A spectre of power

LAROCHE, however, as far as his safety was concerned, was more secure at Tellico Great than he could have been elsewhere, and he appreciated this, for both Moy Toy and he had been speedily advised of the untoward discovery of the secret of his presence here and the lame and futile effort of Tanaesto to account for it innocuously. Where the Cherokees were in force, as in one of the greater “mother towns,” he could more effectually claim the national protection than if, seeking refuge in flight, he should be apprehended in some secluded outlying region where only a few scattered tribesmen would be receptive to his appeal. Therefore at Tellico he determined to stand his ground, albeit he doubted both the will and the capacity of the Indians to hold out against the demand of the English officer. He argued that with so small a force as the escort of the commissioners, coercion was manifestly not contemplated, and the British commander was risking the dangers of the Indian country, disaffected though it was, with no protection save the ostensible comity of the already jeopardized treaty. Unassisted reason and logic were hardly to be relied upon in Indian negotiation. Reproaches for a broken faith needs an unimpeachable counter-record to render them practicable. Laroche feared, as the last resource, bribes, large, tempting, irresistible.

At that moment his stanch scheme of empire, rebuilt on the ruins of a score of fantastic projections of old, braced and held to interdependent cohesion in a thousand details, seemed to him also a mere phantasm, the immaterial outline of the functions of a state, a spectre of power, to dissolve into nullity at the first cockcrow of the lordly realities of established rule. He had but expended himself, his time, his efforts, his liberty, it might even be his life itself, that the crafty Moy Toy should have the opportunity of driving a more thrifty bargain with the British interest because of the formidable character of the threatened defection; or mayhap, indeed, only for the sake of a personal gift,—a finer rifle, or a trifle of embroidered and gold-laced suits of apparel,—he would consent to bring anew the nation under British domination until such time as the yoke grew cumbersome to his fitful ambition and he was minded to throw it off again.

Naturally Moy Toy could not read these thoughts in the face of his friend, but he marked his changing color and partly interpreted his agitation. Because of the stress of his religion,—a very queer and inconvenient restriction the savage deemed it,—never would Laroche lift a weapon against his fellow man, except in legitimate warfare. And yet he was eminently a proper man, to use the language of the day, light, active, with muscles like steel wire and strong with a latent staying power. When personally threatened he would offer no aggression, save in self-defense, and even now, in this stress of realized jeopardy, he insisted with all his arts of persuasion that Moy Toy should give over the idea of a massacre of the advancing party, with several delectable items of the horrors of a surprise and friendly lure to merge at last into fierce and wholesale murder, which the chief planned with many a sly and furtive smile, and which met with open and applausive assent from his councilors assembled.

“They come in peace, relying on your honor; let them go in peace,” urged Laroche, as in duty bound, from the standpoint of soldier, Christian, and patriot.

“They have not my honor in their keeping,” Moy Toy lowered. “I do not love your ugly religion!”

Nevertheless, he suffered himself to be gainsaid in the paramount interests of the land cession, and Laroche felt at the end of all things.

If Moy Toy were to have no fun out of the rash adventure of the embassy, the embassy would certainly profit at the expense of the interloper. He it was who must suffer between the two. He knew that this sudden unforeseen demonstration against him personally was obviously fraught with too great danger to the government’s commissioners for the military commander of the escort to lightly undertake it or to relinquish it without advantage. Nothing less could it portend than the arrest of the French emissary and his removal in the British interest from the Cherokee country. Laroche’s experimental resourceful mind became suddenly blank in the contemplation of the vista of long days, nay years, in prison, at the will of a British colonial magnate or on a quibble of British law. And then this suggestion opened a new speculation. What if, being without his uniform, without command, in the discharge of no specific military duty, he should be held as a spy or as a civil prisoner, and responsible for certain murders which the Cherokees had committed on British subjects either with the sanction of Moy Toy or on that system of personal individual warfare which in modern civilized times is called feud, and which the Cherokee autonomy countenanced. Brave though his spirit was, Laroche quailed at the imputed instigation of these horrors which he had sought to avert and had openly condemned at much personal risk.

He was keenly reminiscent of the day when a previous expedition had arrived at the town of Tellico Great and he had then been of the embassy. With that strange dual capacity of the mind, albeit his every faculty might seem otherwise absorbed, he was conscious of all the details of the event which he now watched as it were from the inside,—the placing of the appurtenances of the town to the best advantage, the gathering of the warriors and braves, as well as women and children, arrayed each in the finest toggery. The “beloved square” had been swept and resanded, the public buildings were painted anew. There in each of the four open, piazza-like cabins the incumbents of the high municipal offices were ranged on the tiers of seats in the wonted order of their relative rank,—the medicine and religious men, the war-captains, the aged councilors, and Moy Toy in the place of chief. Always an impressive figure, he had assumed an added dignity in the doubly conferred imperial title, from both British and French powers,[10] superimposed upon his hereditary municipal chieftaincy, though the latter distinction was the only point of supremacy in which the Cherokee nation itself now acquiesced. He sat in his place upon the white divan, his iridescent feather-woven mantle glittering in the sun, his polled head plumed with eagle quills, about his neck a single strand of those glossy fresh-water Tennessee pearls, almost as large as filberts, a size then rare, but even yet taken occasionally from the Unio margaritiferus of our sandy river banks. A great bead, which he valued far more, wrought painfully with years of labor from the conch shell, ivory-like in its polish and tint, was suspended in the middle of his forehead. His guard of immediately attendant warriors was about him, and Laroche sat at his side.

Arrayed too in aboriginal splendor was the French officer. This was hardly bravado on his part, for he had long ago lost sight of that uniform which he had worn to Great Tellico, for Moy Toy had sequestered it, lest it remind him in some inscrutable way of those events when he had so nearly lost his life at the stake, and thus by exciting resentment diminish his utility to the nation. This garb would scarcely have much commended him to the Englishman whose advent he momently expected, but with that acute Gallic self-consciousness he winced from the anticipated wonder at his attire, averse yet scornful. But Moy Toy was not to be withstood, and the adopted tribesman was nearly as fine as the prince. He too wore a necklace of pearls, that set off the fairer tints of his throat with less barbaric effect than the Indian’s own bauble. His face was fantastically streaked with paint, yet its keen lines and the fine expressiveness of his eyes were definitely asserted. His trim figure was encased in a shirt and leggings of white dressed doeskin with long fringes wrought with scarlet feathers; his buskins were dyed scarlet, and he wore scarlet feathers mounted high on his blond hair. It seemed to him now, as he sat silent thus and waited, that the agonies of suspense were decreed to him as a portion. He could hear the beating of his heart in the absolute stillness of the assemblage as, with the stoicism of Indian patience and endurance, the Cherokees, motionless and silent, awaited the appearance of the commissioners’ party.

The bland blue sky seemed waiting too, so still it was. Here and there were cloud masses of a dazzling whiteness and variant density and depth of tone, as if to illustrate the infinite scope of the possible interpretations of this tint, technically an absence of color. Bright as they were, as they swung motionless in the sunlit air, wherever their shadows fell on the velvet azure of the distant mountains the hue deepened and dulled to a violet, subdued as with the expunging of light. The snow on the mountain domes near at hand showed a sharp contrast to the red and yellow and brown of the brilliant leafage still on the steep slope below. The haze in the intermediate valleys was like a silver gauze—of a consistency that suggested a fabric. Even as close as the willows along the river bank it preserved this illusion, and now veiled them from sight and now withdrew, revealing their slim idyllic wands, all leafless and whitely frosted and trembling in some imperceptible pulsation of the currents of the air. Many a bare bough with the distinctness of some fine etching was reflected in the shimmering water, here a smooth and silver expanse, and here a rippling steely sheen. Upon its surface a flock of swans, glittering white in the sunshine, floated into view, and then like a fantasy drifted suddenly into the invisibilities of the mist and the shadow. Far away the booming note of a herd of buffaloes came to the ear and was silent, and again one could not so much as hear the throng of waiting Cherokees draw a breath. It might seem that a spell had fallen upon the town, the silent assemblage, the loitering clouds, the still mountains, and that they had thus stood waiting for unnumbered ages till some magic sound should break their bonds.

It came suddenly. The dreaming swans lifted their heads to listen, then with an abrupt unmusical cry began to swim swiftly down toward the confluence with the Tellico River. A dog barked and was silent once more. Then distant though it was, indeterminate, merely a pulsing throb in the air, Laroche recognized the far-away beating of a drum, and could hardly distinguish it, save by its steadier, more rhythmic throb, from the agitated beating of his own heart.

Perhaps it may have been due to the influences of mental solitude, as it were, and much introspective brooding, always averse to the prosaic mundane atmosphere; perhaps to that undefined fascination which the life of the Cherokees of the earlier epochs of our knowledge of them exerted upon certain temperaments among the strangers who sojourned with them; perhaps merely to personal antagonism and national prejudice, but the sound of the British fife and drum, now distinct, playing a foolish air, the sight of the British flag, the appearance of the embassy, half military, half civilian, some mounted, some afoot, partly English, partly Scotch Highlanders, the progress accommodated ill enough to the beat of the quickstep, affected Laroche as singularly crass and uncouth.

The undisguisable contempt of the commander for the Indians and all that appertained to them, the absolute lack of comprehension of the subtler elements of their character, the determination to secure the object he sought without any recognition of the complicated details of the environment, gave a certain effect of ignorance to the address and standpoint of the highly civilized man that by contrast made the aboriginal, with his mystery of antiquity, his symbolism, his ceremonial, his inscrutability, the gravity of his courtesy, seem to have profited by the lack of modern education and to be endowed with learning by inheritance and intuition.

Without any embellishment of ceremony in his presence, Everard sauntered casually across the “beloved square” toward the Indian chief, wreathing his unwilling features into such a smile as he deemed might answer for the occasion, but he stretched out his hand benignly. In the service of the king it could not hurt his dignity to shake hands with an Injun.

Moy Toy, his beaded and braceleted arms folded across his bosom, took no notice of the proffered hand, but bowed halfway to the ground.

Everard, in no wise disconcerted, cared no more for the declination of this courtesy—nay, not half so much—than if his favorite hound, Brutus, whom he was training to the observance of this gentility of greeting, had withheld his paw; for sometimes Brutus would shake, and sometimes in the exercise of canine freedom the paw of Brutus was his own, since Everard’s cuff of disappointment was but a half hearted demonstration, and no dog or horse stood in much fear of cruelty from him.

That Everard was a fine, handsome man, and by his profession accustomed to etiquette and parade, gave additional point to his lack of ostentation and formality in the present instance. He evidently did not think it worth his while. But he wagged his well-shaped head eagerly in serious argument when he forthwith entered upon the subject of his mission without preamble, dispensing with the usual ceremonials of eating, drinking, and smoking among the Indians. Perhaps he truly thought that in view of the slightness of his force the hospitality of the savages was not to be trusted at so inimical a juncture. The commissioners, all mounted, looked on at a little distance, and the soldiers were hard by, drawn up in close order just without the “beloved square.” Some were in the scarlet gear of the British foot-soldier and others in the dark blue and green tartan of the Forty-Second Regiment, and this variation of costume, albeit they were ranged separately in their respective ranks, gave a sort of motley guise to the command and impaired the effect of their number. But in truth, all told, the military escort mustered scarcely threescore, for the demonstration was essentially a pacific one, and Everard but expected to wield the weapons of right reason rather than brute force. He might, however, have done better execution with the latter, for he was no diplomatist.

It was Everard’s faithful conviction that the government’s emissaries habitually treated the Indians too seriously in seeking to adopt their social methods in conference, and that thus the civilized ambassador was a fool from his own point of view and a butt of ridicule to the Indians, who could but mark his failure in aboriginal etiquette in a thousand undreamed-of details. Simplicity, candor, directness, he held, became a bold Briton, and he would make no concessions to please the Indians and foster their sense of their own consequence by letting them see him play the condemned monkey, aping their fantastic savage ceremony.

Wherefore he stood, for he was not invited to sit, but he cared no more for the implied derogation than for the courtesies of such as they. He leaned negligently one hand on his sheathed sword, its point on the ground, and did not even maintain an erect attitude, as one obviously should in addressing a prince, nay, an emperor twice crowned by British and French authority. But this dereliction was not intentional. In truth there was a good deal of Lieutenant Everard in one piece, and in common with many other tall people he was disposed at times to loll and make his superfluous length comfortable. Not thus, however, did he conduct himself on parade or in the presence of a military superior or his excellency the royal governor, and well aware was Moy Toy of this. Moreover, his beautiful hair was not so well powdered as it was wont to be, and even his hat, which he still wore, was cocked casually askew.

Perhaps the consciousness of these facts, trivial yet significant, rendered Moy Toy the less capable of being pricked in conscience by the long list of fractures which the old treaty had suffered at his hands.

“And now,” said Everard, stooping to metaphor, “the path, so red with the blood of the English colonists and British soldiers and the slain Cherokee braves and made so crooked by the wiles of the pestiferous Louisiana French, has been whitened and straightened out by the magnanimity of the great British sovereign, his majesty King George. He has forgiven the treachery of the Cherokees because like children they could not reason aright, and like the blind they could not walk straight. He has intended to purchase large quantities of land from the tribe, that they might have the means to build up all the former prosperity of the nation which their wickedness caused to be pulled down. He expects to send traders once more to the Cherokee country, that the Indians may be furnished with goods for their necessities at a low and uniform price. He will maintain a system of weights and measures amongst them to which the traders will be required to conform. Armorers will he send to mend their guns free of charge, one gunsmith to every town, and artisans to instruct them in the methods and manufactures of civilization. And in return for so much clemency what did the Cherokees promise in the articles of the new treaty? A fair and firm friendship, a forbearance of murder and fire-raising on the frontier, the surrender of any white men of whatever nationality who aided them in the war against Great Britain, and the solemn promise that they would not suffer any Frenchman to come into their country to trade, to plant, or to build, lest they be again spirited up against the English to subvert this new treaty so faithfully signed and sealed and witnessed.”

He paused and silence fell suddenly, save for the far-away booming of the buffaloes, the murmurous monotone of the river, the vague stir of a breeze from the mountains beginning to clash the bare boughs together and lift the folds of the British flag.

“Moy Toy,” Everard resumed with a weighty manner, “the ink of that signature is hardly dry, and yet so early I find a Frenchman installed amongst you. And there,” he threw out his hand at arm’s length, “there is the man!”

His eyes roaming around had singled out Laroche and now dwelt upon him with an expression at once scornful and upbraiding. Then his attention traveled fleeringly up and down the barbaric details of the garb of the splendidly decorated white man, who winced under the voiceless jeer of the “perfide Albion,” and whose gorge rose within him while yet he quaked to encounter this enmity.

Moy Toy, visibly hesitant, replied at length.

It was his desire, he stated, to be at peace with the British king, although he would not or could not protect from the encroachments of the colonists the Cherokees whom he had once called his children. Moy Toy held himself, in fact, as the friend and brother of that king,—which statement reached such a point of sensitiveness in Everard’s organization as to cause him to snort suddenly in surprise and indignation.

But Moy Toy, although maintaining his dignity of port, was hardly equal to himself. He could play a double part easily enough, but to adjust the multiplicity of deceits requisite for this emergency in good relation to the interest of the tribe, to forfeit nothing of the expected French support and yet avoid the jeopardy of the price of the lands to be ceded to the British, passed even his measures of duplicity. He sought to adopt the wile that Tanaesto had earlier essayed.

The stranger was English—so he said; for himself he did not know; he could not pretend to decide; he was no linguister; he was all for peace; but the Great Spirit in his unfathomable wisdom had given men many tongues, with which indeed they talked too much.

“Ha!” Everard exclaimed sardonically, “they have been at that since the days of Babel!”

He paused that the interpreter might repeat his words, the while Everard transferred his flouting gaze from Laroche to the noble figure of Moy Toy, with no sort of appreciation of the dignity of its aspect, the subtle force of its facial expression, the picturesque barbarity of its ornament and garb. To him, in common with many of the British soldiers and colonists of the day, Moy Toy represented merely “old Injun” or “greasy red stick.” Everard had, however, an especial relish for the perplexity that looked out from among the wrinkles of his eyes, wrought by many a problem of statecraft, and his pondering, anxious, outwitted despair. The officer waited for a moment, expectant that Moy Toy would advance a new argument; then, as the chief remained silent, Everard proceeded with his own solution of the problem.

“Perhaps in Charlestown they may know how to tell a Frenchman from an Englishman. If this man is a loyal subject of King George he will not grudge the detention in so good a cause, and I pledge my honor that he shall be put to no charges for the expense of the journey; if a Frenchman, the colonial authorities may take him in hand then and I shall be free of him.”

Whatever his deficiencies as a diplomat, Lieutenant Everard certainly did not lack courage. He lifted his head suddenly; his sword swung back with his left hand on its hilt; tense, erect, he strode forward a dozen resolute paces, and, that the intention of the act might be obvious to all who witnessed it, struck the cowering Laroche on the shoulder with the stern cry, “In the king’s name!”

The sound seemed a spell to raise the devil withal. Elicited like an echo, dependent on the tone, yet magnified a thousandfold, an inarticulate cry broke forth from the tribesmen, protesting, frantic, but menacing. The crowd surged this way and that, and Lieutenant Everard, suddenly mindful of the safety of his soldiers, turned, his chin high in the air, and his head still haughtily posed, to glance where they stood, a thought more compact than before, a scant threescore, with the savages circling in hundreds tumultuously about them.

“You would not dispute his majesty’s authority!” Everard stiffly held his ground; for Moy Toy, irate, commanding, although visibly agitated, ordered him in no set phrase to desist. “He is a Frenchman and an enemy!” urged Everard. “He is no Cherokee!”

“He has been made a great ‘beloved man’!” protested Moy Toy. “He is a Cherokee by adoption!”

The words roused the populace to renewed clamors. No heed took the “mad young men” of the frowning faces of their elders, the silent gestures of Moy Toy beseeching a hearing.

There is in that inarticulate murmur of the wrath of a mob something so menacing, so daunting, so indefinably terrible, that even Everard was receptive to an admonition so growlingly enforced. He took his hand from the Frenchman’s shoulder lest in having it removed for him he might be torn in pieces. The implacable murmur still rose, the crowds still surged, and Laroche, half ashamed yet wholly reassured, feared that he looked as smug as he felt, while a glitter of satisfaction and triumph shone in Moy Toy’s eyes. They narrowed as he gazed steadily, threateningly, with a latent devilish thought, at Everard, so entirely at his mercy. A corner was a very tight fit for Lieutenant John Francis Everard, but he was fairly in it. He was accustomed to disport himself freely in the open, and the wriggles incident to a confined space did not suit his muscles, his size, or his temper. He made an effort to wrench himself from it.

“Mighty fine! mighty fine!” he said sneeringly to the Frenchman. “You are sane enough, sir, and sober enough, to know what poor stuff this is,—what pitiful dupes you are befooling and befuddling! Faugh! your deceits sicken me!”

He looked with a snarl, which he designed to be a withering smile, over the fantastic apparel of the Frenchman, but Lieutenant Everard was as much out of countenance as a man of his stamp could well be.

“Zounds!” he resumed, still seeking to recover the control of the situation, and shaking off Moy Toy’s restraining hand laid upon his arm, “we’ll hear the fellow himself. Since you are English, give us your name, sirrah!”

He was consciously and blatantly rude, rejoicing in his capacity to be independent of the varnish with which such occasions are sleeked over.

Laroche’s blood began to rise, his eye to sparkle. Despite his awful, imminent jeopardy,—for who could say how the scene might even yet result,—the spirit of the fray quivered through his blood. “If it may please your excellency,” he said in his usual clear tones and precise enunciation, “yonder stands a man in your ranks to whom I am personally known. Your excellency might prefer to believe his account of me rather than my own.”

Everard stared blankly and secretly winced. The man’s politeness had a whetted edge, that cut like ridicule. The title of “excellency,” so far above the usage of the lieutenant’s rank and deserts, might have been conferred in ignorance or propitiation, but taken in conjunction with his own rude address seemed as apt as a fleer.

Everard was at once doubtful and bewildered. The stranger’s English, so far as the construction of his sentences and choice of words went, was perfect. There was, however, something in his intonation which grated on the Briton’s ear. Nevertheless, there were many variations of provincial accent, especially in the colonies. Everard, in fact, believed that no one here could speak the language with purity, as if it had suffered a sea change in coming over the water.

Turning toward the ranks, he perceived a touch of consciousness on Callum MacIlvesty’s face, and was startled to remember that it was his original intention to confront the two, that Callum might identify this man as the French-speaking familiar of the Ancient Warrior of Chilhowee. By a gesture he summoned the Highlander to his side, and simultaneously the Frenchman stepped forth and stood beside Moy Toy. The Indian’s eyes were all a-glitter, and a tremor agitated the feathers stiffly upright on his polled head.

“MacIlvesty, did you ever before see this man?” demanded the officer, while the two eyed each other.

“Aye, sir, mony a time,” replied Callum MacIlvesty.

Everard stared. “And where?”

“At one Jock Lesly’s trading-house at Ioco Town, sir.”

Whither was this tending? The expression of the officer’s face became amazed, concerned, intent. The flutter among the head feathers of Moy Toy was suddenly stilled.

“When was this?” the military catechist demanded.

“Nigh on a year ago come Easter, sir.”

The triumph in the man’s face, its suggestion of covert ridicule, nettled Everard. Into what fool’s play had he been lured?

“Why, Callum!” he said in a reproachful murmur aside; then aloud, “What’s his name?”

Callum shook his head. “I dinna ken, sir; I misdoubt.”

“What was he called?” the lieutenant mended the phrase.

“Tam—Tam Wilson.”

“Oh Callum—Callum Bane!” once more the officer’s admonitory whisper reached him. “And where was he said to hail from?” Everard added aloud.

“Firginia, sir,” faltered the Highland soldier.

It was becoming definite in Everard’s mind that Callum, all agog about the French, as the Highland soldiery, who had often triumphantly encountered them, forever were, and hearing much of suspected machinations among the Indians, had but dreamed of the French enemy beside the effigy of the Indian Warrior and had heard only in fancy, perhaps in the inception of the fever, the words that he repeated. For evidently this man was not only well known to him, but was also long a familiar of the English trading-station in the Cherokee nation. Perhaps even yet the young fellow’s mind was not quite clear.

Nevertheless, since the ordeal had been in his defense and for his sake, Everard was minded to be gentle with him, although the false position into which Callum had involved him burned the officer’s pride like fire.

“Why did you think he was French, MacIlvesty?” he asked openly.

“Because,” said Callum, with a keen resentment against himself, the officer, the arch-deceiver, the untoward facts themselves, that he could not make the truth as he knew it now, as he was sure of it, appear as aught but a falsehood or a folly, “he spoke French—he spoke it to himself!—when I saw him last, a fortnight ago, amang the Injuns.”

“And, Callum,” said Laroche familiarly, “did you never hear an Englishman speak French? Why, lad, I myself have e’en heard a Scotchman’s tongue waggling into it!”

His eyes twinkled as if in reminiscence, and Everard, remembering the peculiarities of the Highlander’s accent, was minded to mark anew the familiarity of this Tam Wilson with him. He himself had not spoken his Christian name aloud, but the stranger knew it, and with no prompting called him “Callum.”

Bewildered, raging internally, humiliated, Callum was ordered to his former place in the ranks, having only succeeded, because of the artifice of this arch-strategist and the intractability and paucity of the perverse facts, in identifying this Frenchman as an Englishman, to the satisfaction, or rather dissatisfaction, of his superior officer.

Of all people incompetent to use power without its abuse the Cherokees were preëminent. The turbulent mob had been quick to discern in the result of the conference that their adopted tribesman, the French officer, was obviously triumphant; that Moy Toy, although standing like a statue, was overjoyed, with gleaming wide eyes and an elated port. They could ill afford magnanimity toward these people, so many grudges as a nation and as individuals did they owe the English, consequent on the slaughters and fire-raising and punitive famine they had suffered at the hands of the British troops in the warfare of the preceding years. Their note of comment had lost its tone of appeal, of indignation, of protest. It was swelling now and again into a savage roar of awful import, of reprisal, of scorn, of eager brutality.

Laroche heard in it the knell of all his hopes. This precipitate action would forever frustrate the fruition of his work here,—the gathering and organization of the tribal forces, the transportation of supplies, the plan of his campaign,—and with this, his success, his promotion, his hard-earned guerdon, for which he had labored so diligently, so discreetly, so valiantly. He was not ready to strike yet—not yet! A premature blow now would preclude all those sequences of aggression so carefully planned, for the forces of the campaign were as yet unprepared; the English would be first in the field, and the tribal remnants of the Indian nations taken in detail and succession would be overwhelmed, intimidated, scattered, before the carefully aggregated resources of the French expedition could be made effective and available.

It was necessary that he should think very fast. And yet when he spoke his words seemed quite casual, almost irrelevant. “As to Callum MacIlvesty,” he said to Everard, “why, I hardly know what to make of Callum! He always seemed jealous of me on account of Jock Lesly’s beautiful daughter, Miss Lilias,—who was much too good for either of us!” he stipulated gallantly. “But I should never have suspected Callum of an invention like this!”

Everard looked at him keenly. This added another point in favor of his identity as a Virginian,—his familiarity with the names of the members of the trader’s household; another reason why his image should intrude into the troubled delirium of the Highland soldier,—an old romance, with heart burnings and rivalries. Little wonder that in the distorted mental images of fever the hated figure of perhaps the fortunate suitor should appear invested with the added opprobrium of the national enemy.

The buoyant airy grace of this figure, even in the Indian garb, the volatile but bated aggressiveness of manner, the joyous, yet capable, intellectual expression of face, the handsome eyes and regular features suggested that he might appear to no contemptible advantage in the estimation of a girl as contrasted with the grave, reserved, proud, and exacting Highlander, with many an inherited sorrow to make him serious and many a personal privation to make him bitter. With his youth and strength and the natural amiability of his nature Callum could on occasion throw off the consciousness of these weights and be merry. But this fellow’s element was the air itself, and the necessity to be serious was like the clipping of wings.

“Come, sir, let us have an end of this,” said Everard. “Being English you cannot object to go to Charlestown and make your standing clear to the authorities. I pledge my honor that you shall be put to no expense and shall be indemnified for any financial loss you may sustain by reason of your absence.”

“If I should agree these people would regard it as if I were taken by force,” Laroche protested. “Your life would be the forfeit. Indeed, I am already concerned for your safety. I cannot control the Cherokees. You know what they are! You must admit that your errand here is futile!”

It was so contrary to Everard’s temperament to accept defeat in any form that he could only accede metaphorically. “I’m not half blind!” he said.

Laroche pressed the point. “The effusion of blood is threatened. You must perceive it.”

“The knife is at my throat,” assented Everard debonairly, as if scornful of his peril.

Laroche tried him on a more vulnerable topic. “The commissioners’ party would never get out of the country. But to save the lives of your brave soldiers and the civilian commissioners, who have no quarrel with any one, if you will at once draw off your force I will use what influence I have with Moy Toy to let you go scot-free through the country.”

The eyes of Everard were large, but the astonished white showed all around the iris. He gasped once or twice and caught his breath,—that the man whom he had come to arrest under the authority of the British government and bear away captive should engage to see him clear of the Cherokee country!

Only after many stormy wrangles with Moy Toy, however, and the other headmen, did Laroche, secretly urging upon them the jeopardized interests of the cession and the disastrous effects of precipitancy in the imminent emprise of the united tribal armies, secure acquiescence in this plan of permitting the expedition to depart in peace. It was, nevertheless, a perilous time. The air seemed freighted with treachery. Along the route among the Overhill towns lying on the Tennessee River, always reputed the most warlike and implacable and powerful of the Cherokee nation, through which they must needs pass to retrace their way, hardly an hour elapsed in which some inimical demonstration did not seem impending. Now the march was checked by a deputation from some more remote town desiring to send by their hand a memorial or a present to Governor Boone. Now a formidable group of savages, splendidly armed and mounted, rejoicing in the terrible suspicions of sinister designs and lurking ambuscades in force, which their presence must foster, begged to take personal and individual leave of the notables of the expedition.

Everard, in all his military experience, had never known such anxiety. He could not have watched a father’s danger with more tender and self-reproachful solicitude than he felt for the elderly civilians, with their wrinkled countenances and bewigged heads wagging affably under the ceremonious ordeal of parting from these friends, who might at a wanton blow bloody the one and break the other, and account the deed righteousness and patriotism. Alas, for the point of view!

“I can never forgive myself for extending and increasing your jeopardy,” Everard said to them in uncharacteristic dismay one night, as he sat with the commissioners around the camp-fire, each man with a sort of automatic motion of looking over the shoulder at intervals, to descry, perchance, in the shadows something more dangerous than the green shining of a panther’s eyes or a wolf crouched ready to spring. The sound of the sentry’s tramp, as unmolested he walked his beat hard by, was a reassurance that naught else could bestow. “I ought to be court-martialed, I ought to be broke, I vow and protest!”

He cared little for the military views of the polite and “lady-like old men,” but the chorus of indignant negation that rose upon the suggestion was as salve to a wound. He had moved with the entire sanction of the commissioners themselves, one of them argued.

“And if the man had been that fellow Laroche or Louis Latinac, think of the repose his capture would have insured the frontier!” exclaimed the member of the council, the diplomat.

“Either one is worth a regiment to the French cause,” growled the basso profundo of the geologist. “The mere chance was not to be neglected.”

“We are not required to achieve the impossible. We are all held down to metes and bounds, course and distance,” said the surveyor.

“And the best of us are subject to mistakes. Think of me,” exclaimed Mr. Taviston, fitting together his waxen-white, knuckly fingers and casting an aquiline smile at Everard, on one side of the fire. “I actually sent a misdescription of a specimen to the Botanical Society, and the mistake, when discovered—so overwhelming, so important, so humiliating—I took to my bed!”

Lieutenant Everard did not in his contrition seek this refuge in recumbency, but as Mr. Taviston entered upon a long, minute, and learned account of how the error had occurred, and the exact points of difference, and all the bewigged heads leaned together to hear, to compare, to comment, to condole, Everard, on the pretext of visiting the guards, which he did himself at close intervals, quitted the group. He looked back at them once as they sat around the flare in the darkness, oblivous for the time of danger, regardless of night, impervious to cold, eager, agitated, curious, utterly absorbed; and yet the point of interest, as well as he could make out, was that Mr. Taviston had actually said by strange inadvertence filiform instead of filamentose.

“But,” he commented to himself, “if a gang of Cherokees should tomahawk that party, strange as it may seem, brains would be spilt as well as blood!”

Among those denizens of the nation who took ceremonious farewell of the commissioners’ expedition was gay Tam Wilson, arrayed still in white dressed deerskin with its flaring fringes, wrought with scarlet feathers, all floating to the breeze, gallantly mounted, fully armed, and with a crest of scarlet feathers on his curling light brown hair. This demonstration impressed Everard as only another intimation that Tam Wilson was naught but what he seemed,—some colonial wight who had rather idle and hunt and play among the Indians than work at a more suitable vocation at home. Callum, however, accounted it the height of insolent bravado. Albeit his conviction was not susceptible of proof, he had no doubt that this was the long-sought French emissary who fomented the discontents of the Cherokees. He was sure that trouble indeed would soon be brewing along the frontier.

Laroche had perceived at a glance that the situation was a revelation to Callum MacIlvesty, who had no thought to find Tam Wilson a French emissary. Lilias had indeed kept her promise. It was not she who had betrayed his secret, but only through his own inadvertence had the Highlander been permitted to discover it.

He read in Callum’s face the proud indignation that he felt in the knowledge that for this man, this arch-deceiver, his love had been scorned, his loyal heart cast aside,—this man, who had accepted their tendance which brought him back from the verge of the grave, and who yet burned, by the hand of his myrmidons, the kindly roof that had sheltered him,—this man, who won a woman’s love under a false name, a false semblance, a false nationality, a false tongue, idly, purposelessly, to beguile the tedium of convalescence, slipping cannily back to his old life again and leaving her to pine,—this man, their old familiar Tam Wilson, the French emissary who with wily and wicked instigations spirited up the mischievous Cherokees against the British colonists.

The change in his position here, his acceptance of the customs of barbarism, his amity with the Indians, his adoption into the tribe, his assumption of the Cherokee garb, had always impressed Laroche as a military necessity, but he winced as he fancied how the grave, deliberative, listening face of Lilias would relax to scornful laughter and contemptuous pity when Callum MacIlvesty should detail to her these grotesque details in the discovery of Tam Wilson’s identity with the malignant destroyer of the peace with the Indian tribes. He had never been so conscious of the tawdry savage foolery of beads and feathers and paint as when the party were all climbing a steep ascent afoot to rest the hard-traveled horses, and chance brought him near to Callum MacIlvesty. Yet it was in bravado, as he strode along with the reins of his steed thrown over his arm, that he greeted the Highlander.

“Barley! Barley!” he quoted, smiling. “A truce, lad! Be sure that you remember, when you tell Miss Lilias of how you found me here still, the same yet not the same, and of my high place in the esteem of the imperial Moy Toy, and of my suspected efforts to shake the footstool of the British throne, to tell her also that but for me you and your blundering braggadocio of a lieutenant would never have got home alive. So between us it is even—a life for a life!”

“Maister Wilson,—though that is not your name,—you may e’en find some other to bear your messages. I shall tell that young leddy naething; and but for that you do bestir yoursel’ to save the lives of the commissioners, I wad strike ye on the mouth for so much as calling her name!”

Laroche winced as from a veritable blow; then, with one of his sudden, mercurial reactions, he cried impulsively, “Tell her all, Callum! Let her know how it stands now! It will make it the better for you! For myself, I never hope to see her again!”

The Highlander doggedly trudged along the verge of the steeps, his shadow gigantic in the leafy valley below, his picturesque figure with kilt and plaid and bonnet and long firelock imposed on the varying azure of the ranges of mountains that she had so loved. He had been gazing at them all day and for many a day past with that thought in his mind,—that she had loved them!

“I sall tell her naething!” he said implacably. “If it makes it better for me that another man isna what he seemed she is no for me.”

And then he closed his lips fast.

In Laroche’s heart blossomed forth suddenly a deep secret joy to know that in all this time the young lovers were not reconciled. His vanity plumed itself in the thought. No transient fancy it was that he had inspired. And this proud fool!—he could have laughed aloud to see the Highlander, solemnly stalking among his bitter memories and her “sweet mountains,” resolved to hold his peace and eat out his heart because he would not deign to profit by the fact that the lady of his love had cared for a man who proved unworthy, thus liberating her preference, to be captured anew by himself, catching her heart in the rebound.

“Choose, you proud peat!” Laroche said to himself, repeating a gibe that he had often heard at Jock Lesly’s fireside. And when he mounted anew he rode away right merrily.