THE LONG HOUSE.
The council-house was a hundred paces or more in length. The frame was
of tall hickory saplings planted in the ground in two rows, with the
tops bent over and lashed together in the form of an arch. The
building was not more than fifteen yards wide. The lower part of the
outer wall was of logs, the upper part and the roof of bark. Instead
of a chimney there was a narrow opening in the roof, extending the
length of the building.
A row of smouldering fires reached nearly from end to end of the
house. The smoke struggled upward, but failing, for the greater part,
to find the outlet overhead, remained inside to clog the air and dim
the eyes. The chiefs sat in a long ellipse in the central part of the
house, some sitting erect with legs crossed, others half reclining,
while a few lay sprawling, their chins resting on their hands. The Big
Throat sat with the powerful chiefs of the nation at one end. The
lesser sachems, including the Long Arrow, sat each before his own band
of followers. The second circle was made up of the older and
better-known warriors. Behind these, pressing close to catch every
word of the argument, were braves, youths, women, and children, mixed
together indiscriminately. A low platform extended the length of the
building against the wall on each side, and this held another
crowding, elbowing, whispering mass of redskins. Every chief and
warrior, as well as most of the women, held each a pipe between his
teeth, and puffed out clouds of smoke into the thick air.
The maid's eyes smarted and blurred in the smoke. It reached her
throat, and she coughed.
"Lie down, Mademoiselle," said Menard. "Breathe close to the ground
and it will not be so bad."
She hesitated, looking at the Big Throat, who sat with arms folded,
proud and dignified. Then she smiled, and lay almost flat on the
ground, breathing in the current of less impure air that passed
beneath the smoke. They had been placed in the inner circle, next to
the chiefs of the nations, where Menard's words would have the weight
that, to the mind of the Big Throat, was due to a representative of
the French Governor, even in time of war. Father Claude, sitting on
the left of the maid, was looking quietly into the fire. He had
committed the case into the hands of Providence, and he was certain
that the right words would be given to the Captain.
It was nearing the close of the afternoon. A beam of sunlight slipped
in at one end of the roof-opening, and slanted downward, clearing a
shining way through the smoke. A Cayuga chief was speaking.
"The corn is ripening in the fields about the Onondaga village. As I
came down the hills of the west to-day I saw the green tops waving in
the wind, and I was glad, for I knew that my brothers would feast in
plenty, that their Manitous have been kind. The Cayugas, too, have
great fields of corn, and the Senecas. Their women have worked
faithfully that the land might be plentiful.
"But a storm is breaking over the cornfields of the Senecas. It is a
great cloud that has come down from the north, with the flash of fire
and the roar of thunder, and with hailstones of lead that will leave
no stalk standing. My brothers know the strength of the north wind.
They have not forgotten other storms that would have laid waste the
villages of the Senecas and the Mohawks. And they have not forgotten
their Manitous, who have whispered to them when the clouds appeared in
the northern sky, 'Rise up, Mohawks and Oneidas and Onondagas and
Cayugas and Senecas, and stand firmly against this storm, and your
homes and your fields shall not be destroyed.'"
The house was silent with interest. The maid raised her head and
watched the stolid faces of the chiefs in the inner circle. Not an
expression changed from beginning to end of the speech. Beyond, she
could see other, younger faces, some eager, some bitter, some defiant,
some smiling, and all showing the flush of excitement,--but these grim
old chiefs had long schooled their faces to hide their thoughts. They
held their blankets close, and puffed deliberately at their pipes with
hardly a movement of the lips.
The Cayuga went on:--
"Messengers have come to the Cayugas from their brothers, the Senecas,
telling of the storm that is rushing on them. The Cayugas know the
hearts of the Five Nations. When the Mohawks have risen to defend
their homes, the hearts of the Cayugas have been warm, and they have
taken up the hatchet with their brothers. When the Onondagas have gone
on the war-path, Senecas and Cayugas have gone with them, and the
trouble of one has been the trouble of all."
"The good White Father is no longer the war chief of the white men.
The Great Mountain, who knew the voice of the forest, who spoke
with the tongue of the redman, has been called back to his
Great-Chief-Across-the-Water. His word was the word of kindness, and
when he spoke our hearts were warm. But another mountain is now the
war chief, a mountain that spits fire and lead, that speaks with a
double tongue. The Five Nations have never turned from a foe. The
enemy of the Senecas has been the enemy of the Mohawks. If the storm
strikes the fields of the Senecas, their brothers will not turn
away and stop their ears and say they do not hear the thunder, for
they remember the storms of other seasons, and they know that the
hail that destroys one field will destroy other fields. And so this is
the word of the Cayugas:--Let all the warriors of the Five Nations
take up the hatchet; let them go on the war-path to tell this
white chief with the double tongue that the Five Nations are one
nation; that they are bolder than thunder, swifter than fire,
stronger than lead."
The maid found it hard, with her imperfect knowledge of the language,
to follow his metaphors. She had partly risen, heedless of the smoke,
and was leaning forward with her eyes fixed on the stern face of the
speaker. Menard bent down, and half smiled at her excitement.
"What is it?" she whispered. "He is for war?"
"Yes; he naturally would be." There was a stir about the house, as the
speech ended, and they could speak softly without drawing notice. "The
Cayugas are nearer to the Senecas than the other nations, and they
fear that they too may suffer."
"Then you do not think they all feel with him?"
"No; the Oneidas and Mohawks, and even the Onondagas, are too far to
the east to feel in danger. They know how hard it would be for the
Governor to move far from his base in this country. It may be that the
younger warriors will be for fighting, but the older heads will think
of the corn."
"Will the Big Throat speak?"
"Yes; but not like these others. He talks simply and forcibly. That is
the way when a chief's reputation is made. The Big Throat won his
name, as a younger brave, by his wonderful oratory."
"And you, M'sieu,--you will be heard?"
"Yes; I think so. We must not talk any more now. They will not like
it."
The Cayuga was followed by a wrinkled old chief of the Oneidas, called
the Hundred Skins. He stepped forward and stood near the fire, his
blanket drawn close about his shoulders, where the red light could
play on his face. A whisper ran around the outer circle, for it was
known that he stood for peace.
"My Cayuga brother has spoken wisely," he began, in a low but distinct
voice. He looked slowly about the house to command attention. "The
Oneidas have not forgotten the storms of other seasons; they have not
forgotten the times of starving, when neither the Manitous of the
redman nor the God of the white man came to help. The grain stood
brown in the fields; the leaves hung dead from the trees; there was no
wind to cool the fever that carried away old men and young men, squaws
and children. And when the wind came, and the cold and snow of the
winter, there was no food in the lodges of the Five Nations. My
brothers have heard that the corn is rising to a man's height--they
have seen it to-day in the fields of the Onondagas. They know that
this corn must be cared for like the children of their lodges, if they
wish food to eat when the winter comes and the fields are dead. They
know what it will cost them to take the war-path.
"Twelve moons have not gone since the chiefs of the Senecas rose in
this house and called on the warriors of the Five Nations to take up
the hatchet against the white men of the north. The skins of the
beaver were talking in their ears. They saw great canoes on the white
man's rivers loaded with skins, and their hands itched and their
hearts turned inward. Then the wise chiefs of the Oneidas and Cayugas
and Onondagas and Mohawks spoke well. They were not on the war-path;
the hatchet was deep in the ground, and young trees were growing over
it. Then the Oneidas said that the White Chief would not forget if the
Senecas heeded their itching hands and listened to the bad medicine of
the beaver skins in their ears. But the Senecas were not wise, and
they took up the hatchet.
"This is the word of the Oneidas to the chiefs of the Long House:--The
Seneca has put his foot in the trap. Then shall the Oneida and
Onondaga and Cayuga and Mohawk rush after, that they too may put in
their feet where they can get away only by gnawing off the bone? Shall
the wise chiefs of the Long House run into fight like the dogs of
their village? The Oneidas say no! The Senecas took up the hatchet;
let them bury it where they can. And when the winter comes, the
Oneidas will send them corn that they may not have another time of
starving."
Menard was watching the Oneida with eyes that fairly snapped. The low
voice stopped, and another murmur ran around the outer circles. The
Hundred Skins had spoken boldly, and the Cayuga young men looked
stern. The chief stepped slowly back and resumed his seat, and then,
not before, did Menard's face relax. He looked about cautiously to see
if he was observed, then settled back and gazed stolidly into the
fire. The old Oneida had played directly into his hand; by letting
slip the motive for the Seneca raid of the winter before, he had
strengthened the one weak point in the speech Menard meant to make.
The next speaker was one of the younger war chiefs of the Onondagas.
He made an effort to speak with the calmness of the older men, but
there was now and then a flash in his eye and an ill-controlled vigour
in his voice that told Menard and the priest how strong was the war
party of this village. The Onondaga plunged into his speech without
the customary deliberation.
"Our brothers, the Senecas, have sent to us for aid. We have been
called to the Long House to hear the voice of the Senecas,--not from
the lips of their chiefs, for they have fields and villages to guard
against the white man, and they are not here to stand before the
council and ask what an Iroquois never refuses. The Cayuga has spoken
with the voice of the Seneca. Shall the chiefs and warriors of the
Long House say to the Cayuga, 'Go back to your village and send
messengers to the Senecas to tell them that their brothers of the Long
House have corn and squaws and children that are more to them than the
battles of their brothers--tell the Senecas that the Oneidas must eat
and cannot fight'? There is corn in the fields of the Oneidas. But
there is food for all the Five Nations in the great house on the
Lake."
The speaker paused to let his words sink in. Menard whispered to the
maid, in reply to an inquiring look. "He means the Governor's base of
supplies at La Famine."
The Onondaga's voice began to rise.
"When the Oneida thinks of his corn, is he afraid to leave it to his
squaws? Does he hesitate because he thinks the white warriors are
strong enough to turn on him and drive him from his villages? This is
not the speech that young warriors are taught to expect from the Long
House. When has the Long House been guided by fear? No. If the Oneida
is hungry, let him eat from the stores of the white man, at the house
on the Lake. The Cayugas and Onondagas will draw their belts tighter,
that the Oneida may be filled."
The young chief looked defiantly around. There was a murmur from the
outer circle, but the chiefs were grave and silent. The Hundred Skins
gazed meditatively into the fire as if he had not heard, slowly
puffing at his pipe. The taunt of cowardice had sprung out in the heat
of youth; his dignity demanded that he ignore it. The speech had its
effect on the Cayugas and the young men, but the older heads were
steady.
Other chiefs rose, talked, and resumed their places, giving all views
of the situation and of the relations between the Iroquois and the
French,--but still little expression showed on the inner circle of
faces. The maid after a time grew more accustomed to the smoke, and
sat up. She was puzzled by the conflicting arguments and the lack of
enthusiasm. Fully two hours had passed, and there was no sign of an
agreement. The eager spectators, in the outer rows, gradually settled
down.
During a lull between two speeches, Menard spoke to the maid, who was
beginning to show traces of weariness.
"It may be a long sitting, Mademoiselle. We must make the best of
it."
"Yes." She smiled. "I am a little tired. It has been a hard day."
"Too hard, poor child. But I hope to see you safe very soon now. I am
relying on the Big Throat. He, with a few of the older chiefs, sees
farther than these hot-heads. He knows that France must conquer in the
end, and is wise enough to make terms whenever he can."
"But can he, M'sieu? Will they obey him?"
"Not obey, exactly; he will not command them. Indians have no
discipline such as ours. The chiefs rely on their judgment and
influence. But they have followed the guidance of the Big Throat for
too many years to leave it now."
Another chief rose to speak. The sun had gone, and the long building
was growing dark rapidly. A number of squaws came through the circle,
throwing wood on the fires. The new flames shot up, and threw a
flickering light on the copper faces, many of which still wore the
paint of the morning. The smoke lay over them in wavering films, now
and again half hiding some sullen face until it seemed to fade away
into the darkness.
At last the whole situation lay clear before the council. Some
speakers were for war, some for peace, others for aiding the Senecas
as a matter of principle. The house was divided.
There was a silence, and the pipes glowed in the dusk; then the Long
Arrow rose. The listless spectators stirred and leaned forward. The
maid, too, was moved, feeling that at last the moment of decision was
near. She was surprised to see that he had none of the savage
excitement of the morning. He was as quiet and tactful in speech as
the Big Throat himself.
Slowly the Long Arrow drew his blanket close about him and began to
speak. The house grew very still, for the whole tribe knew that he
had, in his anger of the morning, disputed the authority of the Big
Throat. There had been hot words, and the great chief had rebuked him
contemptuously within the hearing of half a hundred warriors. Now he
was to stand before the council, and not a man in that wide circle but
wondered how much he would dare to say.
He seemed not to observe the curious glances. Simply and quietly he
began the narrative of the capture of the hunting party at Fort
Frontenac. At the first words Menard turned to Father Claude with a
meaning look. The maid saw it, and her lips framed a question.
"It is better than I hoped," Menard whispered. "He is bringing it up
himself."
"Not two moons have waned," the Long Arrow was saying, "since five
score brave young warriors left our village for the hunt. They left
the hatchet buried under the trees. They took no war-paint. The Great
Mountain had said that there was peace between the redman and the
white man; he had asked the Onondagas to hunt on the banks of the
Great River; he had told them that his white sons at the Stone House
would take them as brothers into their lodges. When the Great Mountain
said this, through the mouths of the holy Fathers, he lied."
The words came out in the same low, even tone in which he had begun
speaking, but they sank deep. The house was hushed; even the stirring
of the children on the benches died away.
"The Great Mountain has lied to his children,"--Menard's keen ears
caught the bitter, if covered, sarcasm in the last two words; they
had been Governor Frontenac's favourite term in addressing the
Iroquois--"and his children know his voice no longer. There is corn
in the fields? Let it grow or rot. There are squaws and children
in our lodges? Let them live or die. It is not the Senecas who ask
our aid; it is the voice of a hundred sons and brothers and youths
and squaws calling from far beyond the great water,--calling from
chains, calling from fever, calling from the Happy Hunting Ground,
where they have gone without guns or corn or blankets, where they
lie with nothing to comfort them." The Long Arrow stood erect, with
head thrown back and eyes fixed on the opposite wall. "Our sons and
brothers went like children to the Stone House of the white man.
Their hands were stretched before them, their muskets hung empty
from their shoulders, their bowstrings were loosened; the calumet was
in their hands. But the sons of Onontio lied as their fathers had
taught them. They took the calumet; they called the Onondagas into
their great lodge; and in the sleep of the white man's fire-water
they chained them. Five score Onondagas have gone to be slaves to
the Great-Chief-Across-the-Water, who loves his children and is kind
to them, and would take them all under his arm where no storm can
harm them. My brothers of the Long House have heard the promises of
Onontio, and they have seen the fork in his tongue. And so they
choose this time to speak of corn and squaws and children." The
keen, closely set eyes slowly lowered and swept around the circle.
"Is this the time to speak of corn? Our Manitou has sent this
Great Mountain into our country. He has placed him in our hands so
that we may strike, so that we may tell the white man with our
muskets that our Manitou is stern and just, and that no Iroquois
will listen to the idle words of a double tongue."
He paused, readjusted his blanket, and then stood motionless, that all
might digest his words. Then, after a long wait, he went on:--
"There are children to-day in our lodges who can remember the Big
Buffalo, who can remember our adopted son who shared our fires and
food, who shared our hunts, who lived with us as freely as an
Onondaga. We saw him every day, and we forgot that his heart was as
white as his skin, for his tongue was the tongue of an Onondaga. We
forgot that the white man has two tongues. It has not been long, my
brothers,--not long enough for an Onondaga to forget. But the Big
Buffalo is a mangy dog. He forgot the brothers of his lodge. He it was
who took the Onondaga hunters and carried them away to be slaves. But
the Manitou did not forget. He has put this Big Buffalo into our
hands, that we may give him what should be given to the dog who
forgets his master."
Again the Long Arrow paused.
"No; this is not the time to speak of corn. It is not the Senecas who
call us, it is our brothers and their squaws and children. The
Iroquois have been the greatest warriors of the world. They have
driven the Hurons to the far northern forests; the Illinois to the
Father of Waters, two moons' travel to the west; the Delawares to the
waters of the south. They have told the white man to stay within his
boundaries, and he has stayed. They have been kind to the white man;
they have welcomed the holy Fathers into their villages. But now the
Great Mountain makes slaves of the Onondagas. He brings his warriors
across the Great Lake to punish the Senecas and destroy their lodges.
Shall the Long House of the Five Nations turn a white face to this
Great Mountain? Shall the Long House call out in a shaking voice,
'See, Onontio, there are no heads on our arrows, no flints in our
muskets! our hatchets are dull, our knives nicked and rusted! come,
Onontio, and strike us, that we may know you are our master and our
father'?"
The Long Arrow's voice had risen only slightly, but now it dropped; he
went on, in a tone that was keen as a knife, but so low that those at
the farther end of the house leaned forward and sat motionless.
"It has been said to-day to the Long House that we shall close our
ears to the thunder of the Great Mountain, that we should think of our
corn and our squaws, and leave the Senecas to fight their own battles.
But the Long House will not do this. The Long House will not give up
the liberty that has been the pride of the Iroquois since first the
rivers ran to the lake, and the moss grew on the trees, and the wind
waved the tops of the long grass. The Great Mountain has come to take
this liberty. He shall not have it. No; he shall lose his own--we will
leave his bones to dry where the Seneca dogs run loose. The Big
Buffalo shall die to tell the white man that the Iroquois never
forgets; the Great Mountain shall die to tell the white man that the
Iroquois is free."