THE SACHEM DECIDES
A sibilant sound, the indrawing of many breaths, passed about the
wigwam. David, after a first horrified look at the awful trophies,
closed his eyes against the sight, faint and sick. For an instant the
scene rocked and swayed about him and he stretched forth a groping
hand for support. Then the tremor passed and a great and suffocating
anger swelled within him, and he opened his eyes again to see Metipom
leaning forward above the heads, his countenance set in a grim and
baleful smile. Wissataumkin, on his feet, looked down triumphantly. The
flat-faced Tamanso had the air of a conjuror after a successful trick.
Him they called Wompatannawa, alone of the three emissaries, showed no
emotion. Very straight he sat, his gaze fixed levelly over the heads of
the throng.
At sight of Monapikot, David’s wrath overflowed and he sprang to his
feet, one outstretched hand pointing accusingly at the Pegan.
“Traitor and renegade!” he cried. “This is your gratitude, then, this
your return for our trust and friendship! Mayhap those be fruit of
your treachery, Monapikot! Which of your benefactors have you slain?
Wompatannawa you call yourself? Hear a fitter name: Murderer! You who――”
Two braves beside him, at a sign from Metipom, seized him and bore him,
struggling, to the ground. His torrent of anger ceased only when a
knife touched his throat, and then, trembling, hot tears in his eyes,
he gave in.
“You no talk,” said one of the Indians grimly.
David swallowed hard, nodded, and, after a moment, muttered, “Winnet.”
When he looked, the sachem was addressing Monapikot. None, it seemed,
had heeded his outburst. Perhaps for the few who knew any English, save
Monapikot, his words had flowed too fast to be understood. When the
pounding of blood in his head would allow, he strove to hear what the
Pegan was saying to Metipom, for the former had arisen to his feet and
was speaking in Nipmuck.
“I know him not, Woosonametipom, nor ever saw him. Nor do I know how it
happens that an Englishman’s cub is present at this conference. Where
I come from, Great Sachem, we do not invite the enemy to our councils.”
There was a murmur about the wigwam, and Metipom scowled. “Since
when, O Wompatannawa, have the Niantic people, who no longer make
laws of their own, but follow the mandates of the Narragansetts as a
dog follows its master, begun to teach wisdom to others?” he asked
haughtily.
“The dog that is faithful bites its master’s enemies, O Sachem,”
replied the Pegan meaningly.
“And the dog who knows no master minds his own affairs,” said Metipom.
“My people eat from no one’s hand, O Young Man Wise Beyond Your Years.
Nor do they come or go at any’s bidding. The Wachoosetts owe no
allegiance to Philip. Nor do they bite without cause. If there be cause
now we shall see.” He turned to Wissataumkin. “Food shall be prepared
for you. May it do you much good. At sunset you shall have my answer.”
The emissaries from Philip arose and went out and all save the
counselors followed. David, too, would have departed, but the sachem
ordered him stayed, and presently the powwow was making talk with him.
“Great Sachem say what for you speak Niantic man?” he asked. “You know
um maybe?”
David hesitated. Then: “I do not know him. Anger caused me to speak.”
“What for you angry with him, David?”
David pointed at the withered heads at his feet. “Those, O Wise Powwow,
are the heads of my people. This man Wompatannawa is my enemy. Does not
one feel anger at his enemy?”
The medicine man translated the reply to the sachem, and the latter
grunted. Then:
“These men say King Philip makes war on the English and everywhere
defeats um. Say they run away like foxes before dogs. What you think?”
“I think they lie. Say to the Great Sachem that the English do not run
from their enemies. They stand and fight. If they are killed, they are
killed. But they do not retreat. Therefore the tale these men have
told is false to that extent. And if they lie of one thing, why not
of all? Before I was brought here the Nipmucks and the Narragansetts
had given their word to the English to remain their friends.” David
hoped that this was true, but did not know it. “It may be that a few
have dishonored that promise, but a few only. Say to the Great Sachem
that there can be but one outcome of a war between the English and the
Indians, and that when, as it will be, the English are victorious, then
much trouble will come for all who have shown themselves their enemies.
The English have many guns that shoot farther than an arrow can fly,
and many horses wherewith they can outdistance the fleetest runner.
They are many and the Indians few. If the Wachoosetts take arms against
them, many years of sorrow will follow.”
During David’s words Metipom kept his eyes on the boy’s face as though
seeking to read what thoughts lay behind it. And when the powwow had
again translated, the sachem was silent a moment, his gaze on the
ghastly tokens before him. Finally he raised his eyes to David and
pointed at the heads.
“What of those?” he asked in his own tongue.
“I have not said, O Sachem, that none of my countrymen have been
killed. Doubtless a few have fallen and a few are prisoners. But said
these messengers from Philip how many Indians have been killed? My
hand has two sides, and so has every tale.”
Metipom thrust his lower lip forth, shot a calculating glance at David
and nodded. So, too, did some of the counselors: and one spoke. It was
the aged Quinnapasso.
“The White Boy talks wise talk,” he quavered. “If Philip conquers, why
does he seek our help, Woosonametipom?”
At that many grunted and several spoke together until the sachem bade
them be silent. “Tell him to be gone,” he said, pointing at David.
“Tell him we will weigh what he has said.”
Outside, David drew a long breath of relief, thankful to be away from
the mournful sight of Philip’s tokens. As he sought his wigwam, he
strove to solve the puzzling mystery of Monapikot’s apparent defection.
Now that his spasm of anger had passed, something of his former belief
in his friend returned. After all, the heads proved nothing one way or
another. And although Pikot’s words to Metipom had seemed to encourage
the sachem to take sides with Philip, yet it might be that they had
been meant to have the other effect, to arouse in him a spirit of
obstinacy. Metipom was proud and self-willed, and might well resent
dictation. And Pikot’s bearing had warmed David’s old affection as,
straight and dignified and proudly contemptuous, he had dared the
sachem’s anger. In the wigwam David threw himself on his bed of skins
and, with his hands beneath his head, gazed at the hot, sun-smitten
roof above him and tried to find an answer to the riddle. After a while
the old squaw pattered in and would have made a fire, but David, far
from hungry, drove her forth, chattering, into the sunlight.
The heat put him to sleep at last, and when he awoke an hour or more
later John was squatting beside him, his pipe between his lips. David
lay a minute and watched the Indian’s face and wondered what thoughts
were passing behind that mask-like countenance. Presently, sighing for
weariness of the heat, David drew the Indian’s regard, and the latter
turned his grave eyes toward the boy.
“Much hot,” he grunted.
“Aye, John. Have Philip’s messengers departed yet?”
The Indian shook his head and pointed his pipe-stem toward the sky.
“Sun um high. No go so. Bimeby.”
“But――what time of the day is it?” asked David perplexedly. “I
thought――” His gaze encountered the glare outside the entrance and he
remembered and groaned. “’Tis yet but early afternoon,” he said. “Hast
heard what decision Metipom and his council will reach?”
John could not comprehend that and David turned it into his halting
Nipmuck.
Then: “Nay,” answered John, “they still talk. Their voices sound like
the cawing of many crows in the spring. The young men say one thing and
the old men another, and the Great Sachem sits and smokes his pipe and
listens.”
“What say the young men, brother?”
John cast a quick glance from the corners of his half-shut eyes and his
lips drew back at their corners in a snarling grin. “War!” he answered.
“Against the English?” David laughed shortly. “’Tis evident that their
choice is also yours, O Blind One.”
John muttered words that the other could not catch. Then: “I am not so
blind but that I can see my enemy,” he answered, frowning.
“The fox who fled from the sound ran into the trap. What you think is
an enemy is but a noise made by King Philip.”
“He is a great warrior and a sachem of much wisdom.”
“A great warrior he may be,” said David, “but his wisdom is that of a
gnat.”
John scowled and muttered.
“Philip has followed the advice of a few malcontents, and now, having
declared war and finding his mistake, he seeks help of the great
Metipom. The fox who fell into the pitfall called on the bear to help
him. So the bear jumped into the hole and the fox climbed out on his
back. Whereupon the bear called to him and asked: ‘And in what manner
do I escape, Master Fox?’ And the fox answered: ‘Why, that Brother
Bear, is a thing concerns me not. I bid you good-day!’”
“You speak for your people,” grumbled John. “I speak for mine. When the
wind blows two ways there is only dust.”
“Until one wind becomes the stronger, O Brother. Then the dust vanishes
and wise counsel prevails.”
The Wachoosett grunted. “My brother has many words,” he replied dryly,
and relapsed into silence.
Presently the heat became intolerable within the wigwam, and David
fared forth. About one of the lodges near the center of the village
many men were gathered, and amongst them David saw, as he drew near,
Pikot and his two companions. They sat a little apart, each smoking
gravely, and taking no part in the talk that was going on. Most of
those in the gathering were younger men, although here and there one
beyond fighting age hearkened to the discussion. David paused a little
from the edge of the throng and sought to catch Pikot’s eye, but while
the Pegan must have been aware of his presence he never so much as
glanced the boy’s way, and after a moment, since the Indians began to
regard him with disfavor, he went on.
From within the big wigwam of the sachem came the sound of a voice,
quavering, monotonous, and David recognized it for the voice of
Quinnapasso. As the boy passed beyond, the voice died away and in its
place came the deeper speech of another.
David found a place of shade near the gate of the palisade and
stretched himself down, and after a moment one of the yellow village
dogs crept toward him, wagging an ingratiating tail, and the boy for
loneliness called the sorry creature to him and patted him, at which
the dog, surprised as delighted with such uncommon kindness, licked his
hand and curled up against his body.
Slowly the sun neared the western slope of the hill and the heat
diminished, and David thought of food. The council yet continued and
the gathering near by was larger than before, with many squaws standing
about the fringe. Finding John, David made known his desire for food,
and then seated himself in the shade of the lodge to await the arrival
of the old crone. And while he sat there there came a stirring in
the village and a youth shouted shrilly, and the cry was taken up by
others. Then an Indian drum began to sound, and David, having arisen to
look, saw a dozen or more of the younger men stepping about in a wide
circle in ridiculous postures while the older men stood by applauding
with shouts and gestures. But the women had hurried to their houses,
and now David saw them dragging their goods outside the doors. The
drum went on monotonously and the boys, prancing and chanting in
high voices, formed in line and went weaving in and out between the
wigwams. David did not need the triumph in John’s face to tell him what
decision the sachem and his counselors had arrived at. The Indian came
striding toward him swiftly, his eyes sparkling.
“The Great Sachem has spoken,” he announced proudly. “We make war on
your people, O White Brother.”
David nodded indifferently. Then: “I am sorry,” he said. “The Fox has
had his way.”
When John had gone again and the old squaw was busied over David’s
meal, Sequanawah came. Silently he seated himself near by and dropped
tobacco into his pipe. When it was lighted and drawing he asked
soberly: “My brother has heard?”
“Aye, Sequanawah.”
The Indian smoked for a long moment. At last: “Battle is good,” he went
on. “Peace, too, is good. I do not know.”
“I wish your sachem had decided otherwise,” said David sadly. “The
English are too strong, Sequanawah, and when the war is past your tribe
will suffer with the rest. I am sorry.”
Sequanawah bowed. “My brother speaks what he believes is truth. He may
be right. The medicine men say not so. Their omens foretell great
victories, David.”
“That we shall see, O Sequanawah. But I grieve that this thing must
come between my brother and me.”
The Wachoosett bowed again and looked troubled. “Sequanawah sorrows,
too, O David. His heart is sad.” He emptied his pipe and arose.
“Farewell, brother.”
“So soon, Sequanawah? You take the trail to-night?”
“I know not at what hour, but ere morning I shall be gone. Farewell.”
Sequanawah turned and departed against the lingering glow of the sunset
and passed from David’s sight. The old squaw grumbled that his food
was ready and he bade her bring it forth to him there. While he ate,
the preparations for leaving went forward busily, and presently, as
twilight came, a great fire flared before the sachem’s lodge and more
drums beat, and painted braves, feathered and grotesque in the dancing
light of the flames, circled and howled and groaned and shook their
spears to the purpling, star-pricked sky.