Wacousta (9 page)

“Hold your clapper, you spooney, and be damned to you!” exclaimed the angry veteran.–“Had the Ingian fastened his paw upon your ugly neck as he did upon mine, all the pitiful life your mother ever put into you would have been spirited away from very fear; so you needn’t brag.”

“Sure, and if any of ye had a grain of spunk, ye would have fired, and freed a fellow from the clutch of them hell thieves,” muttered another of the men at the litter. “All the
time, the devil had me by the throat, swinging his tommyhawk about my head, I saw ye dancing up and down in the heavens, instead of being on your marrow bones on the common.”

“And didn’t I want to do it?” rejoined the first speaker. “Ask Tom Winkler here, if the captain didn’t swear he’d cut the soul out of my body if I even offered so much as to touch the trigger of my musket.”

“Faith, and lucky he did,” replied his covering man (for the ranks had again joined), “since but for that, there wouldn’t be at this moment so much as a hair of the scalp of one of you left.”

“And how so, Mr. Wiseacre?” rejoined his comrade.

“How so! Because the first shot that we fired would have set the devils upon them in right earnest–and then their top-knots wouldn’t have been worth a brass farthing. They would have been scalped before they could say Jack Robinson.”

“It was a hell of a risk,” resumed another of the litter men, “to give four men a chance of having their skull pieces cracked open like so many egg-shells, and all to get possession of a dead officer.”

“And sure, you beast,” remarked a different voice in a tone of anger, “the dead body of the brave captain was worth a dozen such rotten carcasses with all the life in them. What matter would it be if ye had all been scalped?” Then with a significant half glance to the rear, which was brought up by their commander, on whose arm leaned the slightly wounded Johnstone, “Take care the captain doesn’t hear ye prating after that fashion, Will Burford.”

“By Jasus,” said a good-humoured, quaint looking Irishman, who had been fixing his eyes on the litter during this pithy and characteristic colloquy; “it sames to me, my boys,
that ye have caught the wrong cow by the horns, and that all your pains has been for nothing at all, at all. By the holy pope, ye are all wrong; it’s like bringing salt butter to Cork, or coals to your Newcastle, as ye call it. Who the divil ever heard of the officer wearing ammunition shoes?”

The men all turned their gaze on that part of the vestment of the corpse to which their attention had been directed by this remark, when it was at once perceived, although it had hitherto escaped the observation even of the officers, that, not only the shoes were those usually worn by the soldiers, and termed ammunition or store shoes, but also, the trowsers were of the description of coarse grey, peculiar to that class.

“By the piper that played before Moses, and ye’re right, Dick Doherty,” exclaimed another Irishman; “sure, and it isn’t the officer at all! Just look at the great black fist of him too, and never call me Phil Shehan, if it ever was made for the handling of an officer’s spit.”

“Well said, Shehan,” observed the man who had so warmly reproved Will Burford, and who had formerly been servant to De Haldimar; “the captain’s hand is as white and as soft as my cross-belt, or, what’s saying a great deal more, as Miss Clara’s herself, heaven bless her sweet countenance! and Lieutenant Valletort’s nigger’s couldn’t well be much blacker nor this.”

“What a set of hignoramuses ye must be,” grunted old Mitchell, “not to see that the captain’s hand is only covered with dirt; and as for the ammunition shoes and trowsers, why you know our officers wear any thing since we have been cooped up in this here fort.”

“Yes, by the holy poker,” (and here we must beg to refer the reader to the soldier’s vocabulary for any terms that may be, in the course of this dialogue, incomprehensible to him
or her,)–“Yes, by the holy poker, off duty, if they like it,” returned Phil Shehan; “but it isn’t even the colonel’s own born son that dare to do so while officer of the guard.”

“Ye are right, comrade,” said Burford; “there would soon be hell and tommy to pay if he did.”

At this point of their conversation, one of the leading men at the litter, in turning to look at its subject, stumbled over the root of a stump that lay in his way, and fell violently forward. The sudden action destroyed the equilibrium of the corpse, which rolled off its temporary bier upon the earth, and disclosed, for the first time, a face begrimed with masses of clotted blood, which had streamed forth from the scalped brain during the night.

“It’s the divil himself,” said Phil Shehan, making the sign of the cross, half in jest, half in earnest: “for it isn’t the captin at all, and who but the divil could have managed to clap on his rigimintals?”

“No, it’s an Ingian,” remarked Will Burford, sagaciously; “it’s an Ingian that has killed the captain, and dressed himself in his clothes. I thought he smelt strong, when I helped to pick him up.”

“And that’s the reason why the bloody heathens wouldn’t let us carry him off,” said another of the litter men. “I thought they wouldn’t ha’ made such a rout about the officer, when they had his scalp already in their pouch-belts.”

“What a set of prating fools ye are,” interrupted the leading sergeant; “who ever saw an Ingian with light hair? and sure this hair in the neck is that of a Christian.”

At that moment Captain Erskine, attracted by the sudden halt produced by the falling of the body, came quickly up to the front.

“What is the meaning of all this, Cassidy?” he sternly demanded of the sergeant; “why is this halt without my orders, and how comes the body here?”

“Carter stumbled against a root, sir, and the body rolled over upon the ground.”

“And was the body to roll back again?” angrily rejoined his captain.–“What mean ye, fellows, by standing there; quick, replace it upon the litter, and mind this does not occur again.”

“They say, sir,” said the sergeant, respectfully, as the men proceeded to their duty, “that it is not Captain de Haldimar after all, but an Ingian.”

“Not Captain de Haldimar! are ye all mad? and have the Indians, in reality, turned your brains with fear?”

What, however, was his own surprise, and that of Lieutenant Johnstone, when, on a closer examination of the corpse, which the men had now placed with its face uppermost, they discovered the bewildering fact that it was not, indeed, Captain de Haldimar who lay before them, but a stranger, dressed in the uniform of that officer.

There was no time to solve, or even to dwell on the singular mystery; for the Indians, though now retired, might be expected to rally and renew the attack. Once more, therefore, the detachment moved forward; the officers dropping as before to the rear, to watch any movements of the enemy should he re-appear. Nothing, however, occurred to interrupt their march; and in a few minutes the heavy clanking sound of the chains of the drawbridge, as it was again raised by its strong pulleys, and the dull creaking sound of the rusty bolts and locks that secured the ponderous gate, announced the detachment was once more safely within the fort.

While the wounded men were being conveyed to the hospital, a group, comprising almost all the officers of the garrison, hastened to meet Captain Erskine and Lieutenant Johnstone. Congratulations on the escape of the one, and compliments, rather than condolences, on the accident of the other, which the arm
en écharpe
denoted to be slight, were hastily and warmly proffered. These felicitations were the genuine ebullitions of the hearts of men who really felt a pride, unmixed with jealousy, in the conduct of their fellows; and so cool and excellent had been the manner in which Captain Erskine had accomplished his object, that it had claimed the undivided admiration of all who had been spectators of the affair, and had, with the aid of their telescopes, been enabled to follow the minutest movements of the detachment.

“By heaven!” he at length replied, his chest swelling with gratified pride at the warm and generous approval of his companions, “this more than repays me for every risk. Yet, to be sincere, the credit is not mine, but Wentworth’s. But for you, my dear fellow,” grasping and shaking the hand of that officer, “we should have rendered but a Flemish account of ourselves. How beautifully those guns covered our retreat! and the first mortar that sent the howling devils flying in air like so many will-o’ the-wisps, who placed that, Wentworth?”

“I did,” replied the officer, with a quickness that denoted a natural feeling of exultation; “but Bombardier Kitson’s was the most effective. It was his shell that drove the Indians finally out of the bomb-proof, and left the coast clear for your retreat.”

“Then Kitson, and his gunners also, merit our best thanks,” pursued Captain Erskine, whose spirits, now that his detachment was in safety, were more than usually exhilarated by the exciting events of the last hour; “and what will be more
acceptable, perhaps, they shall each have a glass of my best old Jamaica before they sleep,–and such stuff is not to be met with every day in this wilderness of a country. But, confound my stupid head! where are Charles de Haldimar and Sir Everard Valletort?”

“Poor Charles is in a high fever, and confined to his bed,” remarked Captain Blessington, who now came up adding his congratulations in a low tone, that marked the despondency of his heart; “and Sir Everard I have just left on the rampart with the company, looking, as he well may, the very image of despair.”

“Run to them, Sumners, my dear boy,” said Erskine, hastily addressing himself to a young ensign who stood near him; “run quickly, and relieve them of their error. Say it is not De Haldimar who has been killed, therefore they need not make themselves any longer uneasy on that score.”

The officers gave a start of surprise. Sumners, however, hastened to acquit himself of the pleasing task assigned him, without waiting to hear the explanation of the singular declaration.

“Not De Haldimar!” eagerly and anxiously exclaimed Captain Blessington; “who then have you brought to us in his uniform, which I clearly distinguished from the rampart as you passed? Surely you would not tamper with us at such a moment, Erskine?”

“Who it is, I know not more than Adam,” rejoined the other; “unless, indeed, it be the devil himself. All I
do
know, is, it is not our friend De Haldimar; although, as you observe, he most certainly wears his uniform. But you shall see and judge for yourselves, gentlemen. Sergeant Cassidy,” he enquired of that individual, who now came to ask if the detachment was to be dismissed, “where have you placed the litter?”

“Under the piazza of the guard-room, Sir,” answered the sergeant.

These words had scarcely been uttered, when a general and hasty movement of the officers, anxious to satisfy themselves by personal observation it was not indeed De Haldimar who had fallen, took place in the direction alluded to, and in the next moment they were at the side of the litter.

A blanket had been thrown upon the corpse to conceal the loathsome disfigurement of the face, over which masses of thick coagulated blood were laid in patches and streaks, that set all recognition at defiance. The formation of the head alone, which was round and short, denoted it to be
not
De Haldimar’s. Not a feature was left undefiled; and even the eyes were so covered, it was impossible to say whether their lids were closed or open. More than one officer’s cheek paled with the sickness that rose to his heart as he gazed on the hideous spectacle; yet, as the curiosity of all was strongly excited to know who the murdered man really was who had been so unaccountably inducted in the uniform of their lost companion, they were resolved to satisfy themselves without further delay. A basin of warm water and a sponge were procured from the guard-room of Ensign Fortescue, who now joined them, and with these Captain Blessington proceeded to remove the disguise.

In the course of this lavation, it was discovered the extraordinary flow of blood and brains had been produced by the infliction of a deep wound on the back of the head, by the sharp and ponderous tomahawk of an Indian. It was the only blow that had been given; and the circumstance of the deceased having been found lying on his face, accounted for the quantity of gore, that, trickling downwards, had so completely disguised every feature. As the coat of thick encrusted matter gave way beneath the frequent application of the
moistening sponge, the pallid hue of the countenance denoted the murdered man to be a white. All doubt, however, was soon at an end. The ammunition shoes, the grey trowsers, the coarse linen, and the stiff leathern stock encircling the neck, attested the sufferer to be a soldier of the garrison; but it was not until the face had been completely denuded of its unsightly covering, and every feature fully exposed, that that soldier was at length recognised to be Harry Donellan, the trusty and attached servant of Captain de Haldimar.

While yet the officers stood apart, gazing at the corpse, and forming a variety of conjectures, as vague as they were unsatisfactory, in regard to their new mystery, Sir Everard Valletort, pale and breathless with the speed he had used, suddenly appeared among them.

“God of heaven! can it be true–and is it really not De Haldimar whom I have shot?” wildly asked the agitated young man. “Who is this, Erskine?” he continued, glancing at the litter. “Explain, for pity’s sake, and quickly.”

“Compose yourself, my dear Valletort,” replied the officer addressed. “You see this is not De Haldimar, but his servant Donellan. Neither has the latter met his death from your rifle; there is no mark of a bullet about him. It was an Indian tomahawk that did his business; and I will stake my head against a hickory nut the blow came from the same rascal at whom you fired, and who gave back the shot and the scalp halloo.”

This opinion was unanimously expressed by the remainder of the officers. Sir Everard was almost as much overpowered by his joy, as he had previously been overwhelmed by his despair, and he grasped and shook the hand of Captain Erskine, who had thus been the means of relieving his conscience, with an energy of gratitude and feeling that almost drew tears from the eyes of that blunt but gallant officer.