The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 15, 1903, Page 1

X the IMaster of A It is a Colon- d the author : d in the way he kee g situations tum- blir xciting episodes. T 3 e Stair love Jenni- £ Francis Falconnetor‘“the w f Appleby?” If you 1e problem before the T you are almost as ard as the author. E 4 Bowen-Merril HET EWORD a was J Cap MY FATHER'S almost riding Falconnet's 0 eager. I say that might matter of " I rejoined. int your prin- Let it be to- n the oak er's wood ade. And r Jennifer; yragging captain of in of any I would a ver nifer flung himself from his “But enough 1 2 near the newest? since the post But I riders a eymen have had rowallis is come as y: and Colonel awba.” is like to m, I take it.” curiously. 'Grit Indian fighter; say that. But tch Cornwallls. north.” <hot. “Nay, John fear me, though I 2t captain’s next re about the Baron than anybody else in ow ™ de r eise the gossips they connect me with with any other of they saying?” t from the Bar- 0 see what you *Tis cut I've eh? lad de cut of whole cloth, never took the oath my ther & “oe JoRsES TR Jir 2ARRTR T 1IG LiAP’ 7 A King and Congress, you o quarrel of mine.” John Ireton!” he r of youthful en- nade him all the hand- never thought to hear pray? d my The King’s min- father and gave on’s minion, Gii- your declara- Tryon, h estate to bert Stair. So, e son of the Roger Ireton, and this same rt Stair firmly lodged in my father's nifer shrugged in his turn. Ibert Stair—for sweet Madge's sake loath to say it—Gilbert Stair blows or cold as the wind sets or stormy. And I will say this for m: no other Tryon legatee of them all s steered so fine a course through these last five upsetting years. How he trims skillifully no man knows. A short month since he had General Rutherford rd Colonel Sumter as guests at Appleby ) dred; now it is Sir Francis Falcon- net and the British light horse officers who are honored. But let him rest; the cause of independence is bigger than any or any man’s private quarrel, friend and 1 had hoped—"" 1 laid a hand on his knee. “Spare your- self, Dick. My business in Queensborough was to learn how best 1 might reach Mr, Rutherford's rendezvous.” For a moment he sat, pipe in air, star- ing at me as if to make sure that he had heard aright. Then he clipt my hand and wrung it, babbling out some boyish brava that I made haste to put an end to. 4 “Softly, my 1ad,” T said; *“’tis no great thing the Congress will gain by my ad- hesion. But you, Richard; how comes it that 1 find you taking your ease at Jennifer House and hobnobbing with his Majesty's officers when the cause you love is still in such desperate sjraits?” He blushed like a girl at that and for = little space only puffed the harder at his pipe. “I did go out with the Minute Men in ‘76, if you must know, and smelled pow- der at Moores Creek. When my time was Gone I wonld have 'listed again, but fust m ather ‘died and the Jennifer ke to go to the dogs, lack- So I came home and— at that my acres were ing oversight. and"— He stopped in some embarrassment, and 1 thought to help him on. “Nay, out with it, Dick. If I am not thy father, I am near old enough to stand in his stead. 'Twas more than husbandry that rusted the sword in its scabbard, I'll be bound.” “You are right, Ja and le he confessed, shamefacedly. “'Twas this same Margery Stair. As I have said, her father blows hot or cold as the wind sets, but not sne. She is the fiercest little Tory in the two Carolinas, bar none. When I had got Jennifer in order and began to talk of 'listing again she flew into a pretty rage and stamped her foot and all but swore that Dick Jen- nifer in buff and blue should never look upon her face again with her good will.” 1 had a glimpse of Jennifer the’lover as he spoke, and the sight went some- what on the way toward casting out the devil of sullen rage that had possessed me sinee first I had set returning foot in this my native homeland. 'Twas a life lacking naught of hardness, but much of human mellowing, that lay behind the home-coming; and my one sweet friend in all that barren life was dead. What wonder, then, if 1 set this frank faced Richard in the other Richard's stead, hing him all the happiness that poor Dick Coverdale had missed? I needed little; would need still less, I thought, before the war should end, and through this love match my lost estate would come at length to Richard Jennifer. It was ameliorating thought, and while it held I could be less revengeful. “Dost love her, Dick?’ I asked. “Aye, and have ever since she was in pinafores, and I a hobbledehoy in Master Wytheby's school.” “So long? I thought Mr. Stair was & later comer in Mecklenburg. He came eight years ago, as ome of Tryon’s underlings. Madge was even then motherless; the same little willful prat-a-pace she has ever been. I would you knew her, Jack. 'Twould make this shiftiness of mine seem less the thing it ‘twas both more “So you have stayed at home a-court- ing while othérs fought to give you lels- ure,” said I, thinking to rally him. But he took it harder than, I teant. e ‘"Tis just that, Jack; and I am falr ashamed. While the fighting kept to the ) '] S North it did not grind o0 keen; but now, with the redcoats at our doors and the Torles sacking and burning in every set- tlement, 'tis enough to flay an honest man alive. God-a-mercy, Jack! I'll go; T've, got tongo, or die of shame!” He sat silent after that, and as there seemed’ nothing that a curst old com- paigner could say at /such a pass, I bore him company. By and by he harked back to the mat- ter of his errand, making some apology for his coming to me as the Baronet's second. ‘"Twas none of my free offering, you may be sure,” he added. *“‘But it so hap- pened that Captain Falconnet once did ‘me a like turn. I had chanced to run afoul of that captain of Hesslan pigs, Lauswol- ter, at cards, and Falconnet stood my friend—though now I bethink me, he did seem ‘over anxious that one or the other of us should be killed.” “As how?" I inquired. “When Lauswoulter slipped and T might have spitted him, and didn't, Falconnet was for having us make the duel a l'ou- trance. But that's beside the mark. Hav- ing served me tien, he makes the point that I shall serve him now.” “'Tis a common courtesy and you could not well refuse. I love you none the less for paying your debts, even to such a villain as this volunteer captain.” “True, 'tis a debt, as you say; but I like little enough the manner of its pay- ing. How came you to quarre¥ with him, Jack?" Now, even so blunt'a soldier as I have ever been may have some prickings of delicacy where the truth might breed gossip—gossip about a tale which I had said should die with Richard Coverdale and be burfed in his grave. So I evaded the question, clumsily enough, as has ever been my hap in fencing with words. “The ‘cause was not wanting. If any ask, ‘you may say he trod upon my foot in passing.” Jennifer laughed. “And for that you struck him’ feav- ens, man!i:you hold your life carelessly. Do you happen to know that this.velun- teer captain of light horse accounted the best blade-insthe troop?” “Who should know.that better than"— I was, fairly on the brink of the true cause of the quarrel, ‘but drew rein In time. “I care not If he were the best in the army. .I have crossed steel beforc—and with & good swordsman now and then.” 3 ““Anan?”’ sald Jennifer, .as one who makes no doubt. ,And then: toe pinching story is “But .this -a dry crust to her. But I know not who she is nor aught about her, save that she is sweet and fair and good to look upon.” “Young?" “Aye. “And you say you do not know her? Let me see her through your eyes and mayhap I can name her for you.” “That I cannot. Mr. Peale's best skill would be none too great for the paint- ing of any picture that should do her justice. But she is small, with the alrs and graces of a lady of the quality; also she has witching blue eyes and hair that has the glint of summer sunshine in it. Also, she sits a horse as if bred to the saddle.” To my amazement, Jennifer leaped up with an oath and flung his pipe into the fire. “Curse him!” he cried. “And he dared lay a foul tongue to-her, you say? Tell me what he sald! I have a good right to know!” I shook my head. *“Nay, Richard; I may not repeat it to you, since you are the man’'s second. Truly, there {s more than this at the back of our quarrel; but of itself it was enough, and more than endugh, inasmuch as the lady had just do: him the honor to recognize him.” “His words—his very words, Jack, if you love me!”’ 0; the quarrel is mine.” By God! it is not yours!” he stormed, raging back and forth before the fire. “What is Margery Stair to you, Jack Ireton?” I smiled, beginning now. to see some peephole in this millstone of mystery. “Margery Stair? She is no more than a name to me, I do assure you; the daugh- ter of the man who sits in my father's seat at Appleby Hundred.” “But you are going to fight for her!" he retorted. “Am 1? I pledge you my word I aid not know it. But in any case I should fight Sir Francis Falconnet; aye, and do my best to kill him, too. Sit you down and fill another pipe. Whatever the quar- rel, it is mine.” “Mayhap; but ityis mine, t0oo,” he broke In, angrily. “At all events I'll see this King's volunteer well hanged before I sec- ond him in such a cause.” “That as_you choose. But you are botnd in honor, are you not?” . “No.” He filled a fresh pipe, lighted it with a coal from the hearth, and puffed away in silence for a time. When he spoke again It was not as Faiconnet's next friend. “What you have told me puts & new face on the matter, Jack. Sir Francis may find him enother second where he can. If he has aught to say, I shall tell him plain lie lied to me about the quar- rel, as he did. Now, who'is there to see fair play on, your side, John Ireton?” . At the question an overwnelming sense of my own gorry case ppled me. Fif- teen years before I left Appleby FHundred and my native province as well befriended as the =on of Roger Ireton was sure to be.. And Row— ¢ “Dick, my lad, I am like to fight again_ at that; and. here, lest 1 should draw my loyal Richard as he onco for all, that . was not, let me say. his oaths were but the outgushbings of & warm and impulsive heart, rarely bllla‘r. and never, as I belleve, backed by surly rancor or conscious irreverence. “That you shall not, Jack,” he ”m::xi stoutly. “I must be a-gallop no_w to o this King’s captain to look nlsewhere’ his next friend; but to-morrow mornu;llg T'll meet you in the road bel'ween -y and the Stair outlands, and we 11 fare o together.” ifzer this he would brook no more %?— lay; and when Tomas had fetched s horse I saw him mount and ride away under the low-hanging maples—-w&lcbag him fairly out of sight in the green ‘nn gold twilight of the great forest bd‘siol;: turning back to my lonely hearth and { ber reminders. Sb!mstirred the dying embers, throwing on a pine knot for better light. Then I took down my father's sword from its deer- horn brackets over the chimneypiece, u.n: set myself to fine its edge and point ‘"(d a bit of Scotch whinstone. It was a 00 blade—a true-old Andrea Ferrara got in battle in the seventleemh century by one Nottingham Iretons. o!I tv‘:;et(ed i(‘well and carefully. It was not that I feared my enemy's strength of wrist or tricks of fence; but fighting had been my trade, and he is but a poor craftsman who looks not well to see that his tools are in order against their time of using. : | CHAPTER IL WHICH KNITS UP SOME BROKEN NDS. was in the autumn of the year "84, nsnl was coming of age, that my father made ready to send me to England. Him- self a conscience exile from Episcopal Virginia, and a descendant of those Not- tingham Iretons whose best-known son fought stoutly against church and king under Oliver Cromwell, he was yet will- ing: to humor my bent and to use the interest of my mov.lt_::‘r'- family to enter n the king's service. m;c‘cordlnsly. I took ship at Norfolk for “home,” as we called it in those days; and,, after a stormy passage and over- much waiting as. my cousin’s guest In Lincolnshire, had my pair of colors in the Scots - Blues, lately home from garrison duty in the Canadas. . Of the life in barracks of a young en- sign with little wit and less wisdom, with more guineas in his purse than was good for him, the less said the better. But of this you may like to know that, what with a-good, father’s example and a small heritage of Puritan decency come down to me from the sound hearted old Round- head ‘stock, I won out of that devil's sponging house, .an army in time of peace, with somewhat less to my score than others had to theirs. It wag In this barrack life that I came to know Richard Coverdale and his evil genius, the man Francis Falconnet. Cov- erdale was an ensign in my own regiment and we were sworn friends from the first. His was a clean soul and a brave; and it was to him that I owed escape from many of the grosser chargings on that score above named. As, for Falconnet, he was even then a ruffier and a bully, though he was not of the army. He was a younger son, and .{ that time there were two lives between him and the baronetcy; but with a moth- er's bqueathings to purchase idleness and to gild his iniquities, he was a falr ex- ample of the jeunesse doree of that Eng- land; a lbertine, a gamester, a rakehell; brave as a tiger is brave, and to the full as pitiless. He was a boon compaaion of the officers’ mess, and for a time—and purpose—posed as Coverdale’s friend, and mine. Since I would not tell my poor Dick’s story to Richard Jennifer, I may not set it down in cold words here for you It was an age-old tragic comedy of a false friend’s treachery and a woman's weak- ness; a duel, and the wrong man slain And you ma: that Falcon- net’'s most me n it was the part he played one 3 mber morning when he put F 4 Coverdale to the wall and ran hrough. As you have guessed, [ was Coverdale's next friend and second in this affalr, and but for the upsetting news of tha Tyron tyranny in Carolina—news which reached me on the very day of the meet- ing—I should there and then have call the slayer to his account. How my father, who, Presbyterian and Ireton though he was, had always been of the King’s side, came to espouse the cause of the “Regulators,” as they called themselves, I know not. In my youthful memories of him he figures as the feudal lord of his own domain more absolute than many of the petty kinglings I came afterward to know In the German marches. But this, too, I remember, that while his rule at Appleby Hundred was stern and despotic enough, he was ever ready to lend a willing ear to any tale of oppression. if what men say of the tyrant Tryon tax gatherers and law éourt robbers be more than balf truth, for any honest there was d gentleman to oppc k ‘What that op now a tale tw the me to in ‘Tl is Taken in arms rity, and receiving, m e and less mercy father had little justi accorded him. With m: ers he was outlawed, his estates were declared for- feit, and a few days later he, with Ben- jamin Merrill and four ore captivated at the Alamance, was given some farce of a trial and hanged. ‘When the news of this came to me you may well suppose that I had no heart to continue in the service of the King who could sanction and reward such villainies as these of the butcher Willlam Tryon. So I threw up my lieutenant’s commis- sion in the Blues, took ship for the Con- tinent, and, after wearing some half dozen different uniforms in Germany, was Jucky enough to come at length to ser- viceable blows under my oid field mar- shal on the Turkish frontier. Tc you of a younger generation, born in the day of swift mail coaches and well- kept postroads, the slowness with which our laggard news traveled in that elder time must needs seem past belief. It was early In the year 1 before I began to hear more than vague camp fire tales of the struggle going on between the col- onies and the mother country; and from that to setting foot once more upon the soil of my native Carolina was still an- other year. What I found upon landing at New Berne and saw while riding a jog-trot thence to the Catawba was a province rent and torn by partisan warfare. Though I came not once upon the parti- sans themselves in all that long faring, there were trampled flelds and pillaged houses enough to serve as milestones; and in my native Mecklenburg a mine full charged, with slow-mateh well alight for its firing. Charleston had fallen, and Colonel Tarleton’s outposts were already wide- spread on the upper waters of the Broad and the Catawba. Thus it was that the first sight which greeted my eyes when I rode into Queens- borough was the famillar trappings of my old service, and I was made to know that in spite of Mr. Jefferson’s hold- ly written Declaration of Independence, and that earlier casting of the King's yoke by the patriotic Mecklenburgers themselves, my boyhood home was for the moment by sword right a part of his Majesty's province of North Carolina. You are not to suppose that these things moved me greatly. As yet I was chiefly concerned with my own affair and anx- fous to learn at first hands the cost to me of my father's connection with the Regulators. Touching this, I was not long kept in ignorance. Of all the vast demesne of Appleby Hundred there was mo roof to shelter the son of the outlawed Roger Ireton save that of this poor hunting lodge in the mighty forest of the Catawba, overlooked, with the few runaway blacks fmhabiting it, in the intaking of an estate so large that I think not even my father knew all the metes and bounds of it. I shall not soon forget the Interview with the lawyer, In which I was told the inhospitable truth. Nor shall I forget his truculent leer when he hinted that I had best be gone out of these parts, since it was not yet too late to bring the sen- tence of outlawry from the father to the son. It was well for him that I knew not af the time that he was Gilbert Statr’s faoce tor. For I was mad enough to have throt« tled him where he sat at his writing table, matching his long fingers and smirking at me with his evil smile. But of this man more in his time and place. His name was Owen Pengarvin. I would have you remember it. For & week and a day I lingered on af Queensborough, for what I knew not, save that all the world seemed suddenly to have grown stale and profitless, and my life a thing of small account. One day I would be minded to go back to my old fleld marshal and the keeping of the Turkish border; the next I would ride over some part of my stolen heritags and swear a great oath to bide till I should come to my own again. And on these alternating days the storm of black rage filled my horizons and I became a derelict to drive on any rock or shoal in this un- charted sea of wrath. On one of these gallops farthest afleld I chanced upon the bridlepath that led to our old hunting lodge in the forest depths. Tracing the path to its end among the maples 1 found the cabin, so lightly touched by time that the mere sight of it carried me swiftly back to those happy days when my father and I had stalked the white-talled deer In the hill glades beyond, with this log-bullt cabin for a rest camp. I spurred up un- der the.low-hanging trees. The door stood wide and a thin wreath of blue smoke curled upward from the mouth of the wattled chimney. Then and there I had my first welcome home. Old black Larius—old when I had last seen him at Appleby Hundred, and a very grandsire of anclents now—was ons of the ruraways who made the for- est lodge a refuge. He had been my father's body servant and, notwithstande