Boys and Girls from Thackeray · Chapter 8The Virginians (3)
This chapter is not translated yet. You are reading the original.
"He has been ill. He is always wild and wayward and hard to understand, but he has the most affectionate heart in the world. You will bear with him, you will protect him. Promise you will."
"Dear lady, I will do so with my life," Mr. Washington said heartily. "You know I would lay it down cheerfully for you or any you love."
"And my father's blessing and mine go with you, dear friend!" cried the widow.
As they talked, they had quitted the porch and were pacing a walk before the house. Young George Warrington, from his place at the head of the table in the dining-room, could see them, and after listening in a very distracted manner for some time to the remarks of the gentlemen around him, he jumped up and pulled his brother Harry by the sleeve, turning him so that he, too, could see his mother and the Colonel.
Somewhat later, when General Braddock and the other guests had retired to their apartments, the boys went to their own room, and there poured out to one another their opinions respecting the great event of the day. They would not bear such a marriage—No. Was the representative of the Marquis of Esmond to marry the younger son of a colonial family, who had been bred up as a land surveyor—Castlewood and the boys at nineteen years of age handed over to the tender mercies of a step-father of three and twenty? Oh, it was monstrous! Harry was for going straightway to his mother, protesting against the odious match, and announcing that they would leave her forever if the marriage took place.
George had another plan for preventing it, which he explained to his admiring brother. "Our mother," he said, "can't marry a man with whom one or both of us has been out on the field, and who has wounded us or killed us, or whom we have wounded or killed. We must have him out, Harry."
Harry saw the profound truth conveyed in George's statement, and admired his brother's immense sagacity. "No, George," says he, "you are right. Mother can't marry our murderer; she won't be as bad as that. And if we pink him, he is done for. Shall I send my boy with a challenge to Colonel George now?"
"We can't insult a gentleman in our own house," said George with great majesty; "the laws of honour forbid such inhospitable treatment. But, sir, we can ride out with him, and, as soon as the park gates are closed, we can tell him our mind."
"That we can, by George!" cries Harry, grasping his brother's hand, "and that we will, too. I say, Georgie—" Here the lad's face became very red, and his brother asked him what he would say.
"This is my turn, brother," Harry pleaded. "If you go to the campaign, I ought to have the other affair. Indeed, indeed, I ought." And he prayed for this bit of promotion.
"Again the head of the house must take the lead, my dear," George said with a superb air. "If I fall, my Harry will avenge me. But I must fight George Washington, Hal; and 'tis best I should; for, indeed, I hate him the worst. Was it not he who counselled my mother to order that wretch, Ward, to lay hands on me?"
"Colonel Washington is my enemy especially. He has advised one wrong against me, and he meditates a greater. I tell you, brother, we must punish him."
The grandsire's old Bordeaux had set George's ordinarily pale countenance into a flame. Harry, his brother's fondest worshipper, could not but admire George's haughty bearing and rapid declamation, and prepared himself, with his usual docility, to follow his chief. So the boys went to their beds, the elder conveying special injunctions to his junior to be civil to all the guests so long as they remained under the maternal roof on the morrow.
The widow, occupied as she had been with the cares of a great dinner, followed by a great breakfast on the morning ensuing, had scarce leisure to remark the behaviour of her sons very closely, but at least saw that George was scrupulously polite to her favourite, Colonel Washington, as to all the other guests of the house.
Before Mr. Braddock took his leave he had a private audience with Madame Esmond, in which his Excellency formally arranged to take her son into his family; after which the jolly General good-naturedly shook hands with George, and bade George welcome and to be in attendance at Frederick three days hence; shortly after which time the expedition would set forth.
And now the great coach was again called into requisition, the General's escort pranced round it, the other guests and their servants went to horse.
As the boys went up the steps, there was the Colonel once more taking leave of their mother. No doubt she had been once more recommending George to his namesake's care; for Colonel Washington said: "With my life. You may depend on me," as the lads returned to their mother and the few guests still remained in the porch. The Colonel was booted and ready to depart. "Farewell, my dear Harry," he said. "With you, George, 'tis no adieu. We shall meet in three days at the camp."
George Warrington watched his mother's emotion, and interpreted it with a pang of malignant scorn. "Stay yet a moment, and console our mamma," he said with a steady countenance, "only the time to get ourselves booted, and my brother and I will ride with you a little way, George." George Warrington had already ordered his horses. The three young men were speedily under way, their negro grooms behind them, and Mrs. Mountain, who knew she had made mischief between them and trembled for the result, felt a vast relief that Mr. Washington was gone without a quarrel with the brothers, without, at any rate, an open declaration of love to their mother.
No man could be more courteous in demeanour than George Warrington to his neighbour and name-sake, the Colonel, who was pleased and surprised at his young friend's altered behaviour. The community of danger, the necessity of future fellowship, the softening influence of the long friendship which bound him to the Esmond family, the tender adieux which had just passed between him and the mistress of Castlewood, inclined the Colonel to forget the unpleasantness of the past days, and made him more than usually friendly with his young companion. George was quite gay and easy: it was Harry who was melancholy now; he rode silently and wistfully by his brother, keeping away from Colonel Washington, to whose side he used always to press eagerly before. If the honest Colonel remarked his young friend's conduct, no doubt he attributed it to Harry's known affection for his brother, and his natural anxiety to be with George now the day of their parting was so near.
They talked further about the war, and the probable end of the campaign; none of the three doubted its successful termination. Two thousand veteran British troops with their commander must get the better of any force the French could bring against them. The ardent young Virginian soldier had an immense respect for the experienced valour and tactics of the regular troops. King George II. had no more loyal subject than Mr. Braddock's new aide-de-camp.
So the party rode amicably together, until they reached a certain rude log-house, called Benson's, where they found a rough meal prepared for such as were disposed to partake.
A couple of Halkett's officers, whom our young gentlemen knew, were sitting under the porch, with the Virginian toddy bowl before them, and the boys joined them and sent for glasses and more toddy, in a very grown-up manner.
George called out to Colonel Washington, who was at the porch, to join his friends and drink, with the intention of drawing Mr. Washington into some kind of a disagreement.
The lad's tone was offensive, and resembled the manner lately adopted by him, which had so much chafed Mr. Washington. He bowed, and said he was not thirsty.
"Nay, the liquor is paid for," says George; "never fear, Colonel."
"I said I was not thirsty. I did not say the liquor was not paid for," said the young Colonel, drumming with his foot.
"When the King's health is proposed, an officer can hardly say no. I drink the health of his Majesty, gentlemen," cried George. "Colonel Washington can drink it or leave it. The King!"
This was a point of military honour. The two British officers of Halkett's, Captain Grace and Mr. Waring, both drank "The King." Harry Warrington drank "The King." Colonel Washington, with glaring eyes, gulped, too, a slight draught from the bowl.
Then Captain Grace proposed "The Duke and the Army," which toast there was likewise no gainsaying. Colonel Washington had to swallow "The Duke and the Army."
"You don't seem to stomach the toast, Colonel," said George.
"I tell you again, I don't want to drink," replied the Colonel. "It seems to me the Duke and the Army would be served all the better if their healths were not drunk so often."
"A British officer," said Captain Grace, with doubtful articulation," never neglects a toast of that sort, nor any other duty. A man who refuses to drink the health of the Duke—hang me, such a man should be tried by a court-martial!"
"What means this language to me? You are drunk, sir!" roared Colonel Washington, jumping up and striking the table with his first.
"A cursed provincial officer say I'm drunk!" shrieks out Captain Grace. "Waring, do you hear that?"
"I heard it, sir!" cried George Warrington. "We all heard it. We entered at my invitation—the liquor called for was mine; the table was mine—and I am shocked to hear such monstrous language used at it as Colonel Washington has just employed towards my esteemed guest, Captain Waring."
"Confound your impudence, you infernal young jackanapes!" bellowed out Colonel Washington. "You dare to insult me before British officers, and find fault with my language? For months past I have borne with such impudence from you, that if I had not loved your mother—yes, sir, and your good grandfather and your brother—I would—" Here his words failed him, and the irate Colonel, with glaring eyes and purple face, and every limb quivering with wrath, stood for a moment speechless before his young enemy.
"You would what, sir," says George, very quietly, "if you did not love my grandfather, and my brother, and my mother? You are making her petticoat a plea for some conduct of yours! You would do what, sir, may I ask again?"
"I would put you across my knee and whip you, you snarling little puppy! That's what I would do!" cried the Colonel, who had found breath by this time, and vented another explosion of fury.
"Because you have known us all our lives, and made our house your own, that is no reason why you should insult either of us!" here cried Harry, starting up. "What you have said, George Washington, is an insult to me and my brother alike. You will ask our pardon, sir!"
"Pardon!"
"Or give us the reparation that is due to gentlemen," continues Harry.
The stout Colonel's heart smote him to think that he should be at mortal quarrel, or called upon to shed the blood of one of the lads he loved. As Harry stood facing him, with his fair hair, flushing cheeks, and quivering voice, an immense tenderness and kindness filled the bosom of the elder man. "I—I am bewildered," he said. "My words, perhaps, were very hasty. What has been the meaning of George's behaviour to me for months back? Only tell me, and, perhaps—"
The evil spirit was awake and victorious in young George Warrington; his black eyes shot out scorn and hatred at the simple and guileless gentleman before him. "You are shirking from the question, sir, as you did from the toast just now," he said. "I am not a boy to suffer under your arrogance. You have publicly insulted me in a public place, and I demand a reparation."
"As you please, George Warrington—and God forgive you, George! God pardon you, Harry! for bringing me into this quarrel," said the Colonel, with a face full of sadness and gloom.
Harry hung his head, but George continued with perfect calmness: "I, sir? It was not I who called names, who talked of a cane, who insulted a gentleman in a public place before the gentlemen of the army. It is not the first time you have chosen to take me for a negro, and talked of the whip for me."
The Colonel started back, turning very red, and as if struck by a sudden remembrance.
"Great heavens, George! is it that boyish quarrel you are still recalling?"
"Who made you overseer of Castlewood?" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "I am not your slave, George Washington, and I never will be. I hated you then, and I hate you now. And you have insulted me, and I am a gentleman, and so are you. Is that not enough?"
"Too much, only too much," said the Colonel, with a genuine grief on his face, and at his heart "Do you bear malice, too, Harry? I had not thought this of thee!"
"I stand by my brother," said Harry, turning away from the Colonel's look, and grasping George's hand. The sadness on their adversary's face did not depart. "Heaven be good to us! 'Tis all clear now," he muttered to himself. "The time to write a few letters, and I am at your service, Mr. Warrington," he said.
"You have your own pistols at your saddle. I did not ride out with any; but will send Sady back for mine. That will give you time enough, Colonel Washington?"
"Plenty of time, sir." And each gentleman made the other a low bow, and, putting his arm in his brother's, George walked away. The Virginian officer looked towards Captain Benson, the master of the tavern, saying, "Captain Benson, you are an old frontier man, and an officer of ours, before you turned farmer and taverner. You will help me in this matter with yonder young gentleman?" said the Colonel.
"I'll stand by and see fair play, Colonel. I won't have any hand in it, beyond seeing fair play. You ain't a-goin' to be very hard with them poor boys? Though I seen 'em both shoot; the fair one hunts well, as you know, but the old one's a wonder at an ace of spades."
"Will you be pleased to send my man with my valise, Captain, into any private room which you can spare me? I must write a few letters before this business comes on. God grant it were well over!" And the Captain led the Colonel into a room of his house where he remained occupied with gloomy preparations for the ensuing meeting. His adversary in the other room also thought fit to make his testamentary dispositions, too, dictated by his own obedient brother and secretary, a grandiloquent letter to his mother, of whom, and by that writing, he took a solemn farewell. She would hardly, he supposed, pursue the scheme which she had in view, after the event of that morning, should he fall, as probably would be the case.
"My dear, dear George, don't say that!" cried the affrighted secretary.
"As probably will be the case," George persisted with great majesty. "You know what a good shot Colonel George is, Harry. I, myself, am pretty fair at a mark, and 'tis probable that one or both of us will drop—I scarcely suppose you will carry out the intentions you have at present in view." This was uttered in a tone of still greater bitterness than George had used even in the previous phrase, and he added in a tone of surprise: "Why, Harry, what have you been writing, and who taught thee to spell?" Harry had written the last words "in view," in vew, and a great blot of salt water from his honest, boyish eyes may have obliterated some other bad spelling.
"I can't think about the spelling now, Georgy," whimpered George's clerk. "I'm too miserable for that. I begin to think, perhaps, it's all nonsense; perhaps Colonel George never—"
"Never meant to take possession of Castlewood; never gave himself airs, and patronised us there; never advised my mother to have me flogged; never intended to marry her; never insulted me, and was insulted before the King's officers; never wrote to his brother to say that we should be the better for his parental authority? The paper is there," cried the young man, slapping his breast-pocket, "and if anything happens to me, Harry Warrington, you will find it on my corpse!"
"Write, yourself, Georgie, I can't write," says Harry, digging his fists into his eyes, and smearing over the whole composition, bad spelling and all, with his elbows.
On this, George, taking another sheet of paper, sat down at his brother's place, and produced a composition in which he introduced the longest words, the grandest Latin quotations, and the most profound satire of which the youthful scribe was master. He desired that his negro boy, Sady, should be set free; that his "Horace," a choice of his books, and, if possible, a suitable provision should be made for his affectionate tutor, Mr. Dempster; that his silver fruit-knife, his music-books, and harpischord should be given to little Fannie Mountain; and that his brother should take a lock of his hair, and wear it in memory of his ever fond and faithfully attached George. And he sealed the document with the seal of arms that his grandfather had worn.
"The watch, of course, will be yours," said George, taking out his grandfather's gold watch and looking at it. "Why, two hours and a half are gone! 'Tis time that Sady should be back with the pistols. Take the watch, Harry, dear."
"It's no good!" cried out Harry, flinging his arms round his brother. "If he fights you, I'll fight him, too. If he kills my Georgie, he shall have a shot at me!" cried the poor lad.
Meanwhile, Mr. Washington had written five letters in his large resolute hand, and sealed them with his seal. One was to his mother, at Mount Vernon; one to his brother; one was addressed M.C. only; and one to his Excellency, Major-General Braddock. "And one, young gentlemen, is for your mother, Madame Esmond," said the boys' informant.
It was the landlord of the tavern who communicated these facts to the young men. The Captain had put on his old militia uniform to do honour to the occasion, and informed the boys that the "Colonel was walking up and down the garden a-waiting for 'em, and that the Reg'lars was a'most sober, too, by this time."
A plot of ground near the Captain's log house had been enclosed with shingles, and cleared for a kitchen-garden; there indeed paced Colonel Washington, his hands behind his back, his head bowed down, a grave sorrow on his handsome face. The negro servants were crowded at the palings and looking over. The officers under the porch had wakened up also, as their host remarked.
There, then, stalked the tall young Colonel, plunged in dismal meditation. There was no way out of his scrape, but the usual cruel one, which the laws of honour and the practice of the country ordered. Goaded into fury by the impertinence of a boy, he had used insulting words. The young man had asked for reparation. He was shocked to think that George Warrington's jealousy and revenge should have rankled in the young fellow so long; but the wrong had been the Colonel's, and he was bound to pay the forfeit.
A great hallooing and shouting, such as negroes use, who love noise at all times, was now heard at a distance, and all heads were turned in the direction of this outcry. It came from the road over which our travellers had themselves passed three hours before, and presently the clattering of a horse's hoofs was heard, and now Mr. Sady made his appearance on his foaming horse. Presently he was in the court-yard, and was dismounting.
"Sady, sir, come here!" roars out Master Harry.
"Sady, come here, confound you!" shouts Master George.
"Come directly, Mas'r," says Sady. He grins. He takes the pistols out of the holster. He snaps the locks. He points them at a grunter, which plunges through the farm-yard. He points down the road, over which he has just galloped, and says again, "Comin', Mas'r. Everybody a-comin'." And now, the gallop of other horses is heard. And who is yonder? Little Mr. Dempster, spurring and digging into his pony; and that lady in a riding-habit on Madame Esmond's little horse—can it be Madame Esmond? No. It is too stout. As I live it is Mrs. Mountain on Madame's grey!"
"O Lor'! O Golly! Hoop! Here dey come! Hurray!"
Dr. Dempster and Mrs. Mountain having clattered into the yard, jumped from their horses, and ran to the garden where George and Harry were walking, their tall enemy stalking opposite to them; and almost ere George Warrington had time sternly to say, "What do you here, Madame?" Mrs. Mountain flung her arms round his neck and cried: "Oh, George, my darling! It's a mistake! It's a mistake, and is all my fault!"
"What's a mistake?" asks George, majestically separating himself from the embrace.
"What is it, Mounty?" cries Harry, all of a tremble.
"That paper I took out of his portfolio, that paper I picked up, children; where the Colonel says he is going to marry a widow with two children. Well, it's—it's not your mother. It's that little Widow Custis whom the Colonel is going to marry. It's not Mrs. Rachel Warrington. He told Madame so to-day, just before he was going away, and that the marriage was to come off after the campaign. And—and your mother is furious, boys. And when Sady came for the pistols, and told the whole house how you were going to fight, I told him to fire the pistols off; and I galloped after him, and I've nearly broken my poor old bones in coming to you."
"What will Mr. Washington and those gentlemen think of my servant telling my mother at home that I was going to fight a duel?" growled Mr. George in wrath.
"You should have shown your proofs before, George," says Harry, respectfully. "And, thank Heaven, you are not going to fight our old friend. For it was a mistake; and there is no quarrel now, dear, is there? You were unkind to him under a wrong impression."
"I certainly acted under a wrong impression," owns George, "but—"
"George! George Washington!" Harry here cries out, springing over the cabbage garden towards the bowling-green, where the Colonel was stalking, and though we cannot hear him, we see him, with both his hands out, and with the eagerness of youth, and with a hundred blunders, and with love and affection thrilling in his honest voice, we imagine the lad telling his tale to his friend.
There was a custom in those days which has disappeared from our manners now, but which then lingered.
When Harry had finished his artless story his friend the Colonel took him fairly to his arms, and held him to his heart; and his voice faltered as he said, "Thank God, thank God for this!"
"Oh, George," said Harry, who felt now he loved his friend with all his heart, "how I wish I was going with you on the campaign!" The other pressed both the boy's hands in a grasp of friendship, which, each knew, never would slacken.
Then the Colonel advanced, gravely holding out his hand to Harry's elder brother. But, though hands were joined, the salutation was only formal and stern on both sides.
"I find I have done you a wrong, Colonel Washington," George said, "and must apologise, not for the error, but for much of my late behaviour, which has resulted from it."
"The error was mine! It was I who found that paper in your room and showed it to George, and was jealous of you, Colonel. All women are jealous," cried Mrs. Mountain.
"'Tis a pity you could not have kept your eyes off my paper, Madame," said Mr. Washington. "You will permit me to say so. A great deal of mischief has come because I chose to keep a secret which concerned only myself and another person. For a long time George Warrington's heart has been black with anger against me, and my feeling towards him has, I own, scarce been more friendly. All this pain might have been spared to both of us had my private papers only been read by those for whom they were written. I shall say no more now, lest my feelings again should betray me into hasty words. Heaven bless thee, Harry! Farewell, George! And take a true friend's advice, and try to be less ready to think evil of your friends. We shall meet again at the camp, and will keep our weapons for the enemy. Gentlemen! if you remember this scene tomorrow, you will know where to find me." And with a very stately bow to the English officers, the Colonel left the abashed company, and speedily rode away.
We must fancy that the parting between the brothers is over, that George has taken his place in Mr. Braddock's family, and Harry has returned home to Castlewood and his duty. His heart is with the army, and his pursuits at home offer the boy no pleasure. He does not care to own how deep his disappointment is, at being obliged to stay under the homely, quiet roof, now more melancholy than ever since George is away. Harry passes his brother's empty chamber with an averted face; takes George's place at the head of the table, and sighs as he drinks from his silver tankard. Madame Warrington calls the toast of "The King" stoutly every day; and on Sundays when Harry reads the Service, and prays for all travellers by land and by water, she says, "We beseech Thee to hear us," with a peculiar solemnity.
Mrs. Mountain is constantly on the whimper when George's name is mentioned, and Harry's face frequently wears a look of the most ghastly alarm; but his mother's is invariably grave and sedate. She makes more blunders at piquet and backgammon than you would expect from her; and the servants find her awake and dressed, however early they may rise. She has prayed Mr. Dempster to come back into residence at Castlewood. She is not severe or haughty, as her wont certainly was, with any of the party, but quiet in her talk with them, and gentle in assertion and reply. She is forever talking of her father and his campaigns, who came out of them all with no very severe wounds to hurt him; and so she hopes and trusts will her eldest son.
George writes frequent letters home to his brother, and, now the army is on its march, compiles a rough journal, which he forwards as occasion serves. This document is read with great eagerness by Harry, and more than once read out in family councils on the long summer nights as Madame Esmond sits upright at her tea-table; as little Fanny Mountain is busy with her sewing, as Mr. Dempster and Mrs. Mountain sit over their cards, as the hushed old servants of the house move about silently in the gloaming and listen to the words of the young master. Hearken to Harry Warrington reading out his brother's letter!
"It must be owned that the provinces are acting scurvily by his Majesty King George, and his representative here is in a flame of fury. Virginia is bad enough, and poor Maryland not much better, but Pennsylvania is worst of all. We pray them to send us troops from home to fight the French; and we propose to maintain the troops when they come. We not only don't keep our promise, and make scarce any provision for our defenders, but our people insist upon the most exorbitant prices for their cattle and stores, and actually cheat the soldiers who are come to fight their battles. No wonder the General swears, and the troops are sulky. The delays have been endless. Owing to the failure of the several provinces to provide their promised stores and means of locomotion, weeks and months have elapsed, during which time no doubt the French have been strengthening themselves on our frontier and in the forts they have turned us out of. Though there never will be any love lost between me and Colonel Washington, it must be owned that your favourite (I am not jealous, Hal) is a brave man and a good officer. The family respect him very much, and the General is always asking his opinion. Indeed, he is almost the only man who has seen the Indians in their war-paint, and I own I think he was right in firing upon Mons. Jumonville last year."
Harry resumes: "We keep the strictest order here in camp, and the orders against drunkenness and ill behaviour on the part of the men are very severe. The roll of each company is called at morning, noon, and night, and a return of the absent and disorderly is given in by the officer to the commanding officer of the regiment, who has to see that they are properly punished. Each regiment has Divine Service performed at the head of its colours every Sunday. The General does everything in the power of mortal man to prevent plundering, and to encourage the people round about to bring in provisions. He has declared soldiers shall be shot who dare to interrupt or molest the market people. He has ordered the price of provisions to be raised a penny a pound, and has lent money out of his own pocket to provide the camp. Altogether he is a strange compound, this General, and shows many strange inconsistencies in his conduct.