STAMEN.
That knowledge of forest-craft, which enables the traveller to guide
his feet unerringly through pathless bush, was only in rare instances
acquired by the New World venturers, and then only after years of hard
experience. When Woodfield abandoned his captain to follow the career
of Hough he struck indeed in the right direction, but the native trails
were numerous, and along one of these the yeoman went astray. By
seeking to set himself right he became hopelessly lost in the labyrinth
of the forest; and at last succumbed to weariness and stretched himself
to sleep upon a bed of moss, until a ray of sunlight stabbed through
the dense roof of foliage and smote him across the eyes.
Woodfield arose and looked around in sore perplexity, knowing not which
way to turn. The globes of dew gleamed in opal tints upon the grass,
the big robins passed wreathed in filmy gossamers, the earth smoked
with mist and thrilled with the voice of the glad west wind. But all
the beauty and peace of nature combined made no satisfying meal for an
empty body. Trusting to Providence, Woodfield started out afresh, and
walked strongly for many hours, but always making direct north and away
from the camping-ground of the Iroquois, away from Couchicing and the
little settlement upon its shore.
The yeoman tramped on, until exhaustion came upon him. All around the
great white pines lifted two hundred feet in height, interspersed with
dazzling spruce and gleaming poplars. He smoked to still the pain of
hunger, but the strong tobacco made him dazed. He staggered on, and
presently heard the voices of approaching men. The trail bent sharply.
He passed on, with half-opened eyes and wildly throbbing brain, went
round the bend, and started suddenly as from an evil dream. Half-naked
bodies and painted faces closed round him in a clamorous ring; and
Woodfield awoke fully to the knowledge that he had fallen into the
hands of the Algonquins.
With an effort he drew himself upright, and gazed bravely at an old
warrior with flowing hair, who nodded and smiled at him in a not
unfriendly fashion.
"J'ai faim," the adventurer muttered, trusting that one at least of the
braves might understand the French language.
It was the wily old fox Oskelano who confronted the Englishman. He
stretched out his hand--the etiquette of handshaking he had acquired
from his visit to the fortress--and articulated with difficulty:
"You ... French?"
Woodfield grasped the brown hand and nodded violently.
"Necessity makes hypocrites of us all," he muttered for the
satisfaction of his stubborn English conscience.
Oskelano grinned amicably and gave an order to his men; and straightway
the warriors closed round and escorted Woodfield to their camp, every
step widening the distance between him and his companions. They gave
him food and drink; they provided him with a shelter; they built a
smoky fire before him to keep away the flies. Finally Oskelano himself
came, accompanied by his brother, and the two squatted gravely at the
entrance to the bower and scrutinised their captive with pride and
interest.
"Um," grunted Oskelano, after a long period of silence.
"Ho," muttered the weary Englishman with equal gravity.
The French vocabulary of the Algonquin chief did not extend beyond the
single word _diable_, a word which he uttered constantly in his
subsequent efforts to converse with his guest, without any
understanding of its meaning, but believing, since he had heard it
issue with frequency from the lips of the soldiers in the fortress,
that it was an expression of possibilities. He endeavoured to convey
by means of gestures that it had come to his knowledge that the
Iroquois were about to attack the fortress at the instigation of the
English. His spies had seen a messenger bearing the symbol of the
headless bird. They had also observed the general movement eastward of
the tribes. The gods had provided him with a rare opportunity for
attacking his enemy. He was the friend of the great French people--he
slapped his insidious old heart with his treacherous hand--he was eager
to fight for his allies, and in return he doubted not that the chief
far over seas, King Louis to wit, would graciously send to his good
Algonquin friends many of the magic fire-tubes, with an abundant supply
of that unholy admixture of saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal which
possessed such a wondrous property of exploding to the physical
detriment of a foe.
"Diable?" he grunted, staring eagerly at Woodfield.
"Oui," answered the harassed Englishman, though in truth he had
understood nothing.
"Um," grunted Oskelano; and there the interview ended, with nothing
gained on either side.
But as the chief returned to his skin-hut, his brother, a sachem wiser
than he, made the disquieting assertion: "The white stranger is not of
the French tribe."
"How know you so?" cried the perturbed chief.
"He does not lift his hands, nor does he shake his shoulders when he
speaks. He sits without motion. He does not laugh. He is one of the
race they call English."
Woodfield ate the strong bear-meat brought to his shelter by a silent
giant, and turned to compose himself for sleep; but the giant touched
his shoulder and made a gesture which there was no mistaking. The
Englishman rose, and immediately two other figures glided out of the
forest and cut off his retreat.
They led him along a trail where the fireflies were beginning to light
their lamps, between the big trees, and out into short bush and
sage-brush where the cranes swept overhead, crying mournfully.
Rockland appeared presently, streaked granite overrun with poison-ivy.
The captive noticed that the rock was fretted with caves.
Into one of these he was ushered by the custodians, who then gravely
divested him of his weapons. A fire was lighted near the mouth of the
cave, and there the bronze guardians squatted, maintaining an
intolerable silence throughout the night.
A change of sentries took place at daybreak; another at mid-day; a
third the following nightfall. Food and drink were handed in to the
prisoner; but the guards spoke never a word and made him no sign.
Another day went by, but as the time of evening drew near there came
the sound of camp-breaking down the wind. A host of armed men tramped
beside the cave. A group of doctors, attired in the fantastic mummery
of their craft, followed; and last of all came Oskelano and his brother
side by side.
Around a solitary poplar men were at work, chopping down the brush with
their tomahawks. The guard stepped up upon either side of Woodfield,
who watched these preparations with a prisoner's suspicions, and led
him out to the cleared space.
"Um," grunted Oskelano, and shook hands amiably with his victim.
Then the men put aside their tomahawks and bound him to the poplar with
ropes of vegetable fibre. They piled the moss around him and flung the
sagebrush atop. Others brought up pine branches and piled them waist
high. Oskelano watched, his crafty face wrinkled with smiles.
At last the Englishman understood that he was about to be made a
sacrifice to the fierce Algonquin gods. He uttered no useless prayer
and made no cry. "They have spared me the torture," he muttered
bravely. "Let me now show them how to die." As the silent and supple
natives worked around him, he recalled the tales that old men at home
had told him, of the Protestants who had died for their faith, laughing
at the flames and bathing their hands in them. The last scene in the
life of the old vicar of Hadleigh had often as a boy moved him to
tears. He remembered how that the old man had lighted from his horse
to dance on his way to the stake, and he recalled his noble words of
explanation: "Now I know, Master Sheriff, I am almost at home." The
passing into death through fire was merely a sting sudden and sharp.
Water was dashed over the fuel until the pile gleamed frostily in the
fading rays. A fiery death for his captive was no part of Oskelano's
plan. He had discovered that suffocation was more effective and less
rapid than the flames.
Tree and victim became soon hidden in a dense column of cloud, the
doctors resumed their march, the guard followed, the two sachems
brought up the rear, discussing their proposed attack as indifferently
as though that mighty pillar of smoke pouring upward in the still
evening air out of the plain of sage-brush had no existence in fact.
Well-laid as was the cruel Algonquin's plan, he had not the wisdom to
guard against that element of the improbable which rarely fails to
enter into, and mar the working of, the best-contrived plot.
A maid had concealed herself in the bush until the camp became clear.
Then she came forth and ran like the wind, but stopped upon the plain
with a cry of terror when she beheld an old man, who hobbled painfully
through the brush. The ancient turned, suspicious of every sound, but
when he saw the girl his dry face broke into a weird smile.
"Hasten, child," he quavered, leaning heavily upon his staff. "The
Mother of God forgets not the good done by man or maid."
He dropped a knife at her feet. The girl caught it up and sped onward
like a deer.
The old man was a Christian. The maid was heathen. Old mind and young
working independently, the former actuated by the religion of altruism,
the latter wrought upon by nature, had entertained in secret the
self-same plan of rescuing the young Englishman from his terrible
plight.