THE LODGE IN THE WOODS
Neither the rest of that day nor the next had Smith any speech with
Pocahontas. True it was that she came accompanied by squaws and
children, all eager to serve as cupbearers in order to observe the
paleface closely. But she put down the food beside him and did not
linger.
By the middle of the second day Smith found himself less an object of
interest. Everyone in Werowocomoco had been to gaze at him and the older
chiefs had sat and talked with him; but the Englishman could not
discover what their opinion in regard to his coming or his future might
be. Now there seemed to be something afoot which was engaging the
attention of the braves who congregated together before the long lodge.
Had it anything to do with his own fate, the captive wondered. The
children, too, had found other things to interest them. He saw them,
their little red bodies glistening in the sun, playing with the dogs or
pretending they were a war party creeping through a hostile country.
Smith missed them peering about the opening of his lodge, half amused,
half frightened, when he attempted to make friends.
He leaned idly against the side of the wigwam, watching two squaws not
far away who were tanning a deerskin and cutting it in strips for
thread. Would the time ever come again, he wondered, when he would
behold a white woman sewing or spinning?
He saw Pocahontas leave her lodge, but instead of coming in his
direction, she ran towards the wigwams that skirted the forest and was
soon out of sight. He could not see that a young Indian boy, astounded
to catch sight of her in that unaccustomed part of the village, went to
meet her.
"Is Wansutis by her hearth?" asked Pocahontas.
"She is," Claw-of-the-Eagle replied, and walked on beside her with no
further word.
Pocahontas's heart was beating a little faster than usual. Wansutis
still excited a feeling of awe and discomfort in the courageous child;
she could not help experiencing a sort of terror when in her presence.
Nevertheless she had now come of her own accord to ask the old woman for
aid.
Claw-of-the-Eagle, though he would have bitten his tongue off rather
than acknowledge his curiosity, was most eager to learn what had brought
the daughter of Powhatan to his adopted mother's lodge. He entered it
with Pocahontas and pretended to be busying himself with stringing his
bows in order to have an excuse for staying.
"Wansutis," began Pocahontas, standing in the sunshine of the entrance,
to the old woman who sat smoking in the darkest part of the lodge, "thou
hast the knowledge of all the herbs of the fields and of the forests,
those that harm and those that help. Is it not so?"
The wrinkled squaw looked up, a drawn smile upon her lips, and said:
"And so Princess Pocahontas comes to old Wansutis for a love potion."
"Nay," cried the girl angrily, coming closer, "not so; I desire of thee
something quite different--herbs that will make a man forget."
"The same herb for both," snapped the squaw; "for whom wilt thou brew
it, for thine adopted son, thou who art no squaw and too young to have a
son? I have no such herb, maiden, and if I had, thinkest thou I had not
given it to Claw-of-the-Eagle to drink. Speak to her, son, and tell her
if a man ever forgets."
Pocahontas turned a questioning glance on him and the young brave
answered it:
"My thoughts are great and speedy travellers, Pocahontas; they take long
journeys backwards to my father's and mother's people. They wander among
old trails in the forests and they meet old friends by the side of
burned-out campfires. Yet, when like weary hunters who have been seeking
game all day, they return at night to their lodge, so mine return in
gratitude to Wansutis. For she hath not sought to hinder them from
travelling old trails, even as she hath not bound my feet to her lodge
pole to keep them from straying."
"And if she had not left thee free," queried Pocahontas, "what wouldst
thou have done?" Somehow, captivity and the thought of captives had
suddenly become of extreme interest to the girl.
"I know not, Princess," answered the boy after pondering a moment, "yet
had not my father and mother been dead I feel certain I should have
sought to escape to them, even had thy father set all his guards about
the village. But they were no more, and our wigwam afar off was empty;
and so my heart finds rest in a new home and I gladly obey a new
mother."
"Is it then so hard to forget an old lodge and other ways?" pondered the
girl. "It seems to me that each day among strangers would be the
beginning of a new life, that it would be pleasant to know I could not
foresee what would come to pass before nightfall. Why," she queried,
looking eagerly at both the old woman and the boy, "why should this
paleface desire to return to the island where they sicken and starve
while here he hath food in plenty?"
"Wait till thou thyself art among strangers away from thine own people,"
cried Wansutis sternly, and then she turned her back upon the young
people and began to mutter.
"So thou hast no drink of forgetfulness to give me?" asked Pocahontas,
hesitating at the entrance, to which she had retreated; but the old
woman did not answer; and Pocahontas walked off slowly, meditating as
she went, while Claw-of-the-Eagle, bow in hand, gazed after her.
It had grown dark and John Smith, his legs cramped with long sitting,
stretched himself out by the side of the fire in his lodge into which he
had thrown some twigs, so that the embers which had smouldered all day
now blazed up brightly. The cheerful crackling was welcome, it seemed to
him to speak in English words of home and comfort, not the heathenish
jargon he had listened to perforce for several weeks. Not only was it a
companion but a protection. While it blazed he might be seized and put
to death, but at least he should see his enemies. He missed Pocahontas
for her own sake, not only because her staying away argued ill for his
safety. Gratitude was not the only reason for his interest in her: she
seemed to him the freest, brightest creature he had ever come across, as
much a part of the wilderness nature as a squirrel or a bird. Like all
cultured Englishmen of his day, he had read many books and poems about
shepherdesses in Arcadia and princesses of enchanted realms; but never
yet had any writer, not even the great Spenser or Sir Philip Sidney,
imagined in their words so free and wild and sylvan a creature as this
interesting Indian maiden.
His thoughts were disturbed by the entrance of two Indians. "We are
come," they said, "at The Powhatan's bidding to take thee to his lodge
in the wood."
He knew not what this order might mean, yet he was glad that come what
would, the monotony of his captivity was broken. He rose quickly and
followed them through the village, each lodge of which had its ghostly
curl of smoke ascending through the centre towards the dark sky. Within
some of the wigwams he could see the fire and sitting around it families
eating before lying down to sleep. Then they left the palisades of
Werowocomoco behind them and came out into the forest, to a lodge as
large as that in which he had first been led before Powhatan.
This one, however, was differently arranged. It was divided into two
parts, separated by dark hanging mats that permitted no light to pass
through. Into the smaller apartment, to give it such a name. Smith was
ushered, and there the two Indians, after stirring up the fire and
throwing on fresh logs, left him alone.
Not long, however, did Smith imagine himself the lodge's only
inhabitant. The sound of muffled feet, even though they moved softly,
betrayed the presence of a number of persons on the other side of the
mat. His ears, his only sentinels, reported that the unseen foes had
seated themselves and then, after a short silence, he heard a voice
begin a low, weird chant. He could not understand the words, but from
the monotonous shaking of a rattle and the steps that seemed to be
moving in some dance round and round from one part of the room to the
other, Smith was certain that it was a shaman beginning the chant for
some sacred ceremony. Then one by one the different voices joined in,
uttering hideous shrieks, and the ground shook with the shuffling of
many feet. The sounds were enough to terrify the stoutest heart, and
Smith had no doubt but that their song was a rejoicing over his coming
death. Perhaps Powhatan, he thought, had only pretended to grant his
daughter's request, having planned all along to put an end to him, and
when the boy, who had doubtless been sent by him, had not succeeded, he
had probably determined to kill him here. Or perhaps Pocahontas, now in
anger with him, had withdrawn her claims to his life and left him to her
father's vengeance.
The noise grew louder and more fiendish in character and the Englishman
saw the corner of the mat begin to wave, to bulge as if a man were
butting his head against it to raise it. Then he saw it lifted and in
came a creature more hideous than Smith ever dreamed could exist.
Painted all in red pocone, with breast tattooed in black, wearing no
garment save a breech-clout and a gigantic headdress of feathers,
shells and beads, he straightened himself to his great height. A
horrible mask, distorting human lineaments, covered the face, and a
medicine-bag of otter skin hung from his back and dangling from one arm
as an ornament hung the dried hand of an enemy long since dead. On
account of his stature and in spite of the mask, Smith recognized The
Powhatan, and drew himself up proudly to meet his fate.
Behind their werowance now swarmed the other braves and chieftains, two
hundred in all, and all with masks that made them as fearful, thought
John Smith, as a troop of devils from hell.
To his astonishment, they did not fall upon him and in their shrieking
he thought he could even distinguish the word "friend." The Powhatan
alone of them all approached him, saying:
"Have no fear, my son; we are not come to harm thee. The ceremony which
thou hast heard was to call Okee to witness to the friendship we have
sworn thee. Henceforth are we and thou as of one tribe. No longer art
thou a prisoner but free to come and go as thy brothers here, aye, even
to return to thy comrades on the island if thou so desirest. When thou
hast arrived there send unto me two of those great guns that spit forth
fire and death that my name may become a still greater terror to mine
enemies, and send to me also a grindstone such as thou hast told me of,
that my squaws may use it for crushing maize. I ask not these gifts for
naught. A great chief giveth ever gifts in return. Therefore I present
to thee for thine own the land called Capahosick, where thou mayst live
and build thee a lodge and take a squaw to till thy fields for thee.
Moreover, I, The Powhatan, I, Wahunsunakuk, will esteem thee as mine own
son from this day forth."
It was difficult for Smith during this discourse not to betray his
astonishment. First came the relief at learning that he was not to be
killed immediately and then the wonderful news that he was free to go to
Jamestown. And if The Powhatan and his people had sworn friendship to
him, would that not mean that through him the colony should be saved? He
longed to know what had brought about this sudden change in his fate,
but he could not ask. In as stately a manner as that of the
werowance--so at variance with his appearance--and with the best words
at his command, he spoke his thanks.
"I thank thee, great Powhatan, for thy words of kindness and the good
news thou bringest me. In truth if thou wilt be to me a father, I will
be to thee a son, and there shall be peace between Werowocomoco and
Jamestown. If thou wilt send men with me to show me the way they shall
return with presents for thee."
Powhatan gave certain orders and twelve men stepped forward and laid
aside their sacrificial masks and announced themselves ready to
accompany the paleface. Smith had not imagined that he could leave that
night, but he was so eager to be off that he lost no time in his
farewells.
They set forth into the forest which at first was not dense, and along
its edge were clearings where the summer's maize had grown. Then the
trees grew closer together, and to Smith there appeared no path between
them, but his guides strode quickly along with no hesitation, though the
night was a dark one. Six of the Indians went in front of him and six
behind. There was no talking, only the faint sound from the Englishman's
boots and his stumbling against trunks or rocks broke the silence. There
was little chance of an enemy's coming so near to the camp of The
Powhatan, nevertheless the Indians observed the usual caution.
To John Smith there was something ghostly about this excursion by night,
through an unknown country, with unknown men. He could not help
wondering whether he had understood correctly all that Powhatan had
said, or whether he dared believe he had meant what he said, or if he
had not planned to kill him in the wilderness away from any voice to
speak in his favor. Even though the werowance himself were acting in
good faith, might not others of the chiefs have plotted to put an end to
the white man whose coming and whose staying were so beyond their
fathoming? In spite of these thoughts he went on apparently as
unconcernedly as though he were strolling along the king's highway near
his Lincolnshire home.
The call of some animal, a wildcat perhaps, brought the little company
to a hurried standstill, and a whispered consultation. The sound might
really come from some beast, Smith knew; on the other hand, it might be
either a signal made by foes of the Powhatans or the call of another
party of their tribe about to join them. In the latter case it boded ill
for him. He clasped a stone knife he had managed to secrete at
Werowocomoco. He could not overhear what the Indians were saying, but
they were evidently arguing. Then when they seemed to have come to some
decision, they started on once more.
Though the forest was so sombre. Smith's eyes had grown more accustomed
to the blackness and he began to distinguish between the various shades
of darkness. Once or twice he thought he saw to the side of them another
figure, moving or halting as they halted, but when he looked fixedly he
could distinguish nothing but the trunk of some great tree.
On and on they went, mocked at by owls and whippoorwills, crossing
streams over log bridges, wading through others when the cold water
splashed at a misstep up in his face. At last the blackness turned to
grey, in which he could make out the fingers of his hand. Dawn was near.
Why, thought the Englishman, did they delay striking so long? If they
meant to kill him, he hoped it might be done quickly. The phantom figure
which had accompanied them after the halt following the wildcat call
must soon act. Even a brave man must wish such a night as this to end.
Then the world ahead of him seemed to grow wider and lighter. The trees
had larger spaces between them and the figures of the Indians were like
a blurred drawing. Was it a star shining before them, that light that
grew brighter and brighter?
"Jamestown!" he cried out in his own tongue. "Jamestown! Yon is
Jamestown! God be praised!"
The Indians gathered about him and began to question him eagerly. Would
he give presents to them all; would they have the guns to carry back
with them?
As they stood in a little knot, each individual of which was growing
more distinct, a young man ran up behind them.
"Claw-of-the-Eagle!" they exclaimed.
The boy put into the hands of the astonished Smith a necklace of white
shells he remembered to have seen Pocahontas wear.
"Princess Pocahontas sends greetings," he said, "and bids thee farewell
for to-day now that she hath seen thee safe again among thy people." His
own scowl belied the kindliness of the message.
So John Smith knew that Pocahontas had accompanied him through the
forest and that if death had been near him that night, it was she who
had averted it from him.
[Illustration: Decorative]