AN INDIAN CLAMBAKE
Near Sowams, on the Kickemuit river, was the Indian town of Kickemuit,
and between the water courses or bays ran a long peninsula towards the
island of Aquidneck and the ocean, called now the "Mt. Hope Lands."
Mt. Hope, the ancient burying-ground of the forest kings, crossed this
peninsula. In this delectable country, of bays and waterways, ancient
forests, and intersecting trails, were three springs: Massasoit Spring
at Sowams, Kickemuit Spring at Kickemuit, and the now so-called King
Philip's Spring at Mt. Hope. One of the roads leading to Mt. Hope is
now called Pometacom Avenue, on which is the immense Parker Mill.
The Indian town of Kickemuit was a place of clambakes. The piles of
shells that accumulated, probably for centuries, may be seen on the
winding shores now, near the ever-flowing spring, which is now, or used
to be, bordered with water cresses.
There probably in the Indian days were sloping cornfields, where fine
meadows are now.
Little Metacomet one day said to timid Susan and Roger, that his
father, the chieftain, intended to invite them to one of the clambakes
of the Pokonokets.
"I wouldn't see the powwow there, nor nothing, would I?" asked Susan.
"It would scare my head off to see him."
The little prince looked puzzled.
But timid Susan concluded to go to the clambake if she were invited by
the chief, whatever she might see. She could trust King Philip, the
princess and Metacomet.
Susan, who was always afraid lest she should see something or touch
something, had one terror above all others, that she might meet with an
Indian powwow, or medicine man. She had heard of this strange character
who was believed to have gained his influence from the Evil One.
"Oh, he is just awful," she used to say to her little Roger, "and it
would make you shut your eyes to the sun just to look at him. One
sight of him would put out the sun for me; snake skins hang all about
him, and they rattle, rattle, rattle; and he has horns and a tail, and
he leaps this way and that as though he were hung on springs; and he
yells, oh, the stars can hear him when he yells; he yells the yells
of yells, the medicine whoop, which is like the war-whoop. It makes
me shut my eyes just to think of him. If you were ever to see him,
run; let your little legs fly like drum-sticks. It would cure me of my
rheumatism just to look at him. I would shut my eyes tight, and just
fly if I were to meet him. Oh, oh!"
She would throw her apron over her face, as she indulged in such
terrifying descriptions of the medicine man of whom she had heard in
Boston. Roger would sometimes stare with a fixed look of terror, and
sometimes laugh after one of these descriptions of the powwow, as the
medicine man was called by the English people.
"But, mother, you could not fly; you have no wings, and he would get
you, and it might be that he wouldn't hurt you, but would cure you of
your rheumatism."
"That he would, you may be sure of that. It makes my rheumatism go
away just to think of him at night. They say that he can turn his head
inside out. I don't know."
The medicine man in his fantastic dress was no angel. He recalled
stories of evil and of the evil spirit. It was his purpose to make
himself as terrible as possible in order to scare disease away; he
tried so to engage the mind of the sick person with his antics as
to cause him to forget his disease awhile, and give nature a chance
to rally. On account of him, the English used to call the Indians
worshipers of evil spirits.
"The powwow is nothing but a hooting _man_, just like any other man,"
said Roger.
"Yes, yes, you are a philosopher, Roger, that is so, but they do say
that he hoots awful. May I never hear him."
In her lonely days in the wilderness, when she saw a band of Indians,
she would say:
"I hope the powwow is not among them."
She had lived in daily fear of this strange doctor, about whom the
Indians talked much, and of whose powers many wonderful things were
told. When Massasoit was sick nigh unto death, a powwow tried to
sustain his life by piercing cries, and by leaping around him. The
powwow was probably painted, and plumed with crows' and hawks'
feathers, and beat a drum, and rattled snake skins, just as all their
conjurers did. He was a product of superstition and ignorance and
derived his powers from his own imagination, and sometimes wrought
great cures by affecting the imagination of very sick people.
Passaconaway, the lord of the Merrimack, was a powwow, and they said of
him that he caused trees to dance.
It was at this period of her forest life that there appeared at Susan
Barley's door one day a little Indian boy. He bore her a bit of wampum.
He was a very pretty boy, and scared Susan said--
"Come in, in the Lord's name. Maybe I will give you a pancake."
At the word pancake the Indian boy's eyes twinkled, for he knew the
meaning of that word.
"He has sent for you," said the child.
"Who? Not the powwow, I hope. Oh, how my heart does flutter!"
"No--not powwow. Philip! clambake!" said the boy brokenly.
"You shall have a pancake, you nimble little ducky of an Indian boy."
She bustled around and fried some pancakes while he watched her with
twinkling eyes. "Here, little boy of the woods, here is your pancake.
Have you a mother?"
The child dropped his chin for yes.
"Then I will send her two. These were fried in bear's grease and are
proper good." She said this by pointing to the bear's grease and
smacking her lips three times.
* * * * *
Susan and Roger set out for Kickemuit on the morning of the day
appointed for the Indian clambake. It was one of those dreamy days
of mellowed light, so well known in the bay country. The maples were
changing in swampy places.
As they approached the place of the spring, Little Metacomet came out
of the lodge to meet them.
The beautiful princess had dressed the Indian boy gayly for the festive
occasion. He wore on his head a crown of white and dark plumes. The
band of the crown consisted of pearly shells and the feathers, which
slanted backward like a mane, were from the wings of the sea eagle.
His tunic was woven of river grass and bark fiber, and was fringed. He
bore on his arm a round shield like a drum-head. It was stained with
pigeon berry and yellow ocher. His tunic was fringed, and his feet
were mocassined. He looked like a little warrior. The costume of the
princess was as gay, with a girdle of shells and feathers.
[Illustration: HE LOOKED LIKE A LITTLE WARRIOR.]
Near the lodges, under the great oaks, a bake was steaming. It
consisted of an oven of stone, filled with clams, cohangs, scollops,
scup, and other fish, covered with sea-weed and rock-weed. The scup was
the delicious fish of Mount Hope Bay.
The tribe was there, and King Philip, the forest lord of Pokonoket, was
painted and plumed, and surrounded by his great captains, one of whom
was Annawon.
The ancient oaks with their ospreys' nests slanted towards the flowing
spring, and under them were painted warriors and Indian girls.
Down the stream came canoes, one of which bore Wetamoo, Philip's wife's
sister, glittering with fantastic ornaments made of the pearl of
shells.
"You don't suppose the powwow will come, too?" said Susan to Roger.
When the Indians were ready to open the bake, pipes rang out, drums
were beaten, skins were rattled, and the rock-weed and sea-weed were
thrown off of the steaming fish and bivalves. Then all sat down in a
circle, and the Indian girls and young braves served the great company.
The afternoon sun was going down when the feast ended. In the evening
there was to be an Indian dance under the full moon, and a medicine man
was to perform.
And now Susan had her fears realized when this terrible object came
rushing out of his lodge, leaping into the air, and rattling his dry
hides, shells and snake skins.
She ran to the princess.
"Oh, that I should ever see the like!" she said. "He has horns."
"No hook," said the princess. "The animal is dead that wore the horns."
"But he has a tail."
"No danger," said the princess. "The animal is dead that wore the
tail."
"But his voice goes up to the stars and makes me tremble."
"The stars do not hear," said the princess.
"I was so afraid that I would see something all along," said timid
Susan. "Let Roger and me go now."
"No, no," said Little Metacomet. "Sassamon must go with you, and he is
going to dance, and the paniese, the prophet, is going to speak under
the moon, and Wetamoo will circle around with her braves. Stay, stay. I
will bring the medicine man to you and he will tell you who he is."
So Metacomet sped away and presently returned with the medicine man.
"Do not be afraid," said the Powwow. "I will defend you against all
evils. I am only an Indian decked out. See, these are not my horns, nor
this tail my tail, and the snakes that I rattle are dead snakes, and
the Indian's heart is true to all who are here to hear him. Tremble not
when I hoot. It is a friendly hoot for such as you."
He uttered a fearful hoot and left the little woman smiling.
The festival lasted nearly all the night, and King Philip danced with
Queen Wetamoo, while the two boys lay down on the green together, and
Susan leaned on the beautiful princess' arm.
"Everything goes happy when hearts are right," said the princess.
The moon at last sank low, the powwow ended, the land became shadowy
and still, and the pioneer's wife lay down beside the Indian princess
in the women's lodge, and Roger beside Little Metacomet, in the chief's
quarters, and the night heron wandered along the shore, and the loon
cried, and no one thought of harm. It was the calm before the great
war, whose war-whoop Susan so much feared that she might one day hear.
When the people, white and red, retired to rest that night, the Indians
began to sing themselves to sleep.
Once more Susan was alarmed when this singing began. She had never
heard the like before. _Boon--zoun--tarara_, like the whir of the
loon's wings in the night, or the cry of the loon when the waves were
beating on the rocks. But one by one the voices ceased, and then the
Indians began to snore.
The timid woman did not dare to sleep.
About one o'clock a queer form appeared at the door of the lodge. It
stood in the moonlight. It rose up and looked like a little man in furs.
Susan could not keep still any longer. She rose up on her elbow and
touched the princess' arm.
"There's a man in the door. See there."
"Oh, that is a tame bear."
"Let me call Little Metacomet."
"No, give him a pancake."
"Who? Metacomet?"
"No, the bear."
Susan followed the suggestion.
The bear ate the pancake, and then came toward the little woman, who
was lying on the mat.
"Oh, princess, he is coming!"
"Give him another pancake."
Susan followed this suggestion also. The bear ate the pancake, and
stretched himself out near the mat, and was as quiet as a kitten. Then
all of the forest were still, Indians, bears, and all. The moon went
down, and even the white woman became quiet amid lodges of Indians near
her and a little black bear beside her.
Early in the morning, the blue jay came to the lodges and screamed,
"Wake up, wake up!" in a piercing tone. The bear woke up and walked
away.
Such were primitive forest days. Susan prepared to go back to the
groves, when the powwow came out of his lodge, a kindly-faced Indian,
with all his toggery on his arm.
"You fear," said he. "I bring you some presents.
"Here are my horns; take them to the groves--then you no fear.
"Here are my rattles; take them to the groves--then you no fear.
"Here are my hides; take them to the groves--then you no fear.
"And here is my heart; it is a friendly heart--it goes with you."
Then Susan departed with a joyful mind.
"I don't think that I will ever hear the war-whoop now," she said.
"What would I do if I should--what _would_ I do?"