Part 3 (1/2)
As my aunt made glad a.s.sent, I could scarcely refrain from dancing. I walked over to the little girl and took her hand in mine, filled with deep joy.
”You render me very grateful, Tom,” said Major Cross, heartily. ”It's a load off my mind.--Come, Philip, make your farewells. We must be off.”
”And isn't the child to be mine--to go with us?” the boy asked, vehemently.
”Why be childish, Philip?” demanded the Major. ”Of course it's out of the question.”
The English lad, m.u.f.fled up now for the ride, with his large flat hat pressed down comically at the sides by the great knitted comforter which Bob had tied under his chin, scowled in a savage fas.h.i.+on, bit his lips, and started for the door, too angry to say good-by. When he pa.s.sed me, red-faced and wrathful, I could not keep from smiling, but truly rather at his swaddled appearance than at his discomfiture. He had sneered at my ap.r.o.n, besides.
With a cry of rage he whirled around and struck me full in the face, knocking me head over heels into the ashes on the hearth. Then he burst into a fit of violent weeping, or rather convulsions more befitting a wild-cat than a human being, stamping furiously with his feet, and screaming that he _would_ have the child.
I picked myself out of the ashes, where my hair had been singed a trifle by the embers, in time to see the Major soundly cuff his offspring, and then lead him by the arm, still screaming, out of the door. There Bob enveloped him in his arms, struggling and kicking, and put him on the horse.
Major Cross, returning for a final farewell word, gave me a s.h.i.+lling as a salve for my hurts, physical and mental, and said:
”I am sorry to have so ill-tempered a son. He cannot brook denial, when once he fixes his heart on a thing. However, he'll get that beaten out of him before he's done with the world. And so, Tom, dear, dear old comrade, a last good-by. G.o.d bless you, Tom! Farewell.”
”G.o.d bless you--and yours, _mon frere_!”
We stood, Mr. Stewart and I, at the outer gate, and watched them down the river road, until the jutting headland intervened. As we walked slowly back toward the house, my guardian said, as if talking partly to himself:
”There is nothing clearer in natural law than that sons inherit from their mothers. I know of only two cases in all history where an able man had a father superior in brain and energy to the mother--Martin Luther and the present King of Prussia. Perhaps it was all for the best.”
To this I of course offered no answer, but trudged along through the melting snow by his side.
Presently, as we reached the house, he stopped and looked the log structure critically over.
”You heard what I said, Douw, upon your belonging henceforth to this house--to me?”
”Yes, Mr. Stewart.”
”And now, lo and behold, I have a daughter as well! To-morrow we must plan out still another room for our abode.”
Thus ended the day on which my story properly and prophetically begins--the day when I first met Master Philip Cross.
Chapter IV.
In Which I Become the Son of the House.
The French, for some reason or other, did not follow up their advantage and descend upon the lower Valley; but had they done so there could scarcely have been a greater panic among the Palatines. All during the year there had been seen at times, darkly flitting through the woods near the spa.r.s.e settlements, little bands of hostile Indians. It was said that their purpose was to seize and abduct Sir William; failing in this, they did what other mischief they could, so that the whole Valley was kept in constant alarm. No household knew, on going to bed, that they would not be roused before morning by savage war-cries. No man ventured out of sight of his home without entertaining the idea that he might never get back alive.
Hence, when the long-expected blow was really struck, and the town on the German Flatts devastated, everybody was in an agony of fear. To make matters worse, Sir William was at his home ill in bed, and there was some trouble between him and the English commanders, which stood in the way of troops being sent to our aid.
Those few days following the dreadful news of the attack above us seem still like a nightmare. The settlers up the river began sending their household goods down to Albany; women and children, too, pa.s.sed us in great parties, to take refuge in Fort Hunter or at Schenectady. The river suddenly became covered with boats once more, but this time representing the affrighted flight of whole communities instead of a peaceful commerce.
During this season of terror I was, as may be conceived, indeed unhappy. I had no stomach even for play with the new addition to our household, yet scarcely dared to show my nose outside the stockade. Mr. Stewart spent his days abroad, either with Sir William, or up at Caughnawaga concerting means of defence with our friends the Fondas. He did, however, find time to cross the river and rea.s.sure my mother, who trembled with apprehension for her great brood of young, but was brave as a lion for herself. Weeks afterward, when I visited her once more, I saw baskets of lime in the attic which this devoted woman had stored there, to throw with water on the Indians when they came. This device she had learned from the family traditions of her ancestors' doings, when the Spaniards were in Holland.