6 The Lone Cabin

Our business with the chiefs continued to go badly, their tempers growing more intractable, and their complaints against the encroachments of the Western settlers upon their lands increasing, and my suspicion became a conviction that our efforts were matched or overmatched by an opposing influence. Some of the chiefs had been assigned to quarters in Georgetown, and on the third day after my walk with Marian I was ordered to take them a message the next evening concerning some presents that we intended to make to them.

I ate a hasty supper, put on my best clothes, mounted my horse, and rode upon my journey.

Georgetown was a more comfortable place in most respects than Washington, and many of the members of Congress lived there during the sessions, going between their rooms and the Capitol in hackney coaches which ran regularly for hire, or on their own horses as I was doing. I passed one coach all spattered over with mud, for the rains had been very heavy recently, and my horse at almost every step sank over his hoofs in the brown and sticky mire. But I did not care, as I had been used to soft, deep roads all my life. I jogged on rather slowly, for with the mud below and my weight above my horse was not able to travel at any great pace.

When I had gone about half the distance to Georgetown I heard the heavy sough of a horse’s feet in the mud behind me, and looking back saw a hatchet-faced man on an enormous gray horse approaching. His pace was considerably faster than mine, and he soon overhauled me, but checked his speed when he came alongside, as if he would ride with me. I was not at all averse, although he was not generally known as a companionable man; in fact, the precise reverse, and when he spoke to me in a friendly manner, calling me by name, I replied in like fashion, addressing him by his.

He would have been thought an odd-looking man anywhere. When he stood upon the ground he must have been more than six feet high, and he was so few inches through that one wondered if he would not break in two some day in. the face of a strong wind. His clothing was coarse homespun, drab in colour. A tight high stock enclosed his long, thin throat, and above it rose his long, sharp, narrow face, in which keen little eyes sparkled and flashed above high cheek bones. His whole expression was sarcastic, sneering—the face of a man who believed in few things. Such was John Randolph, of Roanoke, who was very famous in his day and is yet; a man who said more bitter things and made more enemies than any other whom I know, and yet had many good qualities and high principles.

“Whom are you visiting in Georgetown, Mr. Ten Broeck?” he asked.

It is the custom with us for one traveller to ask another where he is going and is not thought inquisitive, and I told him without reluctance.

“The Government will not be successful with these chiefs,” he said. “There will be war in the West and the East too, since all the West and South are in favour of hostilities with Great Britain, and they will carry their point. You are a Westerner yourself and you know this is so.”

“I can speak for my own State. I know that all the Kentuckians favour war.”

“The biggest fools of us all,” he said bluntly. “You Westerners and Southerners are talking war and doing your best to bring it on, in which you will succeed, but nobody is preparing for it. To make war we must be able to fight. I have no love for the British, who in a foreign country become robbers. I can remember fleeing in the Revolution with my mother and her newborn child before Tarleton and Phillips and their pandours. But why should we hate the British more than the coward Napoleon, who is doing his best to stir us to war in order to cripple the British to his benefit?”

He spoke with great heat. I could not understand why he applied the word “coward” to Napoleon, who might have many faults, though not that of cowardice, but it was his favourite term for the emperor, and he used it often in his speeches.

I could not argue with him, his tongue was too sharp for me, as it was for many much greater men, and we rode on in silence until we could find some other topic on which we might talk without heat. We came to the hills by and by.

“Yonder is Georgetown,” said he.

At the crest of the hills we turned, as if by accord, and looked back at Washington.

The sun was now nearly gone, but a trail of red fire in the west marked its setting. In the east the shadows had come, but the sun, before going, threw a veil of tangled flame and gold over the new city. The white walls of the Capitol were radiant with a pink glow, and the crests catching the last and most brilliant rays of the sun shone afar like beacons.

My companion’s face showed admiration, but the expression was there only a moment; then he made a gesture of discontent.

“We talk of making war upon one of the world’s most powerful nations,” he said, “and look at our capital! But a raw village in a wilderness, and its Government lives in a camp. We might at least finish that before we rush to disaster.”

We parted as we entered Georgetown, and I was not at all sorry, for his bitter humour depressed me. I trust that the day will never come when I can see only evil in things.

I found the chiefs at the house in which we had quartered them, but their humour was not such as a gentleman finds agreeable, and so leaving them to waste it upon each other I made a call upon some acquaintances, and then mounting my horse started upon the return ride.

It must have been about twelve o’clock when I left Georgetown, and the cold February day had turned into a most unpleasant night. A drizzle of rain was falling and the wind was raw and chilly. The dry boughs of the trees scraped together as they were blown upon each other. In the hills the wind was moaning.

The moon was a pale glimmer behind gray clouds, and I fastened my heavy cloak securely around me to protect myself alike from the cold and the sleety rain.

I turned my horse into the road, and his feet sank with a sough into the mud. With the darkness and such heavy travelling, I was in for an extremely long three miles before I reached Washington. The chilly manner in which my message had been received by the chiefs, and the sinister omens to be drawn from their conduct depressed me, and the night and rain had more influence upon my feelings than it usually does upon one who is accustomed to travel in darkness and wet weather.

The cold rain slipped down under the collar of my coat, and while I was silently abusing the chiefs for their obstinacy my horse wandered from the road in search of firmer footing. As I was desirous of finding a more direct route to Washington, and thus shortening the journey, I concluded to let him go.

The lights of Georgetown twinkled and then went out behind a smudge of darkness. The wind sobbed among the hills, and the wetness of the night crept into my body. The horse snorted frequently, as if he liked the rain and darkness as little as I.

I heard the plash of water over stones, and then saw a faint grayness cutting my line of march. I had come to Rock Creek, and selecting a place with gently sloping banks I urged my horse into the stream. The water was shallow, but flowing rather swiftly at that point, and the horse stumbled two or three times on the pebbles and small boulders. As we reached the farther shore he fell to his knees with me, but was up again in a moment. But he stood shivering with pain, and when I dismounted and examined him as well as I could in the darkness I found his knees to be so badly cut and bruised that it would be torture to the poor animal to carry me home. Besides, I had brought him all the way from Kentucky with me, and I prized him. There was nothing for it but to walk home through the mud, leading my horse. The accident made no improvement in my humour. All my bad luck seemed to be coming at once.

I drew the cloak a little higher around my neck, trying to check the sly rain which insisted upon slipping down next to the skin and chilling me to the bone. Then I took the bridle in one hand, and leading my horse, which limped at every step, went on. The rain had soaked into the turf, and when my heavy boot sank in it little streams of water spurted up.

We were out of the path, and I was compelled to be my own guide. A good horse will carry you safely on the longest journey in the darkest night if you will let him have his head, but now mine was lame and depending on me, and, moreover, we were out of the road. I began to fear that I had wandered farther to one side than I intended, and that if I were not lost already I would soon be.

I looked around the entire circle of the darkness, but could see no point of light which might tell of a settler’s cabin. A light means cheerfulness, and I had no other reason just then for wishing to see it. The continued sobbing of the wind through the hills, as if the world were in pain, was a weight upon my spirits, though I knew very well the nature of the sound.

We trudged on, the lame horse following dejectedly behind me, his head drooping. I stumbled and saw that I had come to some trees blown down by the wind. Edging my way around them, I found that I was going down a hillside, and heard the trickle of a brook at the bottom of the slope. A beam of light shot down from somewhere and showed me a disk of clear water and the round pebbles over which it trickled; then it passed on and tipped the wet bushes in the line of its passage with flame and silver.

I could see the point from which the light came, behind the brook, and apparently from a cleft between two hills, but I could not see what was there, though I guessed that it was a settler’s cabin—some humble squatter’s home. But that theory was weakened by the absolute lack of noise. Every squatter has one or more dogs, and they always bark with all their strength whenever a stranger approaches. Now not a note was raised. But the light shone with a fixed, steady radiance, piercing the darkness like a lance.

It was none of my business from what the light proceeded or who made it, but I resolved to explore. The necessity of finding my way back to the road was an incentive. Among these hills I might break my neck, which would be more than a horse’s cut knees, and if I found the origin of the light I might also find directions to the road.

The descent to the brook and the ascent of the hill beyond would be too steep for the horse, and I led him back to the summit of the slope, tethering him securely to the bough of a tree which swung low. He was in a state of depression even surpassing that of his master. The blood was trickling from his wounded knees, and his big body trembled like a child afraid. He rubbed his wet head caressingly against me when I turned, as if entreating me to stay and keep him company. He was too much discouraged to neigh or to stamp.

“I’ll be back in five minutes, old horse,” I said gently as I stroked his nose.

Then I walked down the bank, picking my footing carefully on the wet grass. When I reached the bottom I found a shallow stream, spread out two or three yards wide over boulders and pebbles. From the bottom of the gorge the bar of light was still visible, shooting over my head and making a luminous circle on the slope which I had left, every twig and stone showing in that limited area of brightness, while all below was in complete darkness, even the surface of the water appearing but faintly where the lance of light crossed above it.

The water bubbled softly over the stones, and farther away I could hear a dull plash as if the stream were going over a fall. The sob of the wind rose now and then to a shriek.

I could cross the stream only by wading, and I stepped lightly into it, not wishing to make any noise. Though but two or three miles from the capital of a great nation, I felt as if I were about to storm the fortress of an enemy. So it happens to one sometimes when in the dark, and alone. As I picked my way up the far slope this feeling that caution was needed grew upon me. I kept my eyes fixed upon the line of light, which streamed over the bushes like the trail of a baby comet, and guided me with certainty toward what I sought.

I was confirmed in my guess that the light came from the depression between two hills, but as I advanced, parallel with the bar of flame, keeping out of its rays, however, that I might not be seen, I was impressed more than ever by the absolute silence save for the wind and the rustling of the trees and bushes, the trickle of the water being too far away to be heard. The old tales of the Indian wars that I had heard at my mother’s hearthstone filled my ears, and I seemed to be a Shawnee warrior stalking a settler’s cabin. Then I laughed at myself in ridicule for conjuring up such things, and expected that the next moment some lazy dog would rush out and howl at me with excessive vigour, to atone for his previous lack of vigilance.

But no dog came out or barked, and at the end of the bar of light a small building slowly constructed itself. A patch of wall came out of the blackness, and was followed by another patch, and then another and others which joined themselves together until the side of a log cabin was formed. Then the roof, gently sloping and of rough, long boards, followed the wall out of the darkness, and a complete cabin, such as the poorest of negroes might inhabit, stood before me. From a window, or rather a cleft in the wall, shone the light which had been my guide.

I could see dimly the doorway, so small that it would have compelled me to stoop to enter. In ordinary times I would have gone there and knocked, and that was what custom and common politeness demanded of me, but I still had the feeling that I was not in an ordinary situation, that caution should be my comrade. So I went to the window and peeped, not through it, but through a chink between the walls by its side. I had approached with so much gentleness that I was sure no one inside could hear, but to put my eye to the chink I was forced to stoop down from my tall height.

I saw a scanty interior—some stools, an old table, and walls as rough on the inside as on the outside. On the table was a lantern, from which had come the beckoning light. Three men sat on the stools, and the one who was beside the table was my kinsman. Major Gilbert Northcote. His face was turned toward me, and even otherwise I would have recognised him by his figure. His companions were two men whom I had never seen before. One was tall and slender, and the other short and stout. Both were dressed like ordinary farmers, but their faces were thin and keen.

I gave silent thanks for my loss of the way and the lameness of my horse, as I believed that I had happened upon a meeting that would be of interest and importance to us. Gilbert Northcote, who was in Washington only to plan mischief, could not be meeting strangers at such a time and place for any innocent purpose.

The Tory rested one elbow on the table; spread out before him were sheets of paper, and he held a pencil in his hand; the look of careless, even supercilious indifference that was habitual with him in Washington had changed to one of keen and concentrated interest.

“What do you say of them in that part of the country, Walters?” he asked.

“Disaffected; not disposed to risk anything,” replied the tall man.

Major Northcote’s face showed satisfaction, and he immediately made notes on the paper.

“It confirms all the previous reports from that quarter,” he said when his pencil stopped. “In calculating the probable resistance I think we might leave them out.”

His satisfaction was so great that he tapped on the table repeatedly in a contented manner, and puckered up his lips as if he would whistle, which, too, is usually a sign of gladness.

“Now what do you say, Hardison?” he asked the short man. “How are they in the South?”

“Very angry, but not likely to furnish much when the time comes,” said Hardison. “They are too far away, and their direct interests are too little affected. Besides, their new Indian war is going to give them plenty to do.”

“Good again,” said Major Northcote, setting to work a second time with his pencil. “These notes and my maps will make a fine budget for the people in London. Do you see any mistake in this map?”

He spread out one of the broadest sheets of paper on the table, and the two men stood up and examined it with him. They seemed to have no fault to find, and the Tory rolled it up again, but left it on the table.

“I think I know Washington and its surroundings pretty thoroughly,” he said in his self-satisfied tone, “and I’ve put my knowledge into that map. It seems almost superfluous, though, to mark the defences, for they amount to nothing.”

“They would amount to mighty little anyway before a British army,” said Walters, the tall man, with a laugh.

“I should think so,” said Major Northcote.

“Having done our work, we can take a little refreshment now, lads,” said Major Northcote, who seemed to be in fine humour.

The man whom he called Hardison produced some sliced meat and bread from a knapsack hanging on the wall, though I had not noticed it before, and Major Northcote took out of his coat pocket a large flask wound with silver wire. He shook it and it gave forth a pleasant gurgle. He smiled and the two men smiled. He drew the stopper, which snapped comfortably as it came out, and then all three drank, one after another, from the flask. The pleasant odour of the liquor permeated the cabin and stole through the chink to me, filling me with unsatisfied longing. Then they ate.

I was not sure what to do. The notes and maps lay upon the table, while the men ate and drank, and I knew they would be of value to us, besides being a decisive proof that Major Northcote was a dangerous man, and engaged in practices to which our Government would have a right to object in the most emphatic manner—that is, by sending him away. The scene between us at the Capitol, when he seemed to think that I might help him in his schemes, still rankled a little in my mind and impelled me in the way to which duty so clearly pointed. It would be to the good of the public, as well as some individuals, that he remain no longer in Washington.

While I thought, the question was partly solved for me. The two men finished their eating and drinking, and rising bade Major Northcote good night. He commended them for zeal, encouraged them to other good work, and said he would soon send for them again. They went out and left him sitting by the table, engrossed in thought.

The men could not see me on the other side of the cabin, and they walked away without hesitation toward Washington. Noticing that Major Northcote seemed to be in no hurry to move, I waited until the men were so far away that they could hear no noise from the cabin, and then pushing the door open I entered.

A single stride was sufficient to take me to the table. I seized the roll of papers in one hand and the silver bound flask in the other. The roll of papers I thrust into my trousers’ pocket, and the silver bound flask I raised to my lips.

“Cousin,” I said, “I thank you for both.”

Then the pleasant liquor trickled down my throat. I repeat that I was wet and cold, and the taste of it was fine and the effect finer.

It was some pleasure to me to see Major Northcote’s control of himself, even in that moment of surprise and wrath. He started, in truth, at my sudden entrance and his eyeballs distended for a moment, but then he was himself again and waited.

“Excuse me, Major Northcote,” I said, handing him the flask. “It was very good, but I did not take all; I left some for you.”

It is obvious that I was pleased with myself, but I could not surpass him in coolness. He took the flask and saying, “Here’s to the health of forward young men, Mr. Ten Broeck,” drank composedly.

I inferred from his tone a recognition of the fact that we were to face each other as enemies.

“I’ve come in suddenly and without an invitation,” I said, “but I hope I’m none the less welcome.”

I think I was catching some of his own sarcastic temper.

Major Northcote rested his arm comfortably on the table and looked fixedly at me. I could see the faint smile lightly touched with irony which had marked him when we listened to the senatorial debate, playing around the corner of his eyes and mouth. Outside the rain had increased in violence and was playing a steady tune on the thin roof. I bore his look without flinching, for I felt that I was more in the right than he.

“You think that you have done a clever thing,” he said presently.

“I can not claim that my arrival was clever, but I believe it to have been timely. You are attached to the British embassy here, and you are using the opportunities that position gives you to send spies over the country and obtain all sorts of information that will be useful to our enemy in case of war. You have passed all the bounds of international courtesy, and I have absolute proof of it in these maps and notes of yours that I have seized.”

“And you observe that I do not even ask you to give them back to me.”

“Because you know I would not do it.”

“Not altogether. I would prefer not to lose them just at this time, but since you have them I will not make a fuss about the matter. What do you intend to do with them?”

I said that I would give them to Mr. Gallatin, with Major Northcote’s dismissal from Washington as the certain result.

“Yes, that will follow,” he said, “and I would have stayed a little longer, but perhaps it is not worth while. My work here is done, and I am tired of this muddy little village in the woods, with its ignorant farmers and its talking lawyers and its lack of everything to make life pleasant to a man who can take an interest in the greater world of affairs and men.”

I had no reply to make to such talk as that, but carefully placed his papers in my waistcoat pocket.

“I will come back again,” he continued, “though in another role. I have warned you, but you are only a boy, and perhaps you do not understand. Yet this country is rapidly preparing its own overthrow. I have been even willing to help you. I have liked you in a way, and I thought I saw promise in you. I would have arranged a brilliant career for you, but you would not let me and you preferred to go with the losers.”

I thanked him, but now I was neither dazzled nor deceived, nor was I turned from my determination to place his papers in the hands of Mr. Gallatin, which, of course, would mean the President’s very soon thereafter.

I rose to go, and I presumed we parted without any personal hostility.

“Certainly,” he said, “you are a boy and my kinsman, and while you are rash and headstrong sometimes, the fault is not criminal.”

I thanked him, though I did not believe he would forgive my sudden arrival and seizure of his papers, and went out, leaving him drumming his fingers upon the table.

I stepped from the cabin, and a gust of rain, very cold to the skin, dashed into my face. I plunged down the hillside, intending to reach my horse at once and push on for Washington as fast as I could. Halfway down, I looked back. The cabin already was losing itself, only a patch of the wall showed through the darkness. But the light still shone from the window with the same clear, steady radiance that had drawn me there. I stopped for a moment, but I could hear no movement on the part of Major Northcote.

I could imagine that his easy humour was only assumed, and that he was not so ready to go from Washington as he had boasted. Still I had no right to feel sorry for him, however well disposed toward me he may have been at one time.

I reached the stream again, and. wading across it, climbed up the hillside to my horse. He received me with a faint neigh, and actually quivered with joy when I put my hand upon his head and stroked it. I think he was both lonely and afraid. I took him by the bridle, and we resumed our interrupted procession through the forest, I going first and the horse following. I looked over my shoulder at the beam of light which shot from the cabin window, but it faded rapidly as we moved away, and in a few moments was gone.

I had a good general idea of the direction of Washington, and bearing back toward the road I soon struck it again. Though it was still dark and the rain was lashing me in the face, I knew the road by the depth of the mud, and reversing our positions I sent the horse ahead and followed close behind, trusting to his instinct to lead us right. He plodded bravely on, as if he were encouraged by my return to his company, and presently I could see the dim shadow of large buildings which brought to me the knowledge that I was entering the capital again.

No one was about, not even a watchman, and I could not see a light in any window. Washington was taking its night’s rest very seriously, which was fitting in the capital of a sober people, but it reminded me what a small and crude place it was, where not even a light met a man entering.

I took my horse to the stable, lighted a lantern, which was always kept there, bandaged his bruised knees, and fed him. Then I went to my own room in the Six Buildings, still unobserved, for everybody was sleeping. I looked at myself in the little glass, and beheld an animated statue of mud, for it had splashed all over me, even to my face, and was drying there.

I washed the mud off my face, put my clothes on a chair and Major Northcote’s papers under my pillow, and went to sleep.

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