I now for the first time obtained a distinct view of the stranger as
he stepped forward, throwing the blanket from him, and stood revealed,
stark naked save for clout and pouch, truly a superb figure, and
perfect, in the Greek sense, barring that racial leanness below knee
and calf, and the sinewy feet planted parallel instead of diverging,
as in our race.
But so splendid was his presence that Sir William, standing to receive
him, unconsciously raised his chin and squared his shoulders as though
bracing for a trial of strength with this tall red forester from the
West.
For a space they stood face to face in silence; then the belt-bearer,
looking warily around at the empty room, asked why Chief Warragh
received his brother alone.
"My brother comes alone," replied Sir William, with emphasis. "It is
the custom of the Cayuga to send three with each belt. Does my brother
bear but a fragment of one belt? Or does he think us of little
consequence that he comes without attestants?"
"I bear three belts," said the Indian, haughtily. "Nine of my people
started from the Ohio; I alone live."
Sir William bowed gravely; and, motioning me to be seated, drew up an
arm-chair of velvet and sat down, folding his arms in silence.
Then, for the first time in my life, I sat at a figurative council
fire and listened to an orator of those masters of oratory, the
peoples of the Six Nations.
Dignified, chary of gesture, clean, yet somewhat sad and over-grave of
speech, the Cayuga, facing the Baronet, related briefly his name,
Quider, which in Iroquois means Peter; his tribe, which was the tribe
of the Wolf, the totem being plain on his breast. He spoke of his
journey from the Ohio, the loss of the eight who had started with
him; all dying from the small-pox within a week. He spoke respectfully
of Sir William as the one man who had protected the Six Nations from
unjust laws, from incursions, from white men's violence and deception.
He admitted that Sir William was the only man in America who to-day
retained the absolute trust and confidence of the Indians, adding that
it was for this reason that he had come.
And then he began his brief speech, drawing from his pouch a black
belt of wampum:
"_Brother_: With this belt we breathe upon the embers which are
asleep, and we cause the council fire to burn in this place and on the
Ohio, which are our proper fireplaces. With this belt we sweep this
fireplace clean, removing from it all that is impure, that we may sit
around it as brothers."
(_A belt of seven rows._)
"_Brother_: The unhappy oppression of our brethren by Colonel Cresap's
men, near the Ohio carrying-place, is the occasion for our coming
here. Our nation would not be at rest, nor easy, until they had spoken
to you about it. They have now spoken--with this belt!"
(_A black and white belt._)
"_Brother_: What are we to do? Lord Dunmore will not hear us. Colonel
Cresap and his men, to whom we have done no harm, are coming to clear
the forest and cross our free path which lies from Saint Sacrement to
the Ohio, and which path our brother's belts, which we still possess,
have long since swept clear. What shall we do? Instead of polishing
our knives we have come to our brother Warragh. Instead of seeking our
kin the Mohawk and the Oneida with painted war belts to throw between
us and them, we come to our brother and ask him, by this belt, what is
left for us to do? Our brothers have taught us there is a God. Teach
us He is a just God--by this belt!"
(_A black belt of five rows._)
During this speech Sir William sat as still as death, neither by
glance nor gesture nor change of colour betraying the surprise,
indignation, and alarm which this exposure of Colonel Cresap's doings
caused him.
As for me, I, of course, vaguely understood the breach of faith
committed by Colonel Cresap in invading the land of our allies, and
the danger we might run should this Cayuga chief go to our Mohawks and
Oneidas with war-belts and inflammatory appeals for vengeance on
Cresap and his men.
That he had instead come to us, braving all dangers, losing indeed all
his comrades, on this mission of peace, most splendidly attested to
the power and influence of Sir William among these savages whose first
instinct is to draw the hatchet and begin the horrid vengeance which
they consider their right when unjustly molested.
It is seldom the custom to reply to a speech before the following day.
Custom and tradition rule among the Six Nations. Deliberation and
profound reflection they give to all spokesmen who petition them, and
they require it in turn, regarding with suspicion and contempt a hasty
reply, which, they consider, indicates either premeditated treachery,
or a shallow mind incapable of weighty and mature reflection.
I was prepared, therefore, when Sir William, holding in his right hand
the three belts of wampum, rose and thanked the Cayuga for his talk,
praising him and his tribe for resorting to arbitration instead of the
hatchet, and promising an answer on the morrow.
The Cayuga listened in silence, then resuming his blanket turned on
his heel and passed slowly and noiselessly from the room, leaving Sir
William standing beside the arm-chair, and me erect in the embrasure
of the casement.
Now, for the first time in my life, I saw a trace of physical decline
in my guardian. His hand, holding the belts, had fallen a-trembling;
he made a feeble gesture for me to be seated, and sank back into his
arm-chair, listless eyes on the floor, absently running his fingers
over the polished belts.
"At sixty," he said, as though to himself, "strong men should be in
that mellow prime to which a sober life conducts."
After a moment he went on: "My life has been sober and without
excess--but hard! very hard! I am an old man; a tired old man."
Looking up to meet my eyes, he smiled, watching the sympathy which
twitched my face.
"All these wars! All these wars! Thirty years of war!" he murmured,
caressing the belts and letting them slip through his fingers like
smooth shining serpents. "War with the French, war with the Maquas,
the Hurons, the Shawanese, the Ojibways! War in the Canadas, war in
the Carolinas, war east and west and north and south! And--I am
tired."
He flung the slippery belts to the floor, where they twisted and
coiled up in a heap.
"I have worked with my hands," he said. "This land has drunk the sweat
of my body. I have not spared myself in sickness or in health. My eyes
are dim; I have used them by day, by starlight, by the glimmer of
moons long dead, by candle-wood, by torch, by the flicker of smoke
from green fires.
"My arms are tired; I have hewn forests away; my limbs ache; I have
journeyed far through snow, through heat, from the Canadas to the
Gulf--all my life I have journeyed on business for other men--for men
I have never seen, and shall never see--men yet to be born!"
There came a flush of earnest colour into his face. He leaned forward
towards me, elbow resting on the table, hand outstretched.
"Why, look you, Michael," he said, with childlike eagerness; "I found
a wilderness and I leave a garden! Look at the valley! Can England
grow such grain? Look at Tryon County! Look at this Province of New
York? Ay--look farther--wherever my Indians have set their boundaries!
There are roads, lad, roads where I found runways; turnpikes where I
followed Mohawk trails; mills turning where the wild-cat squatted,
fishing with big flat paws! Lad, you cannot recall it, yet this
village was but a carrying-place when I came. Look at it; look from
the window, lad! Is it not fair and pretty to the eye? One hundred and
eighty families! Three churches, counting my new stone church; a free
school, a court-house, a jail, barracks--all built by me; stores with
red and blue swinging signs, bravely painted, inns with the good green
bush a-swing! Listen to the cock-crows; listen to the barking! Might
it not be a Devonshire town? Ah--I forgot; you have never seen old
England."
Smiling still, kind eyes dreaming, his head sank a little, and he
clasped his hands in his lap.
"Lad," he said, softly, "the English hay smells sweet, but not so
sweet as the Mohawk Valley hay to me. This is my country--my country
first, last, and all the time. I am too old to change where in my
youth I took root among these hills. To transplant me means my end."
The sunlight stole into the room through leaded diamond-panes and fell
across his knees like a golden robe. The music from the robins in the
orchard filled my ears; soft winds stirred the lace on Sir William's
cuffs and collarette.
Presently he roused, shaking the dream from his eyes; and, watching
him, it seemed to me I could see the very tide of life swelling flesh
and muscle into new vigour. The colour came back into his face and
hands; the light grew in his eyes.
"Come!" he said, in a voice that had lost its tremour. "Life has but
one meaning--to go on, ever on, lad! 'Tis a long doze awaits us at the
journey's end." And he fumbled for his snuff-box and lace hanker,
blowing a vigorous blast and exclaiming, "Aha! Ho!" in deep tones
which, when very young, awed me.
I bent and picked up the three belts, placing them on the table near
him.
"Thank you, Michael," he said, heartily; "and I must say that in this
matter of the Cayuga, you have conducted admirably. Mr. Duncan has
told me all; it was wisely done. Had you received the Cayuga with less
welcome or more suspicion, or had you met him haughtily, I do not
doubt that he would have made mischief for me among my Mohawks."
"He had war-sticks painted red, in his pouch, sir," I replied.
"No doubt! No doubt! And a red war-belt, too, belike! They were meant
for my Mohawks had he met with a rebuff here. Oh, I know them,
Michael, I know them. A painted war-belt flung between that Cayuga and
the sachems of my Mohawks would have set the whole Six Nations--save,
perhaps, the Oneidas--a-shining up rifle and hatchet for Cresap and
his men!"
Sir William struck the mahogany table with clinched fist.
"Damn Cresap!" he bawled, in one of his familiar fits of fury--fits
which were never witnessed outside his family circle. "Damn the
fatuous fool to go a-meddling with the Cayugas in their own lands,
held by them in solemn covenant forever inviolate! What does the sorry
ass want? A border war, with all this trouble betwixt King and
colonies hatching? Does Colonel Cresap not know that a single scalp
taken from the Cayugas will set the Six Nations on fire--ay, the
Lenape, too?"
Sir William slapped the table again with the flat of his hand.
"Look, Michael; should war come betwixt King and colonies, neither
King nor colonies should forget that our frontiers are crowded with
thousands of savages who, if adroitly treated, will remain neutral and
inoffensive. Yet here is this madman Cresap, on the very eve of a
struggle with the greatest power in the world, turning the savages
against the colonies by his crazy pranks on the Ohio!"
"But," said I, "in his blindness and folly, Colonel Cresap is throwing
into our arms these very savages as allies!"
Sir William stopped short and stared at me with cold, steady eyes.
"Michael," said he, presently, "when this war comes--as surely it will
come--choose which cause you will embrace, and then stand by it to the
end. As for me, I cannot believe that God would let me live to see
such a war; that He would leave me to choose between the King who has
honoured me and mine own people in this dear land of mine!"
He raised his head and passed one hand over his eyes.
"But should He in His wisdom demand that I choose--and if the sorrow
kills me not--then, when the time comes, I shall choose."
"Which way, sir?" I said, in a sort of gasp.
But he only answered, "Wait!"
Stupefied, I watched him. It had never entered my head that there
could be any course save unquestioned loyalty to the King in all
things; that there could be any doubt or hesitation or pondering or
praying for light when it came time to choose between King and rebel.
I now recalled what Sir William had said to me in the school-room.
Putting this with what he now said, or left unsaid, together with his
anger at Colonel Cresap for endangering the peace betwixt the Indians
and the colonies, I came to the frightened conclusion that Sir
William's loyalty might be questioned. But by whom? Who in America was
great enough to call Sir William to account? Not Governor Tryon; not
Lord Dunmore; not General Gage.
Feeling as though the bottom had fallen out of something, I sat there,
my fascinated eyes never leaving Sir William's sombre face.
What then were these tea-hating rebels that Sir William should defend
them at breakfast and in the faces of half a dozen of his Majesty's
officers? I knew nothing of the troubles in Massachusetts save from
soldiers' talk or the gossip of the townsmen, most of them being
tenants of Sir William. I had heard vaguely about one turbulent fellow
named Hancock, and a mischief-making jack-at-all-trades called
Franklin. I knew that the trouble concerned taxes, but as all this
bother appeared to be about a few pennies, and as I myself never
wanted for money, I had little sympathy for people who made such an
ado about a shilling or two. Moreover, if the King needed money, the
idea of not placing one's all at his Majesty's disposal seemed
contemptible to me. It is true that I had never earned a farthing in
all my life, and so had nothing to offer my sovereign, save what
fortune my father had left in trust for me. It is also true that I
knew nothing of the value of money, having neither earned it nor
wanted for it.
Something of these thoughts may have been easily read in my face, for
Sir William said, with some abruptness:
"It is not money; it is principle that men fight for."
I was startled, although Sir William sometimes had a way of rounding
out my groping thoughts with sudden spoken words which made me fear
him.
"Well, well," he said, laughing and rising to stretch his cramped
limbs; "this is enough for one day, Michael. Let the morrow fret for
itself, lad. Come, smile a bit! Shall we have a holiday, perhaps the
last for many a month? Nay, do not look so sober, Micky. Who knows
what will come? Who knows; who knows?"
"I shall stand by you, sir, whatever comes," said I.
But Sir William only smiled, drawing me to him, one arm about me.
"Suppose," said he, "that you and I and Mr. Duncan and Felicity and
Peter and Esk take rods and bait and go a-fishing in the Kennyetto by
Fonda's Bush!"
"A peg-down fishing match!" cried I, enchanted.
"Ay, a peg-down match, and the prize whatever the victor wills--in
reason. What say you, Michael?"
I was about to assent with enthusiasm when something occurred to me
and I stopped.
"May I wear my uniform, sir?" I asked.
"Gad!" cried Sir William, in a fit of laughter. "'Tis a bolder man
than I who dare separate you from your uniform!"
"Then I'll carry my pistols and go a-horse!" said I, delighted.
The Baronet, hands clasped behind him, nodded absently. That old gray
colour came into his face again, and he lifted a belt from the table
and studied it dreamily, picking at the wampum which glowed like a
snake's skin in the sunshine.