MONAPIKOT’S MESSAGE
Far into the night the war-dance continued. As men tired and dropped
from the circle that revolved about the leaping fire, others took their
places. Squaws, seated together near at hand, cried their warriors on
to fresh exertions. Old men nodded and watched and grunted approval,
their rheumy eyes brightening again with memories. Medicine men,
wearing their choicest ornaments, hideously besmeared from forehead
to ankle, capered and chanted like evil things seen in a dream. And
beneath the songs and wild cries, the steady, unvarying _tum-tum-tum_
of the drums sounded as sounds the beat of the waves under the tumult
of the tempest.
David watched from afar. He had no taste for such ceremonies, nor any
sympathy. He had grown to appreciate many attributes of the Indians;
their bravery and hardihood, their honesty in their dealings with each
other, their faithfulness in friendship; but this childish orgy by
which they lashed themselves to a frenzy of bloodthirstiness, this
recitation of boastful legends and vain threatenings, left him cold. To
the Anglo-Saxon mind there was something akin to lunacy in such doings.
David wondered if Monapikot and his two unpleasing companions had left
on their homeward journey. It seemed likely, although once, near the
middle of the evening, he had thought that he had glimpsed the tall,
straight form of the Pegan against the firelight. That Pikot should go
without a few words of speech with him seemed strange. It would not
have been impossible for the Indian to have spoken briefly under some
pretext, and David felt resentful and sad because he had not done so.
To-night it became easy once more to believe that his old friend had
indeed turned traitor.
John had deserted his charge utterly and was prancing and bending and
howling about the fire. Sequanawah had vanished, but whether he had
left the village David did not know. Thoughts of escape came to him and
he weighed the chances of success. Many times he had wondered whether
by scaling the palisade wall he could evade the watchfulness of the
sentries. Reaching the top of the wall would be no easy feat, for the
smooth, peeled logs that formed it were a good twelve feet in height.
Yet he had observed places where, he thought, he might take advantage
of crevice and protrusion with hands and feet and so win the summit.
Beyond the palisade lay a dry ditch of no great consequence. It would
but increase his drop by another two or three feet. Surmounting the
wall was, he believed, possible under favoring circumstances such as at
present pertained, but the question was what would happen afterwards.
He had learned long since that by night the village was well guarded.
And he knew, too, that Metipom had ordained his death if captured
outside the palisade. To-night it might be that, with every man of
fighting age apparently taking part in the dance, the sentries had been
withdrawn, but it would not do to count too much on that. On the other
hand, the decision for war might well have caused them to increase
their vigilance. In any case, David decided, action was best delayed
until the village had quieted for the night and the exhausted Indians
slept. A new moon hung in the western sky, giving a faint radiance
where the ruddy light of the flames failed. In two hours, maybe, or
three at the most, the moon would be below the elbow of the mountain
and his chance of getting away unseen would be better.
After a while he lay down where he was, against the side of the wigwam,
resolved to snatch what sleep he might before the time for action came,
if come it should. For a time he lay and watched the silver stars and
strove to close his ears to the throbbing of the drums and the howling
of the Indians. Gradually sleep settled over his tired body and his
breathing grew deep and slow. An hour of the hot, breathless night
passed. Occasionally the sleeper stirred or moaned, but he did not
wake. And so it was that he did not hear the faint, stealthy movements
that might have attracted his attention had he been awake. From behind
the wigwam they came, sounds like the soft squirming of a serpent
across the tufts of sun-parched grass and through the low patches of
briars, sounds no louder than a weasel might have made, and that,
subdued by the noise of the drums and the dancers, might well have
escaped any save the keenest ears. Behind the wigwam, away from the
dancing, flickering light of the fire, the darkness was not black, but
yet was deep enough to render uncertain the shadow that lay upon the
ground there and moved slowly nearer and nearer. Then, presently, the
moving shadow merged with that of the lodge and the faint sounds ceased.
David came slowly awake, floating to consciousness across the margin of
sleep as a swimmer floats to shore. Something had summoned him, but he
knew not what. Above the stars still twinkled in a sky that was like a
close-hanging curtain of warm purple-black velvet. The slender moon had
halved the distance to the dark fringe of forest and crags that marked
the edge of the mountain. But the uncanny beat of the drums and thud
of feet and howling of voices still went on. David blinked and yawned,
vaguely disturbed, and then listened acutely. From the half-darkness
came a sibilant voice:
“_David!_”
With a quick leap of his pulse the boy answered:
“I am here! Who speaks my name?”
“Monapikot.”
“Monapikot!” There was no disguising the gladness he felt.
“Aye, Noawama. Speak softly. Are you outside?”
“Aye, Straight Arrow. And you? I do not see you.”
“I, too. Go inside the wigwam and lie close to the wall at its back and
farthest from the fire. I have many things to say and there is little
time.”
David obeyed. At the nearer lodge an elderly squaw sat motionless
by the doorway, a child slumbering against her knees. None others
were near. Placing himself so that his lips were close to the
rancid-smelling skins of the wigwam, David said: “I am here, Pikot.”
“Good,” replied the other softly. “Listen well, David. When the moon
is behind the hill we start our journey back to the southward, and ere
that much must be said. You did well to seem not to know me when I
came, but what happened after was child’s foolishness, David, and might
have cost me my life.”
“I am sorry,” said David humbly. “And yet, my friend, I scarce knew
what to think. Nor do I yet.” He paused, seeking to ask a question and
yet at a loss for words to clothe it in. At last: “Is――is all well?” he
faltered.
“Aye. I bring you greetings from your father. In this way matters
stand, David. The Wachoosett sachem demands the release of his son as
the price of your return, but so skillfully has he spoken that none
dare say for certain that he holds you captive. It is, he says, Manitou
who will bring you back safe to your home so soon as he is pleased by
the release of Nausauwah. He talked slyly of knowing your place of
captivity by reason of a vision, and so well did he play the fox that
your father and Master Vernham returned not knowing whether he told the
truth or not.”
“Then my father did come for me, Pikot?” asked David eagerly.
“Aye, with Master William Vernham and Obid, the servant, and Captain
Consadine, of the Military at Newtowne.”
“And an Indian, Pikot. Was it you?”
“Nay; I was to the south and knew naught of your going until later. The
guide was Tanopet.”
“Tanopet!”
“Aye. But we waste time that stands not still. Your father and Master
Vernham and others have sought to secure the release of Nausauwah, but
with no avail. Promises have been made, but naught is done. The war
against Philip engages much attention and all else, it seems, must
wait. But if they do not give the Indian his freedom, neither do they
bring him to trial, and until then you are safe, David.”
“Safe! Then you did not come to rescue me, Pikot?”
“Not yet. Other duties lie before me, Noawama, that I cannot tell of.
But keep a brave heart and a still tongue. Soon I will come again.”
“My father? And Obid?”
“Well, David. Your father troubles over your prisonment and that there
is naught he can yet do to end it. But now that the Wachoosetts go
upon the war-path, that is changed, and fear of offending them will no
longer hold him back. While Woosonametipom was still at peace with the
English, the Council at Boston would not allow aught that might seem
unfriendly.”
“But how comes it that you are here on such a strange mission, Straight
Arrow? I never thought to see you inciting our enemies against us. If
you came not to seek me, I do not understand.”
“Said I that I did not come seeking you, David? Nay, I but said that
not yet could I deliver you from the sachem. Larger matters come
first. As for the company I keep, heed it not. Who visits the wolf must
wear fur. Trust me, Noawama, as your people do.”
“I do trust you, Straight Arrow. Tell me how goes the war with King
Philip?”
“Well and ill. The Narragansetts have joined with him, as have a few of
the Nipmucks living to the south, but the Mohegans have sent warriors
to our aid led by Oneko, son of Uncas. Of late Philip was driven into a
swamp beside the Taunton River and, had the English attacked with skill
as well as bravery and pressed close, he would have been there and then
destroyed. But, seeking to starve him out, they withdrew all but a few
soldiers, and he soon found canoes and slipped away across the river
and into the Nipmuck country where he daily gathers more warriors to
his cause.”
“It would seem that some one blundered,” mused David.
“Aye,” agreed Pikot grimly. “And the blunder may cost dear, for now
Philip no longer has the sea at his back, but may come and go as he
chooses, with the forests to lurk in. But it grows late, Noawama, and
I must be away. Keep a brave heart and put your trust in God.”
“And you will come soon again, Straight Arrow?”
“Aye, but when I know not. Perchance some day when on the trail you
will find me beside you. Then make no sign, but let believe that we are
strangers, David.”
“On the trail said you?”
“Aye, for Woosonametipom goes to join Philip and in the morning the
village will be vanished.”
“And I? Think you――”
“The sachem will take you with him, since he may not leave you behind.
Be cautious, my brother, and guard your tongue, for now all are hot
with the lust for battle and their hands are near their knives.”
“I thought of seeking escape over the wall, Pikot. Once in the forest――”
“Nay, for the village is well guarded and the trail southward swarms
with enemies. Try it not. Do the sachem’s bidding and leave the matter
of your escape to your friends. We will not fail you. Farewell,
Noawama.”
“Farewell, Monapikot. I pray you give my love to my father if you meet
him and tell him that all is well with me. Bid him not to trouble for
me. And so to Obid. Farewell!”
When the Pegan went, David could not tell, for no sound came to him,
but when, after a moment, David called softly again, there was no
answer.
Comforted, and with much to think on, David stretched himself on his
bed. The revelry was dying out, and so the fire, and although the
village did not gain its usual quiet that night, but was ever filled
with murmurings and movements, the drums ceased before long and the
war-chants ended. And David, lighter of heart than in many a day, soon
dropped to sleep again.