The British Lady: Singin' Willie's Tale

Love and the Waggoner’s Lad

SHE were so dad charmin’!

Hit keeps your mind on the bright — jist the pure scarletty flash of her in the gloamin’ of thought: all in her young, brave, slim beauty — the high-born’d British Lady, callin’ of her balletty tune for her losted love-boy: —

' Sweet — sweet — sweet — Wil-li-um !'

Some they calls her the redbird. Ithers, some, down yander in the Bluegrass, they ’lows that her onc’t-terwas a proud card’nal preacher, girted in yan clair rid vestimint, with the bright poll bonnet, callin’ the peoples to prayer-song with yan sweet pitchypipe.

But I goes ’em one better in gospel truth, caiz I knows her own true seecrit.

She hitself done tole me hit, long ago, how her were thoroughbred a British Lady, what disguiseded her in thot fine-pretty reddy-coat of a soldier capting, for to ride to the wars like a man and hunt the wild deer of her heart.

Them were the long-away times behind the ole Revolutin’ War: back yander whar moughty Lord Braddock defeated hissclf in the Injun wildernis. Fiddler John kin saw ye the dyin’d tune of hit yit — the drummy-drums drumhlin’, the reddy-coats scarlettin’, the black-hawks howl’din’, and how-all young Capting Washin’un fit back the same favor of yan Injun divils.

Yea, hit were rightly the British Lady what defeated proud Lord Braddock, that-a-day!

Loved her, he did, back over the water tides in his own countree. Bowed down, he had, his lordly haid to before her leetle foot-slipper, for to buss her fine siller buckle. But his lovey British Lady nodded him Nay with her own proud-pretty haidpiece, while she gazed her eyes, beyand-over Lord Braddock’s shoulder, to the fair young sarvent lad was holtin’ his master’s sword, thar —Sweet Wil-lium, the Waggoner’s Boy, the slimstrong singer of ballet dreams.

And she nodded him Yea. . . .

Who-all kin norate the quar, sweet, foolish joy of terriblest love? . . .

Willie answered hit back, her Yea — stiller than stone.

But proud Lord Braddock casted a glint and heerd with his own eyes yan silentful ballet, was liltin’ thar betwixt the British Lady’s eyes and the eyes of the Waggoner’s Lad. And he riz up on his turndin’ heel, and he drewed the sword from hits sheaf in Willie’s hands, and he p’inted the blade plumb west, and he druv the fair Waggoner’s Boy clean afore him, out-over the fur wave tides, high on the rid-coated deck of his moughty war-ship, was outbound for Amerikee.

The Broken Heart-Leash

What-all is more sharperer to hide in your holler bosom than a loneless heart?

When your lovey of dreams is clean losted away, how-all kin ye holp but to hanker after, and to up and foller on the fur unknow’d trail?

This-yere proud British Lady stood up on the toppest tower of her ole castle roofbeam — sightin’ of her eyes fur off to the lastest gleam of her loveboy’s sail in the dyin’d of day.

Her maht have tooken her pick of the lord captings and the lord kings, ary and all in that ole British land of hern; but, stid o’ the hull pride of ’em, her heart had picked her the fair poor Waggoner’s Lad, was sailin’ thar into a wild new world, under his angery master’s will.

The last sail died out away.

Then the British Lady stept down of her toppest tower, and run to her chamber room, and tored off her lady gown’d, and coated and vested her all in scarletty red, the likes of a lord soldier capting, and her laigs britchened in slick-long leathery boots, and her fine-purty haars tucked up in a piedy cockade. And that-a-way her commandered anither gret ship set sail, with her hit self in the wind-blow’d wings, and follered after in yander heart-rid wake of her Waggoner’s Boy — on and on, over the awfulsome tides, to fur Amerikee.

But afore she’d retched to the western cornder o’ the world and set her foots on yan new airth, Lord Braddock he’d marched his reddy-coat army plumb off to High Verginny and the tall-deep crick-timbers of Pennsylvany, for to harrer the wild Black Hawks in the Injun wars.

Ilot-angery yit were gret Lord Braddock in his fiery pride, ferwhy the British Lady she’d nodded him Nay, and given over the clair love in her eyes to his low-born’d ballet-singin’ sarvent boy, instid to his high master hisself.

And so were why he made Sweet Wil-li-um for to be the haid-carter of his ’stab’lary waggons, and commandered him to hitch his hosscs and driveon his army cart, a seven-day trail ahead of him, on into the wildernis, the same of a poor waggoner’s lad like he’d ben in his ole British island kingdom.

That-a-way proud Lord Braddock aimed he’s raht smart vingeance his jealousy heart agin the cruel British Lady’s disdainfulmint.

Then Sweet Wil-li-um he tuck a long, tough ravel-leash of his broken’d heart, and made him thereof his waggonin’ whip, and cracked hit in the darkle of dawn, like the gret humtwang of a burstin’ fiddlestring, and lilted to his hosses on yander lonesome trail into the wildernis: —

‘All Saddl’t and Bridl’t’

So thar, a seven-day len’th behind of that lone ballet song, Lord Braddock is goned into the Injun wars. And under the high-tall crick-timber his drumblin’ drums drumbled more deeperer than a thousand of pa’ttidge birds; and his reddy-coats’ bay’netp’ints outflashed the buck deers’ horns; and his pieded flags flowed and fluttered more gayider than the ridbud blooms, was flamin’ in the ambers of sun-up.

But away-y fur behinder, the highborn’d British Lady was mounted down offen her high ship-deck by the salt tide shore, and hasted her after, huntin’ of the unknow’d trails.

Nigh and fur, she axed for her losted Willie boy, who-all mought a-heerd his waggoner whip crackin’ his broken’d heart in the dawny air. And some answered her here, and some answered her yander.

And from one she boughtened a ridroan steed, all saddl’t and bridl’t; and forthly she rid towards the hightail crick-timbers, on and on, in the westward.

And thar her scarletty coat and her cresty pied cockade pranked purtier than the rid-pinks of the flaxreed flowers in the crick froth dapples, where she forded her naggie high-over her sterrup tops.

And allers and everly while she rid, she beaked her rid-rosy lips and callt her loverin’ cry: —

‘ Sweet — sweet — sweet — Wil-li-um!'

So charmful she were — the slim proud British Lady, togged all in her young lord boy-traps, right smart these-yere wildin’ honey-bees come around her haid in a dawzzle swarm, answerin’ yan sweet cry of her lipses, like herself were a singin’ tulipflower.

Yit none of an answer come back from her own Sweet Willie, was drivin’ his waggon team, fur on the losted trails, liltin’ his lonesomey tune: —

Lord Braddock’s Defeat

But the days rid allers on till the night darks. And the timber darks was shaddersome with ghosty foxfires and the barkin’d of gret beastes. And the lightnin’ storms come adown, mid of the wild thonders. And the lovey British Lady spattered and fell in the deep pit o’ black mires, (Yea, and that mirey black hit streakles her reddycoat yit and the veiny fringes of her timple brows!) And thar, at-a-last, her had plumb losted her fine-pretty steed, and squantered she did, on foot, all by her lone, to the nixt grey uppin’ of dayrise, where she sot stock-down on a gret low-flat stone, weepin’ her eyes in the fog-mist.

Yan gret flat rock were shore the dogtrot o’ Hell. For outen a grey misty door here come now the ole Deevil Black Man hisself, in the favor of a fearsome hawk-bird, treadin’ of his moughty toe-p’inters, and hunched hisself down to beside the British Lady.

‘ What-fer why is you weepin’, lovey?’ says the gret Black Hawker.

’I’s Iosted!’ says the British Lady. ‘Who-all kin bring me yander to proud Lord Braddock and his ReddyCoats ? ’

‘Hit’s me and my Grackle-Crows kin bring ye to yander,’ answers the ole Black Hawker.

And thar he shrillied from his neb a quare deep cry, which hit war answered back by a gret creakly crackerin’ noise, the likes of holler rib-bones tinklin’ on a windy gallers-tree, arter a last-year lynchin’.

And lo, here come outen the fogdawn sech a ghasty shadder-flock of scritchin’ grackle-birds what hit plumb froze the British Lady’s heart in a solid of ice.

Then beholt, the gret Hawk Deevil riz up the slim proud lady on his black shoulder-wings, and flowed off with her over the high timber tops, amid yan hellyon army of crackerin’ crowbirds, in a purply cloud-squall.

All day long they flowed into the westerin’ sundown, till thar they descended amiddist of an Injun powwow on the verges of an ambush bottom, narrer betwixt two slanty timber ridges. For thar the gret Black Hawker moulted his favor and becomed to a moughty Sachem, and round of him his army of grackle crowbirds become to a feathery possel of Injun divils, which they limb-danced thar afore their Black Hawk chief and his scarletty squaw-woman — the young, slim, captivated British Lady.

Till now, on suddent, they hushened as still ... as still as the stillsome timber hitself, and listened all to north’ard.

Drums — drums — drums — drumblin’ to north’ard!

Quiet war the crackerin’ crows. . . .

Fifes — fifes — fifes — flutin’ so gaysome!

Hush were the gret Black Hawker.

Bay’net-knives — bay’nets — shinedin’ so steely glintsome!

Still war the British Lady — fearsome white in her scarletty vest. . . .

Flags — flags — piedin’ so fearless fair!

‘ Death!’ boomered the Black Hawker.

‘Death!’ shracked the shreakin’ grackle-crows.

‘Death!’ howl’cled the high timber to the tommyhawks.

‘Death!’ groan’ded the proud Lord Braddock in his scarlet blood. ‘Cuss o’ my death to a cruel British Lady! ’

‘Death!’ moan’cled the British Lady hitself — so fearsome white in her reddy-coat. ‘But whar-all is him— my Waggoner Boy?’

‘Sweet — sweet — sweet — Willy-0!'

‘Hit’s Black Hawk shall be fer your Waggoner Boy!' hollered the Sachem Deevil. ‘To wing, thar! To wing, ag’in! On into the sundown, yander! ’

And yander ag’in the wild Hawk Deevil riz up the slim red lady on his black shoulder-wings, and flowed off with her over the high timber tops, amiddist his army of hellyon gracklebirds — into the downin’ sunball: on into the blood-rid death-dyin’ of yander day.

But beyander — and everly beyander — on the lonesome night-trails into the long dark, the fur-off voice of her Waggoner’s Lad riz up back onc’t more to the British Lady, and her heart could hern hit, liltin’ up slow and eerie, outen the deep still wildernis: —

Rehoboth Water

How-all doos I know hit, my fellers?

Where-all did I heerd hit — thisyere seecrit true heestery of the British Lady, with her loverers, lord-born’d and low-born’d?

In my cornlikker, says you?

Nay, sirree, friend rounders! My cornlikker were the end-death of hit, but the likker of anither shinedin’ sperrits were the beginnin’-life.

Not Cornlikker, hit warn’t; but Rehoboth Water, hit were, whereby yan revealment come unto me, like a flash o’ blessidnis outen the ole Bible well.

Friend Preachin’ Charlie he kin sarmon ye whar rightly hit lays in the Bible — Rehoboth Well, which that Isaac he digged in Ginesis, Isaac, the sprig of old Abraham, how-all the Scriptur’ hit says: —

‘And he removed from thence and digged anither well; and for that they strove not, he called the name of hit Rehoboth, and he says: For now the Lord has made room for us, and us’ns shall be fruitful in the land.'

Yea, for that they strove not, and the warrin’ of men and beastes is all over and done and still in the breasts of their sperrit, and room fer us’ns all to be fruitful; so therefore is Rehoboth Water purely the spring o’ life to the preacher-prophets and the poeters and the low-born ballet-dreamerers, which they is publicans to the squanterin’ bird-tribes, and sinners with the leetle beauty-suckin’d bees and the it her wild divil beastes, and has speech with ’em all, heart fer heart, on the mountainy lonesome trails.

And so hit were how a still Pine Mount’in angel, onc’t of a stair-glisty night, come awanderin’ back home from the ole Ginesis well of Palestine, where he’d filled him his britch-bottle thar, and sot him down by a leetle pool holler on Gib Branch, and tuck hit out fer a swig, his clair bottle-flask, and spilt down seven sacrid draps of yan ole Rehoboth Water in this-yer new-world pool, wipin’ of his angel lipses.

So everly sence that bohappened, yander Gib Branch pool is ben the baptizin’ fount fer all the mountainy preachers of ourn, whar they brings their come-to-Christers fer the hully immersin’, and raises ’em up thar outen Rehoboth Water to a new-born’d life of the sperrit body, clean shet o’ the ole flesh.

Leetle a ways hit lies from my own home cabin, yan still crick pool — like conscience in the bosom of man: like clair meditation in the imagin’ heart of God. And thar I war settin’ my lone in ridbud warm time, betwixt my cornlikker flask and my dulcimore, belist’nin’ the drap-drip of Rehoboth Water tricklin’ over the rock aidge down, when hit riz up outen my heart, like a fur-off mimory, yan ole lilt o’ The Waggoner’s Lad; and I picked my dulcimore, and I sung’d hit thar out-aloud, dreamsy and slowsadful: —

’sweet Wil-li-um’

All suddent, then, from the high timber, I heerd a piercin’d cry-call: —

And lo, here come on the wing a scarletty red-bird, dodgin’ her down and tackin’ ziggyzag, and beholt — pinnin’ her close to behind — war a gret black hawk, makin’ his pitch to fast her with his claw-p’inters, till whizzz! —plumb down her made a wild dive-dip in-under the clair pool water, and riz ag’in up outen the shore shallers.

But thar — dad bless my startin’d eyes! — her riz up now fresh-born’d in the slim proud favor of a British lady, girted in a shinedin’ reddy-coat, the likes of a young lord soldier capting, and her laigs britchcned in slim-long leathery boots, and her fine-purty haars crestin’ a piedy cockade. — And thata-way she sprang’d, berry-bright, on the green banks, retchin’ of her quick arms to me-wards, and threwed herself spang on the bosom o’ mine, cryin’ ag’in her sobbin’d lovely call: —

But the gret black hawk swarved up back from yan clair Rehoboth Water, and perchened hisself on the bough of a daid pitch-pine tree, and hollered a shrill Quaw-owk! which hit were answered by moughty a creakly crackerin’ of grackle-birds, that purpl’t the timber, high-round of the ole Black Hawker, peakin’ of their cockin’d eyes centr’ably downover on the British Lady, was sobbin’ her heart in my arms thar.

Yea, sich hit war how she tole to me, leetle and more, the seccrit tale of her heestery what’s outed here, and howall, for a hundred year and over, her had peeked and pined her heart in the captivation of yan old Black Hawk Deevil, everly huntin’ of the mount’in-ivy trails for her losted Waggoner’s Lad, till — lastest. last! — she’d heern now the lilt of his ballet-song by thisyere Rehoboth Pool, and dive-dipped the pure water, and riz up on her Singin’ Willie’s breast, newborn’d and salvationed. . . .

Yea, then! Were I, Singin’ Willie, fer shore her own Sweet Wil-li-um? Me — her losted Waggoner’s Boy! And her, she’d nodded me her love, in dispite of proud Lord Braddock, that druv me to the ole wars? And me, had I cracked the leash o’ my broken’d heart in the dawny air, long ayander?

Seemed hit were so: seemed hit nacherlv all were purely so! Yit how-fer to nacherly prove hit ?

For who-all kin bescribe imagical love? Or who-all kin weave him a sightful garmint for the moughty wonder of the leetle words of love? Yea, evenly by words, kin the ballet live on, and hits music still? Mimory — is not hit losted music, found? Beauty—is not hit woven’d mimory?

Us spoke leetle words togither— the lovey British Lady and me. Us balleted sweet mimories togither thar, by Rehoboth Pool. Us lived in yan sperrit of beauty togither, and hits music welled up clair and baptizied us’ns in the everlasterin’ waters.

But the tale of hit all is dumb; for the deepest stillness war the best of hit.

Us paced togither the wet-green laurel trails — her in her searletty gear, all of a waxberry bright, and me in my woodmouse grey, drumblin’ my cedarv dulcimore. (Yea, and still the mircy marks of the ole saddle-ride streakled yit her coaty and swallertail and the fringes of her timple brows!)

But everly over our haids they peaked thar down, and glared us with their burdin’ eyes — the fearsome ole Black Hawker and his Grackle Deevils.

Why-fer did I heedance them fearsome eyes? What-fer why did I strive agin them back?

Yea, wherefer did I fergit ole Isaac, that digged him his Bible well; ‘and for that they strove not, he called the name of hit Rehoboth . . . for now the Lord has made room for us, and us’ns shall be fruitful!’

But I could n’t no more to bear hit, how allers them Deevils wntched her with their hatesome eyes, aimin’ fer to captivate her back away from me — this British Lady, so lovey she were, so dad charmin’, thar, in her purty fine cockade!

All suddent, so jealous I were, and anger-hearted, that I clean fergitted the onliest spell what could ward away off sich divils and keep my love salvationed — yan hully spell of Rehoboth Water — the ole still spring of meditation. . . .

’Dod blether ye, ole Black Hawker!’ I hollered him, up on his daid pitchpine bough. ‘And you uns, too, ye divilsome graekle-crows! Hold off your leerin’ eves, thar, offen my slim proud lady!’

And I grabbed up my cornlikker flask, aimin’ for to biggen the anger in my blood. And I tipped hit to my lipses and swallered.

But to that the British Lady quicken me a quar frighty look, and started her hand to the flask-bottle, which hit spilled, jerkin’, and threwed nine draps o’ cornlikker plumb in the still waters of Rehoboth Pool.

That-a-way the green bright world darked nigh out; and I heerd a quare splashin’ in the waters, like a thousand of wing-fowl were divin’ and dippin’; and nextly I heern a horriblest Quawowk! and the moughty wings of the Black Hawker spattered me by, wet with the pizened waters; and the dark were creaklin’ with a crackerin’ whirl, dyin’d away off and offer, and tharamiddist come back a fur, sobbin’d cry-call: —

‘O, sweet — sweet — sweet — Wil-li-um!’

Never sence that minute, when them nine draps o’ the Deevil pizened out the sacrid seven o’ the Angel in yan still Rehoboth Water — never sence, has the lovey British Lady riz up thar, outen the shallers ag’in, in the favor of yan scarletty soldier capting, with the piedy cockade.

But times when the turndin’ year comes round onc’t more to the bloomin’ of ivy laurel and the creaklin’ o’ gracklebirds, and I sets my lone by the still water, I hears onc’t ag’in the drumblin’ pa’ttidge drums, and the toodalong fifes, and the death-dyin’ quawk! quawk! and spies the flutterin’ bloom o’ the ridbud flags, and the bright waxberry blood-draps, on yan ole trail of proud Lord Braddock’s Defeat.

And tharamid I catches the glint of her own rcddy-coat — the fine-purty reddy-coat of my losted love, so charmful she were, and yit is! — the wanderin’ British Lady, huntin’ the long trails still for her Waggoner’s Lad, aimin’ for to hear his ole ballet rise ag’in acrosst the unpizened pool of Rehoboth Water.

And so I never fetches thar my cornlikker flask, nary ag’in, to yander stillsome place. But, slid, I packs my cedary dulcimore, aimin’ for to unbewitch thar yan nine divilish draps and ristore the angel seven.

And mebbe so I will. And mebbe her hitself will come ag’in to my heart breast thar, when I picks the quiet strings — like the fur crack of a waggoner’s whip in the dawny air — and lilts to her this-yere last of her own Sweet Wil-li-um’s ballet: —