The five lay deep in the swamp, reunited once more, and full of content.
The great storm in which Long Jim, with the aid of his comrades, had
disappeared, was whirling off to the eastward. The lightning was flaring
its last on the distant horizon, but the rain still pattered in the
great woods.
It was a small hut, but the five could squeeze in it. They were
dry, warm, and well armed, and they had no fear of the storm and the
wilderness. The four after their imprisonment and privations were
recovering their weight and color. Paul, who had suffered the most,
had, on the other hand, made the quickest recovery, and their present
situation, so fortunate in contrast with their threatened fate a few
days before, made a great appeal to his imagination. The door was
allowed to stand open six inches, and through the crevice he watched the
rain pattering on the dark earth. He felt an immense sense of security
and comfort. Paul was hopeful by nature and full of courage, but when he
lay bound and alone in a hut in the Iroquois camp it seemed to him that
no chance was left. The comrades had been kept separate, and he had
supposed the others to be dead. But here he was snatched from the very
pit of death, and all the others had been saved from a like fate.
“If I'd known that you were alive and uncaptured, Henry,” he said, “I'd
never have given up hope. It was a wonderful thing you did to start the
chain that drew us all away.”
“It's no more than Sol or Tom or any of you would have done,” said
Henry.
“We might have tried it,” said Long Jim Hart, “but I ain't sure that
we'd have done it. Likely ez not, ef it had been left to me my scalp
would be dryin' somewhat in the breeze that fans a Mohawk village. Say,
Sol, how wuz it that you talked Onondaga when you played the part uv
that Onondaga runner. Didn't know you knowed that kind uv Injun lingo.”
Shif'less Sol drew himself up proudly, and then passed a thoughtful hand
once or twice across his forehead.
“Jim,” he said, “I've told you often that Paul an' me hez the instincts
uv the eddicated. Learnin' always takes a mighty strong hold on me.
Ef I'd had the chance, I might be a purfessor, or mebbe I'd be writin'
poetry. I ain't told you about it, but when I wuz a young boy, afore I
moved with the settlers, I wuz up in these parts an' I learned to talk
Iroquois a heap. I never thought it would be the use to me it hez been
now. Ain't it funny that sometimes when you put a thing away an' it gits
all covered with rust and mold, the time comes when that same forgot
little thing is the most vallyble article in the world to you.”
“Weren't you scared, Sol,” persisted Paul, “to face a man like Brant,
an' pass yourself off as an Onondaga?”
“No, I wuzn't,” replied the shiftless one thoughtfully, “I've been wuss
scared over little things. I guess that when your life depends on jest
a motion o' your hand or the turnin' o' a word, Natur' somehow comes to
your help an' holds you up. I didn't get good an' skeered till it wuz
all over, an' then I had one fit right after another.”
“I've been skeered fur a week without stoppin',” said Tom Ross; “jest
beginnin' to git over it. I tell you, Henry, it wuz pow'ful lucky fur
us you found them steppin' stones, an' this solid little place in the
middle uv all that black mud.”
“Makes me think uv the time we spent the winter on that island in
the lake,” said Long Jim. “That waz shorely a nice place an' pow'ful
comf'table we wuz thar. But we're a long way from it now. That island uv
ours must be seven or eight hundred miles from here, an' I reckon it's
nigh to fifteen hundred to New Orleans, whar we wuz once.”
“Shet up,” said Tom Ross suddenly. “Time fur all uv you to go to sleep,
an' I'm goin' to watch.”
“I'll watch,” said Henry.
“I'm the oldest, an' I'm goin' to have my way this time,” said Tom.
“Needn't quarrel with me about it,” said Shif'less Sol. “A lazy man like
me is always willin' to go to sleep. You kin hev my watch, Tom, every
night fur the next five years.”
He ranged himself against the wall, and in three minutes was sound
asleep. Henry and Paul found room in the line, and they, too, soon
slept. Tom sat at the door, one of the captured rifles across his knees,
and watched the forest and the swamp. He saw the last flare of the
distant lightning, and he listened to the falling of the rain drops
until they vanished with the vanishing wind, leaving the forest still
and without noise.
Tom was several years older than any of the others, and, although
powerful in action, he was singularly chary of speech. Henry was the
leader, but somehow Tom looked upon himself as a watcher over the other
four, a sort of elder brother. As the moon came out a little in the wake
of the retreating clouds, he regarded them affectionately.
“One, two, three, four, five,” he murmured to himself. “We're all here,
an' Henry come fur us. That is shorely the greatest boy the world hez
ever seed. Them fellers Alexander an' Hannibal that Paul talks about
couldn't hev been knee high to Henry. Besides, ef them old Greeks an'
Romans hed hed to fight Wyandots an' Shawnees an' Iroquois ez we've
done, whar'd they hev been?”
Tom Ross uttered a contemptuous little sniff, and on the edge of that
sniff Alexander and Hannibal were wafted into oblivion. Then he went
outside and walked about the islet, appreciating for the tenth time what
a wonderful little refuge it was. He was about to return to the hut when
he saw a dozen dark blots along the high bough of a tree. He knew them.
They were welcome blots. They were wild turkeys that had found what had
seemed to be a secure roosting place in the swamp.
Tom knew that the meat of the little bear was nearly exhausted, and here
was more food come to their hand. “We're five pow'ful feeders, an' we'll
need you,” he murmured, looking up at the turkeys, “but you kin rest
thar till nearly mornin'.”
He knew that the turkeys would not stir, and he went back to the hut to
resume his watch. Just before the first dawn he awoke Henry.
“Henry,” he said, “a lot uv foolish wild turkeys hev gone to rest on the
limb of a tree not twenty yards from this grand manshun uv ourn. 'Pears
to me that wild turkeys wuz made fur hungry fellers like us to eat. Kin
we risk a shot or two at 'em, or is it too dangerous?”
“I think we can risk the shots,” said Henry, rising and taking his
rifle. “We're bound to risk something, and it's not likely that Indians
are anywhere near.”
They slipped from the cabin, leaving the other three still sound asleep,
and stepped noiselessly among the trees. The first pale gray bar that
heralded the dawn was just showing in the cast.
“Thar they are,” said Tom Ross, pointing at the dozen dark blots on the
high bough.
“We'll take good aim, and when I say 'fire!' we'll both pull trigger,”
said Henry.
He picked out a huge bird near the end of the line, but he noticed when
he drew the bead that a second turkey just behind the first was directly
in his line of fire. The fact aroused his ambition to kill both with
one bullet. It was not a mere desire to slaughter or to display
marksmanship, but they needed the extra turkey for food.
“Are you ready, Tom?” he asked. “Then fire.”
They pulled triggers, there were two sharp reports terribly loud to both
under the circumstances, and three of the biggest and fattest of the
turkeys fell heavily to the ground, while the rest flapped their wings,
and with frightened gobbles flew away.
Henry was about to rush forward, but Silent Tom held him back.
“Don't show yourself, Henry! Don't show yourself!” he cried in tense
tones.
“Why, what's the matter?” asked the boy in surprise.
“Don't you see that three turkeys fell, and we are only two to shoot?
An Injun is layin' 'roun' here some whar, an' he drawed a bead on one uv
them turkeys at the same time we did.”
Henry laughed and put away Tom's detaining hand.
“There's no Indian about,” he said. “I killed two turkeys with one shot,
and I'm mighty proud of it, too. I saw that they were directly in the
line of the bullet, and it went through both.”
Silent Tom heaved a mighty sigh of relief, drawn up from great depths.
“I'm tre-men-jeous-ly glad uv that, Henry,” he said. “Now when I saw
that third turkey come tumblin' down I wuz shore that one Injun or mebbe
more had got on this snug little place uv ourn in the swamp, an' that
we'd hev to go to fightin' ag'in. Thar come times, Henry, when my mind
just natchally rises up an' rebels ag'in fightin', 'specially when I
want to eat or sleep. Ain't thar anythin' else but fight, fight, fight,
'though I 'low a feller hez got to expect a lot uv it out here in the
woods?”
They picked up the three turkeys, two gobblers and a hen, and found
them large and fat as butter. More than once the wild turkey had come to
their relief, and, in fact, this bird played a great part in the life
of the frontier, wherever that frontier might be, as it shifted steadily
westward. As they walked back toward the hut they faced three figures,
all three with leveled rifles.
“All right, boys,” sang out Henry. “It's nobody but Tom and myself,
bringing in our breakfast.”
The three dropped their rifles.
“That's good,” said Shif'less Sol. “When them shots roused us out o'
our beauty sleep we thought the whole Iroquois nation, horse, foot,
artillery an' baggage wagons, wuz comin' down upon us. So we reckoned
we'd better go out an' lick 'em afore it wuz too late.
“But it's you, an' you've got turkeys, nothin' but turkeys. Sho' I
reckoned from the peart way Long Jim spoke up that you wuz loaded down
with hummin' birds' tongues, ortylans, an' all them other Roman and
Rooshian delicacies Paul talks about in a way to make your mouth water.
But turkeys! jest turkeys! Nothin' but turkeys!”
“You jest wait till you see me cookin' 'em, Sol Hyde,” said Long Jim.
“Then your mouth'll water, an' it'll take Henry and Tom both to hold you
back.”
But Shif'less Sol's mouth was watering already, and his eyes were glued
on the turkeys.
“I'm a pow'ful lazy man, ez you know, Saplin',” he said, “but I'm goin'
to help you pick them turkeys an' get 'em ready for the coals. The
quicker they are cooked the better it'll suit me.”
While they were cooking the turkeys, Henry, a little anxious lest the
sound of the shots had been heard, crossed on the stepping stones and
scouted a bit in the woods. But there was no sign of Indian presence,
and, relieved, he returned to the islet just as breakfast was ready.
Long Jim had exerted all his surpassing skill, and it was a contented
five that worked on one of the turkeys--the other two being saved for
further needs.
“What's goin' to be the next thing in the line of our duty, Henry?”
asked Long Jim as they ate.
“We'll have plenty to do, from all that Sol tells us,” replied the boy.
“It seems that they felt so sure of you, while you were prisoners, that
they often talked about their plans where you could hear them. Sol has
told me of two or three talks between Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea,
and from the last one he gathered that they're intending a raid with a
big army against a place called Wyoming, in the valley of a river named
the Susquehanna. It's a big settlement, scattered all along the river,
and they expect to take a lot of scalps. They're going to be helped by
British from Canada and Tories. Boys, we're a long way from home, but
shall we go and tell them in Wyoming what's coming?”
“Of course,” said the four together.
“Our bein' a long way from home don't make any difference,” said
Shif'less Sol. “We're generally a long way from home, an' you know we
sent word back from Pittsburgh to Wareville that we wuz stayin' a while
here in the east on mighty important business.”
“Then we go to the Wyoming Valley as straight and as fast as we can,”
said Henry. “That's settled. What else did you bear about their plans,
Sol?”
“They're to break up the village here soon and then they'll march to
a place called Tioga. The white men an' I hear that's to be a lot uv
'em-will join 'em thar or sooner. They've sent chiefs all the way to our
Congress at Philydelphy, pretendin' peace, an' then, when they git our
people to thinkin' peace, they'll jump on our settlements, the whole
ragin' army uv 'em, with tomahawk an' knife. A white man named John
Butler is to command 'em.”
Paul shuddered.
“I've heard of him,” he said. “They called him 'Indian' Butler at
Pittsburgh. He helped lead the Indians in that terrible battle of the
Oriskany last year. And they say he's got a son, Walter Butler, who is
as bad as he is, and there are other white leaders of the Indians, the
Johnsons and Claus.”
“'Pears ez ef we would be needed,” said Tom Ross.
“I don't think we ought to hurry,” said Henry. “The more we know about
the Indian plans the better it will be for the Wyoming people. We've a
safe and comfortable hiding place here, and we can stay and watch the
Indian movements.”
“Suits me,” drawled Shif'less Sol. “My legs an' arms are still stiff
from them deerskin thongs an' ez Long Jim is here now to wait on me I
guess I'll take a rest from travelin.”
“You'll do all your own waitin' on yourself,” rejoined Long Jim; “an' I'm
afraid you won't be waited on so Pow'ful well, either, but a good deal
better than you deserve.”
They lay on the islet several days, meanwhile keeping a close watch
on the Indian camp. They really had little to fear except from hunting
parties, as the region was far from any settled portion of the country,
and the Indians were not likely to suspect their continued presence.
But the hunters were numerous, and all the squaws in the camp were busy
jerking meat. It was obvious that the Indians were preparing for a great
campaign, but that they would take their own time. Most of the scouting
was done by Henry and Sol, and several times they lay in the thick
brushwood and watched, by the light of the fires, what was passing in
the Indian camp.
On the fifth night after the rescue of Long Jim, Henry and Shif'less Sol
lay in the covert. It was nearly midnight, but the fires still burned
in the Indian camp, warriors were polishing their weapons, and the women
were cutting up or jerking meat. While they were watching they heard
from a point to the north the sound of a voice rising and failing in a
kind of chant.
“Another war party comin',” whispered Shif'less Sol, “an' singin' about
the victories that they're goin' to win.”
“But did you notice that voice?” Henry whispered back. “It's not a
man's, it's a woman's.”
“Now that you speak of it, you're right,” said Shif'less Sol. “It's
funny to hear an Injun woman chantin' about battles as she comes into
camp. That's the business o' warriors.”
“Then this is no ordinary woman,” said Henry.
“They'll pass along that trail there within twenty yards of us, Sol, and
we want to see her.”
“So we do,” said Sol, “but I ain't breathin' while they pass.”
They flattened themselves against the earth until the keenest eye could
not see them in the darkness. All the time the singing was growing
louder, and both remained, quite sure that it was the voice of a woman.
The trail was but a short distance away, and the moon was bright. The
fierce Indian chant swelled, and presently the most singular figure that
either had ever seen came into view.
The figure was that of an Indian woman, but lighter in color than most
of her kind. She was middle-aged, tall, heavily built, and arrayed in a
strange mixture of civilized and barbaric finery, deerskin leggins and
moccasins gorgeously ornamented with heads, a red dress of European
cloth with a red shawl over it, and her head bare except for bright
feathers, thrust in her long black hair, which hung loosely down her
back. She held in one hand a large sharp tomahawk, which she swung
fiercely in time to her song. Her face had the rapt, terrible expression
of one who had taken some fiery and powerful drug, and she looked
neither to right nor to left as she strode on, chanting a song of blood,
and swinging the keen blade.
Henry and Shif'less Sol shuddered. They had looked upon terrible human
figures, but nothing so frightful as this, a woman with the strength
of a man and twice his rage and cruelty. There was something weird and
awful in the look of that set, savage face, and the tone of that Indian
chant. Brave as they were, Henry and the shiftless one felt fear, as
perhaps they had never felt it before in their lives. Well they might!
They were destined to behold this woman again, under conditions the
most awful of which the human mind can conceive, and to witness savagery
almost unbelievable in either man or woman. The two did not yet know
it, but they were looking upon Catharine Montour, daughter of a French
Governor General of Canada and an Indian woman, a chieftainess of the
Iroquois, and of a memory infamous forever on the border, where she was
known as “Queen Esther.”
Shif'less Sol shuddered again, and whispered to Henry:
“I didn't think such women ever lived, even among the Indians.”
A dozen warriors followed Queen Esther, stepping in single file, and
their manner showed that they acknowledged her their leader in every
sense. She was truly an extraordinary woman. Not even the great
Thayendanegea himself wielded a stronger influence among the Iroquois.
In her youth she had been treated as a white woman, educated and dressed
as a white woman, and she had played a part in colonial society at
Albany, New York, and Philadelphia. But of her own accord she had turned
toward the savage half of herself, had become wholly a savage, had
married a savage chief, bad been the mother of savage children, and here
she was, at midnight, striding into an Iroquois camp in the wilderness,
her head aflame with visions of blood, death, and scalps.
The procession passed with the terrifying female figure still leading,
still singing her chant, and the curiosity of Henry and Shif'less Sol
was so intense that, taking all risks, they slipped along in the rear to
see her entry.
Queen Esther strode into the lighted area of the camp, ceased her chant,
and looked around, as if a queen had truly come and was waiting to be
welcomed by her subjects. Thayendanegea, who evidently expected her,
stepped forward and gave her the Indian salute. It may be that he
received her with mild enthusiasm. Timmendiquas, a Wyandot and a guest,
though an ally, would not dispute with him his place as real head of the
Six Nations, but this terrible woman was his match, and could inflame
the Iroquois to almost anything that she wished.
After the arrival of Queen Esther the lights in the Iroquois village
died down. It was evident to both Henry and the shiftless one that they
had been kept burning solely in the expectation of the coming of this
formidable woman and her escort. It was obvious that nothing more was to
be seen that night, and they withdrew swiftly through the forest toward
their islet. They stopped once in an oak opening, and Shif'less Sol
shivered slightly.
“Henry,” he said, “I feel all through me that somethin' terrible is
comin'. That woman back thar has clean give me the shivers. I'm more
afraid of her than I am of Timmendiquas or Thayendanegea. Do you think
she is a witch?”
“There are no such things as witches, but she was uncanny. I'm afraid,
Sol, that your feeling about something terrible going to happen is
right.”
It was about two o'clock in the morning when they reached the islet. Tom
Ross was awake, but the other two slumbered peacefully on. They told Tom
what they had seen, and he told them the identity of the terrible woman.
“I heard about her at Pittsburgh, an' I've heard tell, too, about her
afore I went to Kentucky to live. She's got a tre-men-jeous power over
the Iroquois. They think she ken throw spells, an' all that sort of
thing-an' mebbe she kin.”
Two nights later it was Henry and Tom who lay in the thickets, and then
they saw other formidable arrivals in the Indian camp. Now they were
white men, an entire company in green uniforms, Sir John Johnson's Royal
Greens, as Henry afterward learned; and with them was the infamous John
Butler, or “Indian” Butler, as he was generally known on the New York
and Pennsylvania frontier, middle-aged, short and fat, and insignificant
of appearance, but energetic, savage and cruel in nature. He was a
descendant of the Duke of Ormond, and had commanded the Indians at the
terrible battle of the Oriskany, preceding Burgoyne's capture the year
before.
Henry and Tom were distant spectators at an extraordinary council around
one of the fires. In this group were Timmendiquas, Thayendanegea, Queen
Esther, high chiefs of the distant nations, and the white men, John
Butler, Moses Blackstaffe, and the boy, Braxton Wyatt. It seemed to
Henry that Timmendiquas, King of the Wyandots, was superior to all the
other chiefs present, even to Thayendanegea. His expression was nobler
than that of the great Mohawk, and it had less of the Indian cruelty.
Henry and Tom could not hear 'anything that was said, but they felt sure
the Iroquois were about to break up their village and march on the great
campaign they had planned. The two and their comrades could render no
greater service than to watch their march, and then warn those upon whom
the blow was to fall.
The five left their hut on the islet early the next morning, well
equipped with provisions, and that day they saw the Iroquois dismantle
their village, all except the Long House and two or three other of the
more solid structures, and begin the march. Henry and his comrades went
parallel with them, watching their movements as closely as possible.