"What? You never heard of the Stonish Giants? You never heard of the
Flying Head? Mercy on the boy! Sit here and we'll eat strawberries and I
shall tell you tales of the Long House.... Sit nearer, for I shall speak
in a low voice lest old Atotarho awake from his long sleep and the dead
pines ring hollow, like witch-drums under the yellow-hammer's double
blows.... Are you afraid?"
"All a-shiver," I whispered, gayly.
"Then listen," she breathed, raising one pink-tipped finger. "This is
the tale of the Eight Thunders, told in the oldest tongue of the
confederacy and to all ensigns of the three clans ere the Erians sued
for peace. Therefore it is true.
"Long ago, the Holder of the Heavens made a very poisonous blue otter,
and the Mohawks killed it and threw its body into the lake. And the
Holder of Heaven came to the eastern door of the Long House and knocked,
saying: 'Where is the very poisonous blue otter that I made, O Keepers
of the Eastern Door?'
"'Who calls?' asked the Mohawks, peeping out to see.
"Then the Holder of the Heavens named himself, and the Mohawks were
afraid and hid in the Long House, listening.
"'Be afraid! O you wise men and sachems! The wisdom of a child alone can
save you!' said the Holder of the Heavens. Saying this he wrapped
himself in a bright cloud and went like a swift arrow to the sun."
My cousin's voice had fallen into a low, melodious sing-song; her rapt
eyes were fixed on me.
"A youth of the Mohawks loved a maid, and they sat by the lake at night,
counting the Dancers in the sky--which we call stars of the Pleiades.
"'One has fallen into the lake,' said the youth.
"'It is the eye of the very poisonous blue otter,' replied the maid,
beginning to cry.
"'I see the lost Dancer shining down under the water,' said the youth
again. Then he bade the maid go back and wait for him; and she went back
and built a fire and sat sadly beside it. Then she heard some one coming
and turned around. A young man stood there dressed in white, and with
white feathers on his head. 'You are sad,' he said to the maid, 'but we
will help you.' Then he gave her a belt of purple wampum to show that he
spoke the truth.
"'Follow,' he said; and she followed to a place in the forest where
smoke rose. There she saw a fire, and, around it, eight chiefs sitting,
with white feathers on their heads.
"'These chiefs are the Eight Thunders,' she thought; 'now they will help
me.' And she said: 'A Dancer has fallen out of the sky and a Mohawk
youth has plunged for it.'
"'The blue otter has turned into a serpent, and the Mohawk youth beheld
her eye under the waters,' they said, one after the other. The maid wept
and laid the wampum at her feet. Then she rubbed ashes on her lips and
on her breasts and in the palms of her hands.
"'The Mohawk youth has wedded the Lake Serpent,' they said, one after
the other. The maid wept; and she rubbed ashes on her thighs and on
her feet.
"'Listen,' they said, one after another; 'take strawberries and go to
the lake. You will know what to do. When that is done we will come in
the form of a cloud on the lake, not in the sky.'
"So she found strawberries in the starlight and went to the lake,
calling, 'Friend! Friend! I am going away and wish to see you!'
"Out on the lake the water began to boil, and coming out of it she saw
her friend. He had a spot on his forehead and looked like a serpent, and
yet like a man. Then she spread the berries on the shore and he came to
the land and ate. Then he went back to the shore and placed his lips to
the water, drinking. And the maid saw him going down through the water
like a snake. So she cried, 'Friends! Friends! I am going away and wish
to see you!'
"The lake boiled and her friend came out of it. The lake boiled once
more; not in one spot alone, but all over, like a high sea spouting on
a reef.
"Out of the water came her friend's wife, beautiful to behold and
shining with silver scales. Her long hair fell all around her, and
seemed like silver and gold. When she came ashore she stretched out on
the sand and took a strawberry between her lips. The young maid watched
the lake until she saw something moving on the waters a great way off,
which seemed like a cloud.
"In a moment the stars went out and it grew dark, and it thundered till
the skies fell down, torn into rain by the terrible lightning. All was
still at last, and it grew lighter. The maid opened her eyes to find
herself in the arms of her friend. But at their feet lay the dying
sparks of a shattered star.
"Then as they went back through the woods the eight chiefs passed them
in Indian file, and they saw them rising higher and higher, till they
went up to the sky like mists at sunrise."
Dorothy's voice died away; she stretched out one arm.
[Illustration: "THIS IS THE END, O YOU WISE MEN AND SACHEMS!".]
"This is the end, O you wise men and sachems, told since the beginning
to us People of the Morning. Hiro [I have spoken]!"
Then a startling thing occurred; up from the underbrush behind us rose a
tall Indian warrior, naked to the waist, painted from belt to brow with
terrific, nameless emblems and signs. I sprang to my feet,
horror-struck; the savage folded his arms, quietly smiling; and I saw
knife and hatchet resting in his belt and a long rifle on the moss
at his feet.
"Kôue! That was a true tale," he said, in good English. "It is a miracle
that one among you sings the truth concerning us poor Mohawks."
"Do you come in peace?" I asked, almost stunned.
He made a gesture. "Had I come otherwise, you had known it!" He looked
straight at Dorothy. "You are the patroon's daughter. Does he speak as
truthfully of the Mohawks as do you?"
"Who are you?" I asked, slowly.
He smiled again. "My name is Brant," he said.
"Joseph Brant! Thayendanegea!" murmured Dorothy, aloud.
"A cousin of his," said the savage, carelessly. Then he turned sternly
on me. "Tell that man who follows me that I could have slain him twice
within the hour; once at the ford, once on Stoner's hill. Does he take
me for a deer? Does he believe I wear war-paint? There is no war betwixt
the Mohawks and the Boston people--yet! Tell that fool to go home!"
"What fool?" I asked, troubled.
"You will meet him--journeying the wrong way," said the Indian, grimly.
With a quick, guarded motion he picked up his rifle, turned short, and
passed swiftly northward straight into the forest, leaving us listening
there together long after he had disappeared.
"That chief was Joseph Brant, ... but he wore no war-paint," whispered
my cousin. "He was painted for the secret rites of the False-Faces."
"He could have slain us as we sat," I said, bitterly humiliated.
She looked up at me thoughtfully; there was not in her face the
slightest trace of the deep emotions which had shocked me.
"A tribal fire is lighted somewhere," she mused. "Chiefs like Brant do
not travel alone--unless--unless he came to consult that witch Catrine
Montour, or to guide her to some national council-fire in the North."
She pondered awhile, and I stood by in silence, my heart still beating
heavily from my astonishment at the hideous apparition of a
moment since.
"Do you know," she said, "that I believe Brant spoke the truth. There is
no war yet, as far as concerns the Mohawks. The smoke we saw was a
secret signal; that hag was scuttling around to collect the False-Faces
for a council. They may mean war; I'm sure they mean it, though Brant
wore no war-paint. But war has not yet been declared; it is no scant
ceremony when a nation of the Iroquois decides on war. And if the
confederacy declares war the ceremonies may last a fortnight. The
False-Faces must be heard from first. And, Heaven help us! I believe
their fires are lighted now."
"What ghastly manner of folk are these False-Faces?" I asked.
"A secret clan, common to all Northern and Western Indians, celebrating
secret rites among the six nations of the Iroquois. Some say the
spectacle is worse than the orgies of the Dream-feast--a frightful
sight, truly hellish; and yet others say the False-Faces do no harm, but
make merry in secret places. But this I know; if the False-Faces are to
decide for war or peace, they will sway the entire confederacy, and
perhaps every Indian in North America; for though nobody knows who
belongs to the secret sect, two-thirds of the Mohawks are said to be
numbered in its ranks; and as go the Mohawks, so goes the confederacy."
"How is it you know all this?" I asked, amazed.
"My playmate was Magdalen Brant," she said. "Her playmates were pure
Mohawk."
"Do you mean to tell me that this painted savage is kin to that lovely
girl who came with Sir John and the Butlers?" I demanded.
"They are related. And, cousin, this 'painted savage' is no savage if
the arts of civilization which he learned at Dr. Wheelock's school count
for anything. He was secretary to old Sir William. He is an educated
man, spite of his naked body and paint, and the more to be dreaded, it
appears to me.... Hark! See those branches moving beside the trail!
There is a man yonder. Follow me."
On the sandy bank our shoes made little sound, yet the unseen man heard
us and threw up a glittering rifle, calling out: "Halt! or I fire."
Dorothy stopped short, and her hand fell on my arm, pressing it
significantly. Out into the middle of the trail stepped a tall fellow
clad from throat to ankle in deer-skin. On his curly head rested a
little, round cap of silvery mole-skin, light as a feather; his
leggings' fringe was dyed green; baldrick, knife-sheath, bullet-pouch,
powder-horn, and hatchet-holster were deeply beaded in scarlet, white,
and black, and bands of purple porcupine-quills edged shoulder-cape and
moccasins, around which were painted orange-colored flowers, each
centred with a golden bead.
"A forest-runner," she motioned with her lips, "and, if I'm not blind,
he should answer to the name of Mount--and many crimes, they say."
The forest-runner stood alert, rifle resting easily in the hollow of his
left arm.
"Who passes?" he called out.
"White folk," replied Dorothy, laughing. Then we stepped out.
"Well, well," said the forest-runner, lifting his mole-skin cap with a
grin; "if this is not the pleasantest sight that has soothed my eyes
since we hung that Tory whelp last Friday--and no disrespect to Mistress
Varick, whose father is more patriot than many another I might name!"
"I bid you good-even, Jack Mount," said Dorothy, smiling.
"To you, Mistress Varick," he said, bowing the deeper; then glanced
keenly at me and recognized me at the same moment. "Has my prophecy come
true, sir?" he asked, instantly.
"God save our country," I said, significantly.
"Then I was right!" he said, and flushed with pleasure when I offered
him my hand.
"If I am not too free," he muttered, taking my hand in his great, hard
paw, almost affectionately.
"You may walk with us if you journey our way," said Dorothy; and the
great fellow shuffled up beside her, cap in hand, and it amused me to
see him strive to shorten his strides to hers, so that he presently fell
into a strange gait, half-skip, half-toddle.
"Pray cover yourself," said Dorothy, encouragingly, and Mount did so,
dumb as a Matanzas oyster and crimson as a boiled sea-crab. Then,
doubtless, deeming that gentility required some polite observation, he
spoke in a high-pitched voice of the balmy weather and the sweet
profusion of birds and flowers, when there was more like to be a "sweet
profusion" of Indians; and I nigh stifled with laughter to see this
lumbering, free-voiced forest-runner transformed to a mincing, anxious,
backwoods macaroni at the smile of a pretty woman.
"Do you bring no other news save of the birds and blossoms?" asked
Dorothy, mischievously. "Tell us what we all are fearful of. Have the
Senecas and Cayugas risen to join the British?"
Mount stole a glance at me.
"I wish I knew," he muttered.
"We will know soon, now," I said, soberly.
"Sooner, perhaps, than you expect, sir," he said. "I am summoned to the
manor to confer with General Schuyler on this very matter of the
Iroquois."
"Is it true that the Mohawks are in their war-paint?" asked Dorothy,
maliciously.
"Stoner and Timothy Murphy say so," replied Mount. "Sir John and the
Butlers are busy with the Onondagas and Oneidas; Dominic Kirkland is
doing his best to keep them peaceable; and our General played his last
cards at their national council. We can only wait and see,
Mistress Varick."
He hesitated, glancing at me askance.
"The fact is," he said, "I've been sniffing at moccasin tracks for the
last hour, up hill, down dale, over the ford, where I lost them, then
circled and picked them up again on the moss a mile below the bridge. If
I read them right, they were Mohawk tracks and made within the hour, and
how that skulking brute got away from me I cannot think."
He looked at us in an injured manner, for we were striving not to smile.
"I'm counted a good tracker," he muttered. "I'm as good as Walter
Butler or Tim Murphy, and my friend, the Weasel, now with Morgan's
riflemen, is no keener forest-runner than am I. Oh, I do not mean to
brag, or say I can match my cunning against such a human bloodhound as
Joseph Brant."
He paused, in hurt surprise, for we were laughing. And then I told him
of the Indian and what message he had sent by us, and Mount listened,
red as a pippin, gnawing his lip.
"I am glad to know it," he said. "This will be evil news to General
Schuyler, I have no doubt. Lord! but it makes me mad to think how close
to Brant I stood and could not drill his painted hide!"
"He spared you," I said.
"That is his affair," muttered Mount, striding on angrily.
"There speaks the obstinate white man, who can see no good in any
savage," whispered Dorothy. "Nothing an Indian does is right or
generous; these forest-runners hate them, distrust them, fear
them--though they may deny it--and kill all they can. And you may argue
all day with an Indian-hater and have your trouble to pay you. Yet I
have heard that this man Mount is brave and generous to enemies of his
own color."
We had now come to the road in front of the house, and Mount set his cap
rakishly on his head, straightened cape and baldrick, and ran his
fingers through the gorgeous thrums rippling from sleeve and thigh.
"I'd barter a month's pay for a pot o' beer," he said to me. "I learned
to drink serving with Cresap's riflemen at the siege of Boston; a
godless company, sir, for an innocent man to fall among. But Morgan's
rifles are worse, Mr. Ormond; they drink no water save when it rains in
their gin toddy."
"Sir Lupus says you tried to join them," said Dorothy, to plague him.
"So I did, Mistress Varick, so I did," he stammered; "to break 'em o'
their habits, ma'am. Trust me, if I had that corps I'd teach 'em to let
spirits alone if I had to drink every drop in camp to keep 'em sober!"
"There's beer in the buttery," she said, laughing; "and if you smile at
Tulip she'll see you starve not."
"Nobody," said I, "goes thirsty or hungry at Varick Manor."
"Indeed, no," said Dorothy, much amused, as old Cato came down the path,
hat in hand. "Here, Cato! do you take Captain Mount and see that he is
comfortable and that he lacks nothing."
So, standing together in the stockade gateway, we watched Cato
conducting Mount towards the quarters behind the guard-house, then
walked on to meet the children, who came dancing down the driveway
to greet us.
"Dorothy! Dorothy!" cried Cecile, "we've shaved candles and waxed the
library floors. Lady Schuyler is here and the General and the Carmichael
girls we knew at school, and their cousin, Maddaleen Dirck, and Christie
McDonald and Marguerite Haldimand--cousin to the Tory general in
Canada--and--"
"I'm to walk a minuet with Madge Haldimand!" broke in Ruyven; "will you
lend me your gold stock-buckle, Cousin Ormond?"
"I mean to dance, too," cried Harry, crowding up to pluck my sleeve.
"Please, Cousin Ormond, lend me a lace handkerchief."
"Paltz Clavarack, of the Half-moon Regiment, asked me to walk a minuet,"
observed Cecile, tossing her head. "I'm sure I don't know what to say.
He's so persistent."
Benny's clamor broke out: "Thammy thtole papath betht thnuff-boxth!
Thammy thtole papath betht thnuff-boxth!"
"Sammy!" cried Dorothy, "what did you steal your father's best snuff-box
for?"
"I only desired to offer snuff to General Schuyler," said Sammy,
sullenly, amid a roar of laughter.
"We're to dine at eight! Everybody is dressing; come on, Dorothy!" cried
Cecile. "Mr. Clavarack vowed he'd perish if I kept him waiting--"
"You should see the escort!" said Ruyven to me. "Dragoons, cousin, in
leather helmets and jack-boots, and all wearing new sabres taken from
the Hessian cavalry. They're in the quarters with Tim Murphy, of
Morgan's, and, Lord! how thirsty they appear to be!"
"There's the handsomest man I ever saw," murmured Cecile to Dorothy,
"Captain O'Neil, of the New York line. He's dying to see you; he said so
to Mr. Clavarack, and I heard him."
Dorothy looked up with heightened color.
"Will you walk the minuet with me, Dorothy?" I whispered.
She looked down, faintly smiling:
"Perhaps," she said.
"That is no answer," I retorted, surprised and hurt.
"I know it," she said, demurely.
"Then answer me, Dorothy!"
She looked at me so gravely that I could not be certain whether it was
pretence or earnest.
"I am hostess," she said; "I belong to my guests. If my duties prevent
my walking the minuet with you, I shall find a suitable partner for
you, cousin."
"And no doubt for yourself," I retorted, irritated to rudeness.
Surprise and disdain were in her eyes. Her raised brows and cool smile
boded me no good.
"I thought I was free to choose," she said, serenely.
"You are, and so am I," I said. "Will you have me for the minuet?"
We paused in the hallway, facing each other.
She gave me a dangerous glance, biting her lip in silence.
And, the devil possessing me, I said, "For the last time, will you take
me?"
"No!" she said, under her breath. "You have your answer now."
"I have my answer," I repeated, setting my teeth.