Henry lay fully an hour in the bushes. He had forgotten about the dogs
that he dreaded, but evidently he was right in his surmise that the
camp contained none. Nothing disturbed him while he stared at what was
passing by the firelight. There could be no doubt that the meeting of
Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea portended great things, but he would not
be stirred from his task of rescuing his comrades or discovering their
fate.
They two, great chiefs, sat long in close converse. Others-older men,
chiefs, also-came at times and talked with them. But these two, proud,
dominating, both singularly handsome men of the Indian type, were always
there. Henry was almost ready to steal away when he saw a new figure
approaching the two chiefs. The walk and bearing of the stranger were
familiar, and HENRY knew him even before his face was lighted tip by
the fire. It was Braxton Wyatt, the renegade, who had escaped the great
battles on both the Ohio and the Mississippi, and who was here with the
Iroquois, ready to do to his own race all the evil that he could. Henry
felt a shudder of repulsion, deeper than any Indian could inspire in
him. They fought for their own land and their own people, but Braxton
Wyatt had violated everything that an honest man should hold sacred.
Henry, on the whole, was not surprised to see him. Such a chance was
sure to draw Braxton Wyatt. Moreover, the war, so far as it pertained to
the border, seemed to be sweeping toward the northeast, and it bore many
stormy petrels upon its crest.
He watched Wyatt as he walked toward one of the fires. There the
renegade sat down and talked with the warriors, apparently on the best
of terms. He was presently joined by two more renegades, whom Henry
recognized as Blackstaffe and Quarles. Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea
rose after a while, and walked toward the center of the camp, where
several of the bark shelters had been enclosed entirely. Henry judged
that one had been set apart for each, but they were lost from his view
when they passed within the circling ring of warriors.
Henry believed that the Iroquois and Wyandots would form a fortified
camp here, a place from which they would make sudden and terrible forays
upon the settlements. He based his opinion upon the good location and
the great number of saplings that had been cut down already. They would
build strong lodges and then a palisade around them with the saplings.
He was speedily confirmed in this opinion when he saw warriors come to
the forest with hatchets and begin to cut down more saplings. He knew
then that it was time to go, as a wood chopper might blunder upon him at
any time.
He slipped from his covert and was quickly gone in the forest. His limbs
were somewhat stiff from lying so long in one position, but that soon
wore away, and he was comparatively fresh when he came once more to the
islet in the swamp. A good moon was now shining, tipping the forest with
a fine silvery gray, and Henry purveyed with the greatest satisfaction
the simple little shelter that he had found so opportunely. It was a
good house, too, good to such a son of the deepest forest as was Henry.
It was made of nothing but bark and poles, but it had kept out all
that long, penetrating rain of the last three or four days, and when he
lifted the big stone aside and opened the door it seemed as snug a place
as he could have wished.
He left the door open a little, lighted a small fire on the flat stones,
having no fear that it would be seen through the dense curtain that shut
him in, and broiled big bear steaks on the coals. When he had eaten
and the fire had died he went out and sat beside the hut. He was well
satisfied with the day's work, and he wished now to think with all
the concentration that one must put upon a great task if he expects to
achieve it. He intended to invade the Indian camp, and he knew full well
that it was the most perilous enterprise that he had ever attempted.
Yet scouts and hunters had done such things and had escaped with their
lives. He must not shrink from the path that others had trodden.
He made up his mind firmly, and partly thought out his plan of
operations. Then he rested, and so sanguine was his temperament that he
began to regard the deed itself as almost achieved. Decision is always
soothing after doubt, and he fell into a pleasant dreamy state. A gentle
wind was blowing, the forest was dry and the leaves rustled with the low
note that is like the softest chord of a violin. It became penetrating,
thrillingly sweet, and hark! it spoke to him in a voice that he knew.
It was the same voice that he had heard on the Ohio, mystic, but telling
him to be of heart and courage. He would triumph over hardships and
dangers, and he would see his friends again.
Henry started up from his vision. The song was gone, and he heard only
the wind softly moving the leaves. It had been vague and shadowy as
gossamer, light as the substance of a dream, but it was real to him,
nevertheless, and the deep glow of certain triumph permeated his being,
body and mind. It was not strange that he had in his nature something
of the Indian mysticism that personified the winds and the trees
and everything about him. The Manitou of the red man and the ancient
Aieroski of the Iroquois were the same as his own God. He could not
doubt that he had a message. Down on the Ohio he had had the same
message more than once, and it had always come true.
He heard a slight rustling among the bushes, and, sitting perfectly
still, he saw a black bear emerge into the open. It had gained the islet
in some manner, probably floundering through the black mire, and the
thought occurred to him that it was the mate of the one he had slain,
drawn perhaps by instinct on the trail of a lost comrade. He could
have shot the bear as he sat-and he would need fresh supplies of food
soon-but he did not have the heart to do it.
The bear sniffed a little at the wind, which was blowing the human odor
away from him, and sat back on his haunches. Henry did not believe that
the animal had seen him or was yet aware of his presence, although he
might suspect. There was something humorous and also pathetic in the
visitor, who cocked his head on one side and looked about him. He made
a distinct appeal to Henry, who sat absolutely still, so still that
the little bear could not be sure at first that he was a human being.
A minute passed, and the red eye of the bear rested upon the boy. Henry
felt pleasant and sociable, but he knew that he could retain friendly
relations only by remaining quiet.
“If I have eaten your comrade, my friend,” he said to himself, “it is
only because of hard necessity.” The bear, little, comic, and yet with
that touch of pathos about him, cocked his head a little further over on
one side, and as a silver shaft of moonlight fell upon him Henry could
see one red eye gleaming. It was a singular fact, but the boy, alone
in the wilderness, and the loser of his comrades, felt for the moment a
sense of comradeship with the bear, which was also alone, and doubtless
the loser of a comrade, also. He uttered a soft growling sound like the
satisfied purr of a bear eating its food.
The comical bear rose a little higher on his hind paws, and looked in
astonishment at the motionless figure that uttered sounds so familiar.
Yet the figure was not familiar. He had never seen a human being before,
and the shape and outline were very strange to him. It might be some new
kind of animal, and he was disposed to be inquiring, because there was
nothing in these forests which the black bear was afraid of until man
came.
He advanced a step or two and growled gently. Then he reared up again
on his hind paws, and cocked his held to one side in his amusing manner.
Henry, still motionless, smiled at him. Here, for an instant at least,
was a cheery visitor and companionship. He at least would not break the
spell.
“You look almost as if you could talk, old fellow,” he said to himself,
“and if I knew your language I'd ask you a lot of questions.”
The bear, too, was motionless now, torn by doubt and curiosity. It
certainly was a singular figure that sat there, fifteen or twenty yards
before him, and he had the most intense curiosity to solve the mystery
of this creature. But caution held him back.
There was a sudden flaw in the light breeze. It shifted about and
brought the dreadful man odor to the nostrils of the honest black bear.
It was something entirely new to him, but it contained the quality of
fear. That still strange figure was his deadliest foe. Dropping down
upon his four paws, he fled among the trees, and then scrambled somehow
through the swamp to the mainland.
Henry sighed. Despite his own friendly feeling, the bear, warned by
instinct, was afraid of him, and, as he was bound to acknowledge to
himself, the bear's instinct was doubtless right. He rose, went into
the hut, and slept heavily through the night. In the morning he left
the islet once more to scout in the direction of the Indian camp, but he
found it a most dangerous task. The woods were full of warriors hunting.
As he had judged, the game was abundant, and he heard rifles cracking
in several directions. He loitered, therefore, in the thickest of the
thickets, willing to wait until night came for his enterprise. It was
advisable, moreover, to wait, because he did not see yet just how he was
going to succeed. He spent nearly the whole day shifting here and there
through the forest, but late in the afternoon, as the Indians yet seemed
so numerous in the woods, he concluded to go back toward the islet.
He was about two miles from the swamp when he heard a cry, sharp but
distant. It was that of the savages, and Henry instinctively divined the
cause. A party of the warriors had come somehow upon his trail, and they
would surely follow it. It was a mischance that he had not expected.
He waited a minute or two, and then heard the cry again, but nearer.
He knew that it would come no more, but it confirmed him in his first
opinion.
Henry had little fear of being caught, as the islet was so securely
hidden, but he did not wish to take even a remote chance of its
discovery. Hence he ran to the eastward of it, intending as the darkness
came, hiding his trail, to double back and regain the hut.
He proceeded at a long, easy gait, his mind not troubled by the pursuit.
It was to him merely an incident that should be ended as soon as
possible, annoying perhaps, but easily cured. So he swung lightly along,
stopping at intervals among the bushes to see if any of the warriors had
drawn near, but he detected nothing. Now and then he looked up to the
sky, willing that night should end this matter quickly and peacefully.
His wish seemed near fulfillment. An uncommonly brilliant sun was
setting. The whole west was a sea of red and yellow fire, but in the
east the forest was already sinking into the dark. He turned now, and
went back toward the west on a line parallel with the pursuit, but much
closer to the swamp. The dusk thickened rapidly. The sun dropped over
the curve of the world, and the vast complex maze of trunks and boughs
melted into a solid black wall. The incident of the pursuit was over and
with it its petty annoyances. He directed his course boldly now for the
stepping stones, and traveled fast. Soon the first of them would be less
than a hundred yards away.
But the incident was not over. Wary and skillful though the young forest
runner might be, he had made one miscalculation, and it led to great
consequences. As he skirted the edge of the swamp in the darkness, now
fully come, a dusky figure suddenly appeared. It was a stray warrior
from some small band, wandering about at will. The meeting was probably
as little expected by him as it was by Henry, and they were so close
together when they saw each other that neither had time to raise his
rifle. The warrior, a tall, powerful man, dropping his gun and snatching
out a knife, sprang at once upon his enemy.
Henry was borne back by the weight and impact, but, making an immense
effort, he recovered himself and, seizing the wrist of the Indian's
knife hand, exerted all his great strength. The warrior wished to change
the weapon from his right band, but he dared not let go with the other
lest he be thrown down at once, and with great violence. His first
rush having failed, he was now at a disadvantage, as the Indian is not
generally a wrestler. Henry pushed him back, and his hand closed tighter
and tighter around the red wrist. He wished to tear the knife from it,
but he, too, was afraid to let go with the other hand, and so the two
remained locked fast. Neither uttered a cry after the first contact, and
the only sounds in the dark were their hard breathing, which turned to a
gasp now and then, and the shuffle of their feet over the earth.
Henry felt that it must end soon. One or the other must give way. Their
sinews were already strained to the cracking point, and making a supreme
effort he bore all his weight upon the warrior, who, unable to sustain
himself, went down with the youth upon him. The Indian uttered a groan,
and Henry, leaping instantly to his feet, looked down upon his fallen
antagonist, who did not stir. He knew the cause. As they fell the point
of the knife bad been turned upward, and it had entered the Indian's
heart.
Although he had been in peril at his hands, Henry looked at the slain
man in a sort of pity. He had not wished to take anyone's life, and, in
reality, he had not been the direct cause of it. But it was a stern time
and the feeling soon passed. The Wyandot, for such he was by his paint,
would never have felt a particle of remorse had the victory been his.
The moon was now coming out, and Henry looked down thoughtfully at the
still face. Then the idea came to him, in fact leaped up in his brain,
with such an impulse that it carried conviction. He would take this
warrior's place and go to the Indian camp. So eager was he, and so
full of his plan, that he did not feel any repulsion as he opened the
warrior's deerskin shirt and took his totem from a place near his heart.
It was a little deerskin bag containing a bunch of red feathers. This
was his charm, his magic spell, his bringer of good luck, which had
failed him so woefully this time. Henry, not without a touch of the
forest belief, put it inside his own hunting shirt, wishing, although
he laughed at himself, that if the red man's medicine had any potency it
should be on his own side.
Then he found also the little bag in which the Indian carried his war
paint and the feather brush with which he put it on. The next hour
witnessed a singular transformation. A white youth was turned into a red
warrior. He cut his own hair closely, all except a tuft in the center,
with his sharp hunting knife. The tuft and the close crop he stained
black with the Indian's paint. It was a poor black, but he hoped that
it would pass in the night. He drew the tuft into a scalplock, and
intertwined it with a feather from the Indian's own tuft. Then he
stained his face, neck, hands, and arms with the red paint, and stood
forth a powerful young warrior of a western nation.
He hid the Indian's weapons and his own raccoon-skin cap in the brush.
Then he took the body of the fallen warrior to the edge of the swamp and
dropped it in. His object was not alone concealment, but burial as well.
He still felt sorry for the unfortunate Wyandot, and he watched him
until he sank completely from sight in the mire. Then he turned away and
traveled a straight course toward the great Indian camp.
He stopped once on the way at a clear pool irradiated by the bright
moonlight, and looked attentively at his reflection. By night, at least,
it was certainly that of an Indian, and, summoning all his confidence,
he continued upon his chosen and desperate task.
Henry knew that the chances were against him, even with his disguise,
but he was bound to enter the Indian camp, and he was prepared to incur
all risks and to endure all penalties. He even felt a certain lightness
of heart as he hurried on his way, and at length saw through the forest
the flare of light from the Indian camp.
He approached cautiously at first in order that he might take a good
look into the camp, and he was surprised at what he saw. In a single
day the village had been enlarged much more. It seemed to him that it
contained at least twice as many warriors. Women and children, too, had
come, and he heard a stray dog barking here and there. Many more fires
than usual were burning, and there was a great murmur of voices.
Henry was much taken aback at first. It seemed that he was about to
plunge into the midst of the whole Iroquois nation, and at a time,
too, when something of extreme importance was going on, but a little
reflection showed that he was fortunate. Amid so many people, and so
much ferment it was not at all likely that he would be noticed closely.
It was his intention, if the necessity came, to pass himself off as a
warrior of the Shawnee tribe who had wandered far eastward, but he meant
to avoid sedulously the eye of Timmendiquas, who might, through his size
and stature, divine his identity.
As Henry lingered at the edge of the camp, in indecision whether to wait
a little or plunge boldly into the light of the fires, he became aware
that all sounds in the village-for such it was instead of a camp-had
ceased suddenly, except the light tread of feet and the sound of many
people talking low. He saw through the bushes that all the Iroquois, and
with them the detachment of Wyandots under White Lightning, were going
toward a large structure in the center, which he surmised to be the
Council House. He knew from his experience with the Indians farther west
that the Iroquois built such structures.
He could no longer doubt that some ceremony of the greatest importance
was about to begin, and, dismissing indecision, he left the bushes
and entered the village, going with the crowd toward the great pole
building, which was, indeed, the Council House.
But little attention was paid to Henry. He would have drawn none at all,
had it not been for his height, and when a warrior or two glanced at him
he uttered some words in Shawnee, saying that he had wandered far,
and was glad to come to the hospitable Iroquois. One who could speak
a little Shawnee bade him welcome, and they went on, satisfied, their
minds more intent upon the ceremony than upon a visitor.
The Council House, built of light poles and covered with poles and
thatch, was at least sixty feet long and about thirty feet wide, with a
large door on the eastern side, and one or two smaller ones on the other
sides. As Henry arrived, the great chiefs and sub-chiefs of the Iroquois
were entering the building, and about it were grouped many warriors and
women, and even children. But all preserved a decorous solemnity, and,
knowing the customs of the forest people so well, he was sure that the
ceremony, whatever it might be, must be of a highly sacred nature. He
himself drew to one side, keeping as much as possible in the shadow,
but he was using to its utmost power every faculty of observation that
Nature had given him.
Many of the fires were still burning, but the moon had come out with
great brightness, throwing a silver light over the whole village, and
investing with attributes that savored of the mystic and impressive
this ceremony, held by a savage but great race here in the depths of the
primeval forest. Henry was about to witness a Condoling Council, which
was at once a mourning for chiefs who had fallen in battle farther east
with his own people and the election and welcome of their successors.
The chiefs presently came forth from the Council House or, as it was
more generally called, the Long House, and, despite the greatness of
Thayendanegea, those of the Onondaga tribe, in virtue of their ancient
and undisputed place as the political leaders and high priests of
the Six Nations, led the way. Among the stately Onondaga chiefs were:
Atotarho (The Entangled), Skanawati (Beyond the River), Tehatkahtons
(Looking Both Ways), Tehayatkwarayen (Red Wings), and Hahiron (The
Scattered). They were men of stature and fine countenance, proud of
the titular primacy that belonged to them because it was the Onondaga,
Hiawatha, who had formed the great confederacy more than four hundred
years before our day, or just about the time Columbus was landing on the
shores of the New World.
Next to the Onondagas came the fierce and warlike Mohawks, who lived
nearest to Albany, who were called Keepers of the Eastern Gate, and who
were fully worthy of their trust. They were content that the Onondagas
should lead in council, so long as they were first in battle, and there
was no jealousy between them. Among their chiefs were Koswensiroutha
(Broad Shoulders) and Satekariwate (Two Things Equal).
Third in rank were the Senecas, and among their chiefs were Kanokarih
(The Threatened) and Kanyadariyo (Beautiful Lake).
These three, the Onondagas, Mohawks, and Senecas, were esteemed the
three senior nations. After them, in order of precedence, came
the chiefs of the three junior nations, the Oneidas, Cayugas, and
Tuscaroras. All of the great chiefs had assistant chiefs, usually
relatives, who, in case of death, often succeeded to their places. But
these assistants now remained in the crowd with other minor chiefs and
the mass of the warriors. A little apart stood Timmendiquas and his
Wyandots. He, too, was absorbed in the ceremony so sacred to him, an
Indian, and he did not notice the tall figure of the strange Shawnee
lingering in the deepest of the shadows.
The head chiefs, walking solemnly and never speaking, marched across the
clearing, and then through the woods to a glen, where two young warriors
had kindled a little fire of sticks as a signal of welcome. The chiefs
gathered around the fire and spoke together in low tones. This was
Deyuhnyon Kwarakda, which means “The Reception at the Edge of the Wood.”
Henry and some others followed, as it was not forbidden to see, and his
interest increased. He shared the spiritual feeling which was impressed
upon the red faces about him. The bright moonlight, too, added to the
effect, giving it the tinge of an old Druidical ceremony.
The chiefs relapsed into silence and sat thus about ten minutes. Then
rose the sound of a chant, distant and measured, and a procession of
young and inferior chiefs, led by Oneidas, appeared, slowly approaching
the fire. Behind them were warriors, and behind the warriors were many
women and children. All the women were in their brightest attire, gay
with feather headdresses and red, blue, or green blankets from the
British posts.
The procession stopped at a distance of about a dozen yards from the
chiefs about the council fire, and the Oneida, Kathlahon, formed the men
in a line facing the head chiefs, with the women and children grouped
in an irregular mass behind them. The singing meanwhile had stopped. The
two groups stood facing each other, attentive and listening.
Then Hahiron, the oldest of the Onondagas, walked back and forth in the
space between the two groups, chanting a welcome. Like all Indian songs
it was monotonous. Every line he uttered with emphasis and a rising
inflection, the phrase “Haih-haih” which may be translated “Hail to
thee!” or better, “All hail!” Nevertheless, under the moonlight in the
wilderness and with rapt faces about him, it was deeply impressive.
Henry found it so.
Hahiron finished his round and went back to his place by the fire.
Atotarho, head chief of the Onondagas, holding in his hands beautifully
beaded strings of Iroquois wampum, came forward and made a speech of
condolence, to which Kathlahon responded. Then the head chiefs and
the minor chiefs smoked pipes together, after which the head chiefs,
followed by the minor chiefs, and these in turn by the crowd, led the
way back to the village.
Many hundreds of persons were in this procession, which was still very
grave and solemn, every one in it impressed by the sacred nature of
this ancient rite. The chief entered the great door of the Long House,
and all who could find places not reserved followed. Henry went in with
the others, and sat in a corner, making himself as small as possible.
Many women, the place of whom was high among the Iroquois, were also in
the Long House.
The head chiefs sat on raised seats at the north end of the great room.
In front of them, on lower seats, were the minor chiefs of the three
older nations on the left, and of the three younger nations on the
right. In front of these, but sitting on the bark floor, was a group of
warriors. At the east end, on both high and low seats, were warriors,
and facing them on the western side were women, also on both high
and low seats. The southern side facing the chiefs was divided into
sections, each with high and low seats. The one on the left was occupied
by men, and the one on the right by women. Two small fires burned in the
center of the Long House about fifteen feet apart.
It was the most singular and one of the most impressive scenes that
Henry had ever beheld. When all had found their seats there was a deep
silence. Henry could hear the slight crackling made by the two fires as
they burned, and the light fell faintly across the multitude of dark,
eager faces. Not less than five hundred people were in the Long House,
and here was the red man at his best, the first of the wild, not the
second or third of the civilized, a drop of whose blood in his veins
brings to the white man now a sense of pride, and not of shame, as it
does when that blood belongs to some other races.
The effect upon Henry was singular. He almost forgot that he was a foe
among them on a mission. For the moment he shared in their feelings, and
he waited with eagerness for whatever might come.
Thayendanegea, the Mohawk, stood up in his place among the great chiefs.
The role he was about to assume belonged to Atotarho, the Onondaga,
but the old Onondaga assigned it for the occasion to Thayendanegea, and
there was no objection. Thayendanegea was an educated man, he had been
in England, he was a member of a Christian church, and he had translated
a part of the Bible from English into his own tongue, but now he was all
a Mohawk, a son of the forest.
He spoke to the listening crowd of the glories of the Six Nations, how
Hah-gweh-di-yu (The Spirit of Good) had inspired Hiawatha to form the
Great Confederacy of the Five Nations, afterwards the Six; how they had
held their hunting grounds for nearly two centuries against both English
and French; and how they would hold them against the Americans. He
stopped at moments, and deep murmurs of approval went through the Long
House. The eyes of both men and women flashed as the orator spoke of
their glory and greatness. Timmendiquas, in a place of honor, nodded
approval. If he could he would form such another league in the west.
The air in the Long House, breathed by so many, became heated. It seemed
to have in it a touch of fire. The orator's words burned. Swift and deep
impressions were left upon the excited brain. The tall figure of the
Mohawk towered, gigantic, in the half light, and the spell that he threw
over all was complete.
He spoke about half an hour, but when he stopped he did not sit down.
Henry knew by the deep breath that ran through the Long House that
something more was coming from Thayendanegea. Suddenly the red chief
began to sing in a deep, vibrant voice, and this was the song that he
sung:
This was the roll of you,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
You that joined in the work,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
You that finished the task,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
The Great League,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
There was the same incessant repetition of “Haih haih!” that Henry had
noticed in the chant at the edge of the woods, but it seemed to give a
cumulative effect, like the roll of thunder, and at every slight pause
that deep breath of approval ran through the crowd in the Long House.
The effect of the song was indescribable. Fire ran in the veins of all,
men, women, and children. The great pulses in their throats leaped up.
They were the mighty nation, the ever-victorious, the League of the
Ho-de-no-sau-nee, that had held at bay both the French and the English
since first a white man was seen in the land, and that would keep back
the Americans now.
Henry glanced at Timmendiquas. The nostrils of the great White Lightning
were twitching. The song reached to the very roots of his being, and
aroused all his powers. Like Thayendanegea, he was a statesman, and he
saw that the Americans were far more formidable to his race than
English or French had ever been. The Americans were upon the ground, and
incessantly pressed upon the red man, eye to eye. Only powerful leagues
like those of the Iroquois could withstand them.
Thayendanegea sat down, and then there was another silence, a period
lasting about two minutes. These silences seemed to be a necessary part
of all Iroquois rites. When it closed two young warriors stretched an
elm bark rope across the room from east to west and near the ceiling,
but between the high chiefs and the minor chiefs. Then they hung dressed
skins all along it, until the two grades of chiefs were hidden from the
view of each other. This was the sign of mourning, and was followed by a
silence. The fires in the Long House had died down somewhat, and little
was to be seen but the eyes and general outline of the people. Then a
slender man of middle years, the best singer in all the Iroquois nation,
arose and sang:
To the great chiefs bring we greeting,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
To the dead chiefs, kindred greeting,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
To the strong men 'round him greeting,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
To the mourning women greeting,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
There our grandsires' words repeating,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
Graciously, Oh, grandsires, hear,
All hail! All hail! All hail!
The singing voice was sweet, penetrating, and thrilling, and the song
was sad. At the pauses deep murmurs of sorrow ran through the crowd
in the Long House. Grief for the dead held them all. When he finished,
Satekariwate, the Mohawk, holding in his hands three belts of wampum,
uttered a long historical chant telling of their glorious deeds, to
which they listened patiently. The chant over, he handed the belts to
an attendant, who took them to Thayendanegea, who held them for a few
moments and looked at them gravely.
One of the wampum belts was black, the sign of mourning; another was
purple, the sign of war; and the third was white, the sign of peace.
They were beautiful pieces of workmanship, very old.
When Hiawatha left the Onondagas and fled to the Mohawks he crossed a
lake supposed to be the Oneida. While paddling along he noticed that man
tiny black, purple, and white shells clung to his paddle. Reaching the
shore he found such shells in long rows upon the beach, and it occurred
to him to use them for the depiction of thought according to color. He
strung them on threads of elm bark, and afterward, when the great league
was formed, the shells were made to represent five clasped hands. For
four hundred years the wampum belts have been sacred among the Iroquois.
Now Thayendanegea gave the wampum belts back to the attendant, who
returned them to Satekariwate, the Mohawk. There was a silence once
more, and then the chosen singer began the Consoling Song again, but now
he did not sing it alone. Two hundred male voices joined him, and
the time became faster. Its tone changed from mourning and sorrow
to exultation and menace. Everyone thought of war, the tomahawk, and
victory. The song sung as it was now became a genuine battle song,
rousing and thrilling. The Long House trembled with the mighty chorus,
and its volume poured forth into the encircling dark woods.
All the time the song was going on, Satekariwate, the Mohawk, stood
holding the belts in his hand, but when it was over he gave them to an
attendant, who carried them to another head chief. Thayendanegea now
went to the center of the room and, standing between the two fires,
asked who were the candidates for the places of the dead chiefs.
The dead chiefs were three, and three tall men, already chosen among
their own tribes, came forward to succeed them. Then a fourth came, and
Henry was startled. It was Timmendiquas, who, as the bravest chief of
the brave Wyandots, was about to become, as a signal tribute, and as
a great sign of friendship, an adopted son and honorary chief of the
Mohawks, Keepers of the Western Gate, and most warlike of all the
Iroquois tribes.
As Timmendiquas stood before Thayendanegea, a murmur of approval deeper
than any that had gone before ran through all the crowd in the Long
House, and it was deepest on the women's benches, where sat many matrons
of the Iroquois, some of whom were chiefs-a woman could be a chief among
the Iroquois.
The candidates were adjudged acceptable by the other chiefs, and
Thayendanegea addressed them on their duties, while they listened
in grave silence. With his address the sacred part of the rite was
concluded. Nothing remained now but the great banquet outside--although
that was much--and they poured forth to it joyously, Thayendanegea, the
Mohawk, and Timmendiquas, the Wyandot, walking side by side, the finest
two red chiefs on all the American continent.