The amulet: A novel

by Charles Egbert Craddock

CHAPTER X

To a man whose life is regulated on a basis of a difference in rank, a part of whose training is to conserve the respect due his military station and his social supremacy, who is habituated to stiff formalities of address, both in phrase and bearing, the familiarities of an inferior have a grossness which a custom of lenient condescension, or kindly indulgence, or careless indifference does not as readily perceive. But no man, however little fastidious, would have relished the peculiar impediments to Raymond’s progress across the limited space of the “beloved square” to the spot where he thought—he could now no longer see for the press—the old missionary was standing. Indeed, Raymond might have better exerted tolerance had he not perceived that the demonstration was actuated by a rancorous spirit. The contact with the blanketed shoulders of the braves intentionally thrust against him to impede his progress; a peering, painted face stuck almost against his own, the survey followed by a wild cackle of derision; a feathered crest of a man, not so tall as he, jerked into his eyes, were incidents calculated to try the self-control of an ardent, impetuous young soldier to the extremest tension. He set his teeth and held hard to his composure, though his cheek flushed and his eye glittered. Naught that was personal should jeopardize the success of the forlorn hope of his appeal to the fears of the old missionary. The sturdy soldiers at his heels marked his demeanor and emulated his self-restraint. Presently, he almost ran against the old man, still bare-headed, still between his guards, replying in Cherokee to the jeers or reproaches of his recent converts as they gathered about him, upbraiding for double-dealing, and threatening as if with the just wrath of the deceived. He had a wistful, pained look as he sought to justify himself, to explain the misunderstanding, and it cut Raymond to the heart. He was of the temperament which throws itself with ardor into the joys and griefs of others—especially he deprecated infinitely the sight of sorrow in the aged. Let the young wrestle with the woes of life—not when strength, and hope, and illusion are all gone! He accosted the old man in a cheery voice, speaking in English, that the crowd might catch no chance word of offence.

“Captain Howard presents his compliments, Reverend sir, and wishes me to say that we have a place in our boat, which is at your service, and we shall feel much honored if you will occupy it,” he said.

The old man, turning from the revilings and the insults heaped upon him by the savage rabble, must have felt an attraction toward the young, spirited face, and have softened to the sympathy in the ensign’s eyes, the respect that vibrated in every inflection of his voice.

“I thank you, my young friend,” he said in a kindly tone, “but my station is here. I cannot desert my post. I am a soldier of the Cross.”

“Under your favor, Reverend sir, we are taught that we have no right to throw away our lives in desperate emprises, to the loss and detriment of the British service. And it seems to me that the rule ought to hold in the service of the Cross that sorely needs good soldiers.”

The argument struck home, and the old missionary made haste to justify his position.

“There is not more danger than usual,” he declared, “I have often heard such threats. I have weathered many such storms. My place is here. I must recall these troubled and wandering sheep that have believed in the truth and trusted in me, and whose faith has this day been so rudely jostled.”

“Troubled and wandering—wolves!” Raymond could not help exclaiming, as he noted the furious faces, the menacing gestures of a group here and there colloguing apart, their feathered heads almost touching each other, their drapery of coarse blankets intermingled as they stood together, an absorbed brow lifted now and again to glance at the subject of their conference. The dispensation that the sun shall shine alike upon the just and the unjust seemed more an insensate process of nature than a divine ordinance at that moment as he looked about mechanically in the pause, noting the pellucid brilliance of the noontide splendor that lay over all the wrangling crowd of braves, the huddled huts of the town, the vast stretches of leafless woods that had yet the aspect of winter, the blurred violet tones of the hills hard by, the far-reaching of the myriads of azure ranges, the differing blue of the sky as it bent to meet the horizon. So unwontedly still had been the town during the morning that a drift of white swans lay asleep in the river, close to the moorings of Raymond’s pettiaugre. Now, warned by the tumult on shore, they had lifted their heads and were beginning to glide imperceptibly along. A deer, approaching the town on the hither side, had taken sudden affright, and, plunging into the water, was swimming the river so near at hand that its head presented a fair target to the short-range rifles of the day and even for an arrow. No marksman sought the opportunity. The minds of the braves were all intent, undivided. The dogs of the town caught the scent and sight, and half a dozen hounds raced to the water-side, lustily yelping excitement. But there was no human cry of encouragement, no command to hie them on, and though one plunged in and swam twenty yards in the wake of the fleeing animal, he lost heart in thus proceeding on his own initiative, and turning about, came splashing in to the bank, all unnoticed. Significant incidents these trifles seemed to Raymond, showing an absorption that betokened no gentle fate to the old missionary. He marvelled that the old man could be so mad. He determined on a renewed effort.

“You could return at a more propitious time, dear sir. And permit me to express my wonder, Mr. Morton,” he said, with gentle reproach, “that though you do not entertain fears for yourself, you have no consideration of the fears of your friends for you. Captain Howard, who is a man of great experience on the frontier, thinks your life is not worth an hour’s purchase after our departure, and I, myself, who am no alarmist, feel that if we leave you here I look upon you for the last time.”