The Little Red Foot Part 70

"Yes," said I, "there is bad news for you. Your pretty Summer House is no more, Penelope."

"Oh," she stammered, "did you--did you suppose it was the loss of a house that has driven me out o' my five senses?"

"Are your sheep and cattle safe?" I asked in sudden alarm.

"My G.o.d," she breathed, and stood with her face in both hands, there at the foot of the ladder under the April stars.

"What is it frightens you?" I asked.

Her hands fell to her side and she looked at me: "Nothing, sir....

Unless it be myself," she said calmly. "Your clothing is wet and you are s.h.i.+vering. Will you come into the fort?"

We went in. I remembered how I had seen her there that night, nearly a year ago, and all the soldiers gathered around to entertain her, whilst she supped on porridge and smiled upon them over her yellow bowl's edge, like a very child.

The few soldiers inside rose respectfully. A sergeant drew a settle to the blazing fire; a soldier brought us soupaan and a gill of rum. Nick came in with the Saguenay, and they both squatted down in their blankets before the fire, grave as a pair o' cats; and there they ate their fill of porridge at our feet, and blinked at the blaze and smoked their clays in silence.

I told Penelope that we must travel this night to Johnstown, it being my duty to give an account of what had happened, without delay.

"There can be no danger to us on the road," said I, "but the thought of leaving you here in this fort disturbs me."

"What would I do here alone?" she asked.

"What will you do alone in Johnstown?" I inquired in turn.

At the same time I realized that we both were utterly homeless; and that in Johnstown our shelter must be a tavern, or, if danger threatened, the fortified jail called Johnstown Fort.

"You will not abandon me, will you, sir?" she asked, touching my sleeve with the pretty confidence of a child.

"Why, no," said I. "We can lodge at Jimmy Burke's Tavern. And there is Nick to give us countenance--and a most respectable Indian."

"Is it scandalous for me to go thither in your company?"

"What else is there for us to do?"

"I should go to Albany," said she, "as soon as may be. And I am resolved to do so and to seek out Mr. Fonda and disembarra.s.s you of any further care for me."

"It is no burden," said I; "but I do not know where I shall be sent, now that the war is come to Tryon County. And--I can not bear to think of you alone and unprotected, living the miserable life of a refugee in the women's quarters at Johnstown Fort."

"Does solicitude for my welfare truly occupy your thoughts, sir?"

"Why, yes, and naturally. Are we not close friends and comrades in misfortune, Penelope?"

"I counted it no misfortune to live at Summer House."

"No, nor I.... I was very happy there.... Alas for your pretty cottage!--poor little chatelaine of Summer House!"

"John Drogue?"

"I hear you."

"Did you suppose I ever meant to take that gift of you?"

"Why--why, yes! I gave it! Even now I have the deed to the land and shall convey it to you. And one day, G.o.d willing, a new cottage shall be built----"

"Then you must build it, John Drogue, for the land is yours and I never meant to take it of you, and never shall.... And I thank you,--and am deeply beholden--and touched in my heart's deep depths--that you have offered this to me.... Because you desired me to be respectable, and well considered by men.... And you wished me to possess substance which I lacked--so that none could dare use me lightly and without consideration.... And I promise you that I have learned my lesson. You have schooled me well, Mr. Drogue.... And if for no other reason save respect for you, and grat.i.tude, I promise you I shall so conduct hereafter that you shall have no reason to think contemptuously of me."

"I never held you in contempt."

"Yes; when I stole your horse; and when you deemed me easy--and proved me so----"

"I meant it not that way!" said I, reddening.

"Yet it was so, John Drogue. I was not difficult. I meant no harm, but had not sense enough to know harm when it approached me!... And so I thank you for schooling me. But I never could have taken any gift from you."

After a silence I rose and went into the officer's quarters.

The Continental Captain was lying on his trundle-bed, but got up and sent two men to harness Kaya to our waggon.

I told him I should leave all stores and provisions with him, and asked if he would look after our sheep and cattle and fowls until they could be fetched to Johnstown and cared for there.

He was a most kindly man, and promised to care for our creatures, saying that the eggs and milk would be welcome to his garrison, and that if he took a lamb or two he would pay for it on demand.

So when our waggon drove up in the darkness outside, he came and took leave of us all very kindly, saying he hoped that Penelope would be safe in Johnstown, and that the raiders would soon be driven out of the Sacandaga.

I gave him our canoe, for which he seemed grateful.

Then I helped Penelope into the waggon, got in myself and took the reins. Nick and the Saguenay vaulted into the box and lay down on our pile of furs and blankets.

And so we drove out of the stockade and onto the Johnstown Road, Penelope in a wolf-robe beside me, and both her hands clasped around my left arm.

"Are you a-chill?" I asked.

"I do not know what ails me," she murmured, "but--the world is so vast and dark.... and G.o.d is so far--so far----"

"You are unhappy."

"No."

"You grieve for somebody?"

"No, I do not grieve."

"Are you lonesome?"

"I do not know if I am.... I do not know why I tremble so.... The world is so dark and vast.... I am so small a thing to be alone in it.... It is the war, perhaps, that awes me. It seems so near now. Alas for the battles to be fought!--the battles in the North.... Where you shall be, John Drogue."

"You said that once before."