered at them.
“Ah, so indeed!” suavely commented the elderly nightcap. “But have you observed, sir, that the Indians have another kind of tobacco than that which is commonly smoked,—which is of course the Nicotiana Tabacum? Now this other tobacco plant is a small-leaved, green, bitter species which they use exclusively in their religious ceremonies, their incantations, their necromancy, known as”—
“As Nicotiana diabolica,” suggested the officer.
Now had the nightcap housed but a modicum of tact and permitted a laugh at this fling, all might yet have gone well. But trust a man of scientific hobbies for serious denseness.
“Not at all, sir,” he said with asperity. “That name is unknown to the herbalist. The plant is Nicotiana rustica with us. With the Cherokees it is Tsalagayuli, and the Muskogees call it It-chau-chee-le-pue-puggee, ‘the tobacco of the ancients,’ and the Delawares, Lenkschatey, ‘original tobacco,’—showing an interest parity of signification; with the coast Indians it is Uppowoc; the Tuscaroras call it Charho; the Pamlico Indians, Hoohpau; and the Woccon Indians, Vucoone. Now,” turning back to the Highlander with an air of excluding the ill-starred jester on subjects of such grave moment, “there is a so-called tobacco, not even related to the genus Nicotiana—it is the Lobelia inflata—which furnishes the Indians with a powerful medicinal infusion. Have you noticed in your march hither, and perhaps in your previous campaigns in the Cherokee country, the amazing expertness of the Cherokees in the matter of simples?”
“He is too simple himself,” put in the officer, with an airy laugh.
The Highlander’s face was flushing painfully. He was carrying a goodly quantity of mixed liquor of the fiercest description, and it had not as yet shaken a nerve; but the consciousness of his false position between his two companions was aiding its potency, and his equilibrium was beginning to tremble.
The botanist, touched in his sensitive pride, calmly ignored Lieutenant Everard at his own camp-fire; and the officer, who had borne much from his idiosyncrasies and had assiduously sought to promote his comfort and security on the weary march hither, gazed at him with a deepening glow of that fiery spark in his eyes.
“The Cherokees’ expert knowledge of toxicology in plant forms is amazing,” continued the botanist. “They excel all savage nations in their discoveries of vegetable poisons and their application. And then their botanical nomenclature—how happy—how apt! Are you conversant, sir, with their generic plant names?”
“The title of the parent stem, do you mean?” said the unlearned Highlander hesitating, fumbling in his mind as to what Cherokee plant names were considered applicable as to a parent stem.
“He doesn’t lay much nowadays on the title of parent stems,” interpolated Everard flippantly. “His own branch has lost its head, through that head having been so heady as to lose his head.”
A keen steely glance, as significant as the drawing of a burnished blade, flashed from the Highlander’s eyes and was received full in the gaze of the facetiously fleering officer. The subject of the forfeiture of estates, the loss of titles, the attainder of treason, was not fit for jesting with one who had suffered so fiercely by them, and except in his cups no man would have been more definitely and respectfully aware of this than Everard. And yet the fiery liquor was not altogether to blame. He was as cruelly hampered by the false position as his lowly friend, who nevertheless in every essential that he reverenced was his equal if not his superior. To be ignored, to be talked down, and meekly submit to keep his mouth closed was more than his patience could admit. But he was practically helpless. He could not seize that egregious nightcap by the tassel and punch that learned head. He could only assert himself by interjecting scoffs and fleering laughter, and because of the fiery cup these were ill advised.
“It is singular how very fitting and descriptive is the Cherokee plant nomenclature!” chirped the botanist. As he sat on a block of wood beside the fire, his face seemed ludicrously small in its strait toggery, in comparison with its enlarged and bewigged aspect by day, and he looked like an elderly infant, if such an anachronism can be pictured. His gaudy gown was drawn close about his spare figure, but he had forgotten to be cold, and his smiling eyes were fixed absently on the face of the young Highlander, as fitting the fingers of his delicate hands daintily together he continued to speak of the accurate niceties of Cherokee plant names.
“Atali kuli, ‘the mountain climber,’” he translated, his lingering tones almost chanting, so great was his pleasure in the definition; “the mountain ginseng, my good sir.” Then, fairly intoning the Latin like a priest, he added, “Panax quinquefolium, of the order Araliaceæ, also a native of China, sir.”
“He is not a native of China, sir. He was made out of a peat bog,” put in Everard flippantly.
Naturally the nightcap addressed the civil Highlander.
“Then there is Ahowwe akata, ‘deer-eye,’—yes, the word ahowwe signifying deer,—with us the Rudbeckia fulgida. And again,” dropping his voice now in deprecation of the suggestion of indelicacy, as if a lowered tone made the allusion more seemly, “there is Unistiluisti, meaning ‘they stick on,’”—in a whisper, “beggar’s lice,”—then at full voice, as if the Latin would mend the matter, “Myosotis Virginiana.”
The lieutenant looked ostentatiously disgusted. He had indeed never heard of the plant, and the Latin did not impose upon him, but the mention of the insect from which it took its name was an insult to ears polite. “Oh fie, sir!” he said rebukingly, for he was indeed aweary of it all.
The nightcap turned hastily toward the Highlander, who was heavily harassed between the two, the double discord of their moods jarring upon his nerves and bringing them more under subjection to his previous potations. “Then, my dear sir, there is the Indian shot, the Canna,—as you are aware the Celtic word for ‘a cane,’—with us the ‘headache plant,’ and”—
“Come, come, sir, enough of this,” cried Everard, scarcely listening, and forced to rise. “We have nothing to do with headaches. It grows late, and your hearer cannot meet your phrase nor match your learning, although as to the question of heads he knows more about them than you can ever teach him. Nothing fixes them in the memory like having them grinning from a city gate.”
The Highlander had risen too. He had a pictorial imagination, and there still lingered upon its sensitive retina, so to speak, images of the night’s talk, before the botanist had come to the fireside: the aspect of London, the castellated Rhine, the glitter of Paris, and many a suave and southern scene beneath a blue and tropic sky. Suddenly these were all obliterated. That woeful land upon which the cruel hand of Doom had rested so heavily, the sequestered estates, the beggared gentry, the starving peasants, the scattered clans, the hunted fugitives, the proscribed national garb, the hopeless exiles, the prison, the scaffold, the gibbet—all rose up before him as elements in a stricken gray landscape, in ghastly wintry guise. For one moment he hesitated. Then stepping aside from the fire, he reached out and struck the flippant mocker full in the face.
The officer, taken all unaware, reeled as if he would lose his balance. Then, for he was of a fine, alert physique, he recovered the perpendicular, and it seemed as if he would spring like a panther upon the Highlander, who had thrown himself into a posture of defense. The next moment Everard’s military identity was fully reasserted, and the proud Highlander writhed under the realization that the officer would not return the blow. He would not demean himself by striking so low a thing,—a man of the ranks. His voice rang out crisp and steady as he called the corporal of the guard, placed Callum under arrest, and named the manner and locality of his detention and the details when he should be brought up “at orders” the following morning. Then wholly sobered, Everard turned with dignified courtesy upon the botanist, who was now protesting and squawking like some fluttered fowl instead of a refined and elegant gentleman in the discharge of a public trust.
“I must beg your favor, sir,” the lieutenant said, by way of denial of a wild plea for clemency for the culprit. “I understand my duty and I shall do it. And may I beg that you will now retire to your tent, as all this stir may rouse the camp to the prejudice of discipline and good order? I wish you a very good-night, sir!”
And the nightcap with a depressed and lankly pendent tassel and the floriated gown disappeared under the flap of the tent and enlivened the spaces around the fire no more.