THE SONG OF THE LEAVES
The night had come a full hour when Anue stopped in a little glade
hemmed in by mighty oaks and beeches. The heat lightning flared again at
that moment, and Henry saw that every one besides Timmendiquas and
himself was panting. Enduring as were all Wyandots, they were glad that
Anue had stopped, and they were generous enough to cast looks of
approval at the captive who stood among them still calm and still
breathing regularly. Timmendiquas did more. He stepped into the circle,
put one hand on Henry's shoulder, and looked him directly in the eyes.
"You are strong," he said gravely, "stronger even than most Wyandots,
and your soul is that of the eagle. If the boy is what he is, what will
the man be?"
Henry knew that the words were meant, and he felt pride, but his modesty
would not let him show it.
"I thank you, White Lightning," he replied with a similar gravity. "Your
Manitou was kind enough to give me a strong body, and I, like you, have
lived in the woods."
"As I see," said the chief sententiously. "Now I tell you this. We will
take the bonds from your arms if you promise us not to seek to escape
to-night. Else you must lie among us bound, hand and foot, to a warrior
on either side. See, we are willing to take your word."
Henry felt pride again. These Wyandots, mortal enemies, who had never
seen him before, would believe what he said, putting absolute faith in
their reading of his character. He looked up at the dusky sky, in which
not a single star twinkled, and then at the black forest that circled
about them. Bound, and with a lightly sleeping Wyandot at either elbow,
he would have a slender chance, indeed, of escape, and he could well
bide his time.
"I give the promise and with it my thanks, White Lightning," he said.
White Lightning cut the thongs with one sweep of his knife, and Henry's
arms fell free. Sharp pains shot through them as the circulation began
to flow with its old freedom, but he refused to wince. He had chosen a
policy, the one that he thought best fitted to his present condition,
and he would abide by it through all things. He merely stepped a little
to one side and watched while they made the camp.
The task was quickly done. Three or four warriors gathered fallen
brushwood and set it on fire with flint and steel. Then they cooked over
it strips of venison from their pouches, giving several strips to Henry,
which he ate with no appearance of haste or eagerness, although he was
quite hungry.
It was growing very dark, and the lightning on the horizon became vivid
and intense. The air was heavy and oppressive. The fire burned with a
languid drooping flame, and the forest was absolutely still, except when
the thunder grumbled like the low, ominous mutter of a distant
cannonade.
"A storm comes," said Timmendiquas, glancing at the lowering skies.
"It will be here soon," said Henry, who knew that the words were spoken
to him.
Every warrior carried a blanket, which he now wrapped closely about his
body, but Henry asked for nothing. He would not depart from his policy.
He stood in the center of the glade listening, although there was yet
nothing to hear. But it was this extraordinary breathless silence that
impressed him most. He felt as he breathed the heavy air that it was the
sign of impending danger. The warning of the wind among the leaves had
not been more distinct.
A long, rolling crash came from their right. "Heno (Thunder)!" said
White Lightning. He did not mean to say the obvious, but his emphasis
indicated that it was very loud thunder.
The thunder sank away in a low, distant note that echoed grimly, and
then the breathless silence came again. A minute later the whole forest
swam in a glare of light so dazzling that Henry was compelled to close
his eyes. It passed in an instant, and the wilderness was all black, but
out of the southwest came a low, moaning sound.
"Iruquas (The wind)!" said the chief in the same sententious tone.
The groan became a rumble, and then, as the vanguard of the wind, came
great drops of rain that pattered like hail stones.
"Inaunduse (It rains)," said the chief.
But it was merely a brief shower like a volley from withdrawing
skirmishers, and then the rumble of the wind gave way to a crash which
rose in a moment to a terrible roar.
"A hurricane!" exclaimed Henry. As he spoke a huge compressed ball of
air which can be likened only to a thunderbolt struck them.
Strong as he was, Henry was thrown to the ground, and he saw the chief
go down beside him. Then everything was blotted out in pitchy blackness,
but his ears were filled with many sounds, all terrible, the fierce
screaming of the wind as if in wrath and pain, the whistling of boughs
and brushwood, swept over his head, and the crash of great oaks and
beeches as they fell, snapped through at the trunk by the immense force
of the hurricane.
Henry seized some of the bushes and held on for his life. How thankful
he was now that he had given his promise to the chief, and that his
hands were free! A shiver swept over him from head to foot. Any moment
one of the trees might fall upon him, but he was near the center of the
glade, the safest place, and he did not seek to move.
He was conscious, as he clung to the bushes, of two kinds of movement.
He was being pulled forward and he was being whirled about. The ball of
air as it shot from southwest to northeast revolved, also, with
incredible rapidity. The double motion was so violent that it required
all of Henry's great strength to keep from being wrenched loose from his
bushes.
The hurricane, in its full intensity, lasted scarcely a minute. Then
with a tremendous rush and scream it swept off to the northeast, tearing
a track through the forest like a tongue of flame in dry grass. Then the
rain, pouring from heavy black clouds, came in its wake, and the
lightning, which had ceased while the thunderbolt was passing, began to
flash fitfully.
Henry had seen hurricanes in the great Ohio Valley before, but never one
so fierce and violent as this, nor so tremendous in its manifestations.
Awe and weirdness followed in the trail of that cannon ball of wind. The
rumble of thunder, far and echoing, was almost perpetual. Blackest
darkness alternated with broad sheets of lightning so intense in tint
that the forest would swim for a moment in a reddish glare before the
blackness came. Meanwhile the rain poured as if the bottom had dropped
out of every cloud.
Henry struggled to his feet and stood erect. He could have easily darted
away in the confusion and darkness among the woods, but such a thought
did not occur to him. He had given his promise, and he would keep it
despite the unexpected opportunity that was offered. He remained at the
edge of the circle, while Timmendiquas, the real leader, hastily
gathered his men and took count of them as best he could.
The chief, by the flare of the lightning, saw Henry, upright,
motionless, and facing him. A singular flash of understanding quicker
than the lightning itself passed between the two. Then Timmendiquas
spoke in the darkness:
"You could have gone, but you did not go."
"I gave my promise to stay, and I stayed," replied Henry in the same
tone.
The lightning flared again, and once more Henry saw the eyes of the
chief. They seemed to him to express approval and satisfaction. Then
Timmendiquas resumed his task with his men. Hainteroh of the broad back
had been dashed against a sapling, and his left arm was broken. Another
man had been knocked senseless by a piece of brushwood, but was sitting
up now. Three or four more were suffering from severe bruises, but not
one uttered a complaint. They merely stood at attention while the chief
made his rapid inspection. Every man had wrapped his rifle in his
blanket to protect it from the rain, but their bodies were drenched, and
they made no effort now to protect themselves.
Hainteroh pointed to his broken arm. The chief examined it critically,
running his hand lightly over the fracture. Then he signaled to Anue,
and the two, seizing the arm, set the broken bone in place. Hainteroh
never winced or uttered a word. Splints, which White Lightning cut from
a sapling, and strips of deerskin were bound tightly around the arm, a
sling was made of more deerskin from their own scanty garb, and nature
would soon do the rest for such a strong, healthy man as Hainteroh.
They stood about an hour in the glade until the lightning and thunder
ceased, and the rain was falling only in moderation. Then they took up
the march again, going by the side of the hurricane's path. It was
impossible for them to sleep on the earth, which was fairly running
water, and Henry was glad that they had started. It was turning much
colder, as it usually does in the great valley after such storms, and
the raw, wet chill was striking into his marrow.
The line was re-formed just as it had been before, with Anue leading,
and they went swiftly despite the darkness, which, however, was not so
dense as that immediately preceding and following the hurricane. The
trained eyes of the Wyandot and of the prisoner could now easily see the
way.
The coldness increased, and the diminishing rain now felt almost like
hail stones, but the clouds were floating away toward the northeast, and
the skies steadily lightened. Henry felt the warming and strengthening
influence of the vigorous exercise. His clothing was a wet roll about
him, but the blood began to flow in a vigorous stream through his veins,
and his muscles became elastic.
They followed by the side of the hurricane's track for several miles,
and Henry was astonished at the damage that it had done. Its path was
not more than two hundred yards wide, but within that narrow space
little had been able to resist it. Trees were piled in tangled masses.
Sometimes the revolving ball had thrown them forward and sometimes it
had thrown them, caught in the other whirl, backward.
They turned at last from this windrow of trees, and presently entered a
little prairie, where there was nothing to obstruct them. The rain was
now entirely gone, and the clouds were retreating far down in the
southwest. Timmendiquas looked up.
"Washuntyaandeshra (The Moon)," he said.
Henry guessed that this very long name in Wyandot meant the moon,
because there it was, coming out from the vapors, and throwing a fleecy
light over the soaked and dripping forest. It was a pleasing sight, a
friendly one to him, and he now felt unawed and unafraid. The wilderness
itself had no terrors for him, and he felt that somehow he would slip
through the hands of the Wyandots. He had escaped so many times from
great dangers that it seemed to him a matter of course that he should do
so once more.
They made greater speed on the prairie, which was covered only with long
grass and an occasional clump of bushes. But near its center something
rose up from one of the clumps, and disappeared in a streak of brown.
"Oughscanoto (Deer)," said the chief.
But Henry had known already. His eyes were as quick as those of
Timmendiquas.
They crossed the prairie and entering the woods again went on without
speaking. The moonlight faded, midnight passed, when Anue suddenly
stopped at the entrance to a rocky hollow, almost a cave, the inner
extension of which had escaped the sweep of the storm.
"We rest here," said White Lightning to Henry. "Do you still give your
promise?"
"Until I awake," replied the youth with a little laugh.
He entered the hollow, noticed that the dry leaves lay in abundance by
the rocky rear wall, threw himself down among them, and in a few moments
was asleep, while his clothes dried upon him. All the warriors quickly
followed his example except Timmendiquas and Anue, who sat down at the
entrance of the hollow, with their rifles across their knees, and
watched. Neither spoke and neither moved. They were like bronze statues,
set there long ago.
Henry awoke at the mystical hour when the night is going and the dawn
has not yet come. He did not move, he merely opened his eyes, and he
remembered everything at once, his capture, the flight through the
forest, and the hurricane. He was conscious of peace and rest. His
clothes had dried upon him, and he had taken no harm. He felt neither
the weight of the present nor fear for the future. He saw the dusky
figures of the Wyandots lying in the leaves about him sound asleep, and
the two bronze statues at the front of the stony alcove.
Clear as was Henry's recollection, a vague, dreamy feeling was mingled
with it. The wilderness always awoke all the primitive springs within
him. When he was alone in the woods--and he was alone now--he was in
touch with the nymphs and the fauns and the satyrs of whom he had
scarcely ever heard. Like the old Greeks, he peopled the forest with the
creatures of his imagination, and he personified nearly everything.
Now a clear sweet note came to his half-dreaming ear and soothed him
with its melody. He closed his eyes and let its sweetness pierce his
brain. It was the same song among the leaves that he had heard when he
was out with the shiftless one, the mysterious wind with its invisible
hand playing the persistent and haunting measure on the leaves and
twigs.
It was definite and clear to Henry. It was there, the rhythmic note ran
through it all the time, and for him it contained all the expression of
a human voice, the rise, the fall, the cadence, and the shade.
But its note was different now. It was not solemn, ominous, full of
warning. It was filled with hope and promise, and he took its meaning to
himself. He would escape, he would rejoin his comrades, and the great
expedition would end in complete success.
Stronger and fuller swelled the song, the mysterious haunting note that
was played upon the leaves, and Henry's heart bounded in response. He
was still in that vague, dreamy state in which things unseen look large
and certain, and this was a call intended for him. He glanced at the
brown statues. If they, too, heard, they made no sign. He glanced at the
leaves, and he saw them moving gently as they were played by the unseen
hand.
Henry closed his eyes again and listened to the note of hope, sweeter
and more penetrating than ever. A great satisfaction suffused him, and
he did not open his eyes again. The dreamy state grew, and presently he
floated off again into a deep, restful slumber.
When Henry awoke the glade was flooded with brilliant sunlight. A warm
west wind was blowing and trees and grass were drying. Several of the
Wyandots were, like himself, just rising from sleep, but it was evident
that others had been up far before, because at the edge of the glade lay
a part of the body of a deer, recently killed and dressed. Other
Wyandots were broiling strips of the flesh on sharpened twigs over a
fire built in the center of the glade. The pleasant savor came to
Henry's nostrils, and he sat up. Just at that moment a Wyandot, who had
evidently been hunting, returned to the glade, carrying on his arm a
large bird with beautiful bronze feathers.
"Daightontah," said Timmendiquas.
"I suppose that word means turkey," said Henry, who, of course,
recognized the bird at once.
The chief nodded.
"Turkey is fine," said Henry, "but, as it won't be ready for some time,
would you mind giving me a few strips of Oughscanoto, which I think is
what you called it last night."
The young chief smiled.
"You learn fast," he said. "You make good Wyandot."
Henry seemed to see a significance in the tone and words, and he looked
sharply at White Lightning. A Spaniard, Francisco Alvarez, had tried to
tempt him once from his people, but the attempt was open and abrupt. The
approach of the chief was far different, gentle and delicate. Moreover,
he liked White Lightning, and, as Henry believed, the chief was much the
better man of the two. But here as before there was only one answer.
The chief nodded at one of the men, who handed the broiled strips, and
the boy ate, not with haste and greediness, but slowly and with dignity.
He saw that his conduct in the night and the storm had made an
impression upon his captors, and he meant to deepen it. He knew the
Indian and his modes of thought. All the ways of his life in the
northwestern tribe readily came back to him, and he did the things that
were of highest esteem in the Indian code.
Henry showed no anxiety of any kind. He looked about him contentedly, as
if place and situation alike pleased him more than any other in the
world. But this was merely an approving, not an inquiring look. He did
not seem to be interested in anything beyond the glade. He was not
searching for any way of escape. He was content with the present,
ignoring the future. When the time came for them to go he approached
White Lightning and held out his hands.
"I am ready to be bound," he said.
A low murmur of approval came from two or three of the Wyandots who
stood near.
"Let the promise go another day?" said White Lightning with a rising
inflection.
"If you wish," said Henry. He saw no reason why he should not give such
a promise. He knew that the Wyandots would watch him far too well to
allow a chance of escape, and another such opportunity as the storm was
not to be expected.
The chief said not another word, but merely motioned to Henry, who took
his old place as fourth in the line with Anue at the head. Then the
march was resumed, and they went steadily toward the northeast, moving
in swiftness and silence. Henry made no further effort to embarrass
Hainteroh, who again was just before him. His reasons were two--the
Wyandot now had a broken arm, and the boy had already proved his
quality.
The day was beautiful after the storm. The sky had been washed clean by
wind and rain, and now it was a clear, silky blue. The country, an
alternation of forest and little prairies, was of surpassing fertility.
The pure air, scented with a thousand miles of unsullied wilderness, was
heaven to the nostrils, and Henry took deep and long breaths of it. He
had suffered no harm from the night before. His vigorous young frame
threw off cold and stiffness, and he felt only the pleasure of abounding
physical life. Although the wind was blowing, he did not hear that human
note among the leaves again. It was only when his mind was thoroughly
attuned and clothed about in a mystical atmosphere that it made a
response. But his absolute belief that he would escape remained.
Henry was troubled somewhat by the thought of his comrades. He was
afraid, despite his warning to them, that they would leave the fleet and
search for him when he did not return, and he knew that Adam Colfax
needed them sorely. This was the country that they knew best, the
country Adam Colfax and his men knew least. It was best for another
reason that they did not seek him. So wary a foe as the Wyandot could
keep away help from the outside, and, if he escaped, he must escape
alone.
They traveled swiftly and almost without a word until noon, when they
stopped for a half hour and ate. They did not light any fire, but took
cold food from their pouches, of which they had a variety, and once more
Timmendiquas was most hospitable.
"Oghtaeh (Squirrel)," he said, holding up a piece.
"Yes, thank you," replied the boy, who thought he recognized the flesh.
"Yuingeh (Duck)?" said the chief, holding up another piece.
"I'll take that, too," replied Henry.
"Sootae (Beaver)?" said the chief, producing a third.
"I'll risk that, too," replied Henry. "It looks good."
"Yungenah (Dog)?" said the hospitable Timmendiquas, offering a fourth
fragment of meat.
Henry looked at it suspiciously.
"Yungenah?" he said. "Now, Chief, would you tell me what Yungenah
means?"
"Dog," replied the Wyandot sententiously.
"No, no!" exclaimed Henry. "Take it away."
Timmendiquas smiled benevolently.
"Dog good," he said, "but not make you eat it. Wyandot glad enough to
get it."
They continued the journey throughout the afternoon, and did not stop
until after sunset. Henry's promise was renewed for the second time, and
he slept quietly within the circle of the Wyandots. He awakened once far
in the night, and he saw that the watch was most vigilant. White
Lightning was awake and sitting up, as also were three warriors. The
night was clear and bright save for a few small harmless clouds. Henry
saw that he had made no mistake in renewing his promise. The chance of
escape had not yet come.
White Lightning noticed that his captive's eyes were open and he walked
over to him. This youth, so strong and so skillful, so brave and so
frank, appealed to the young chief. He would regret the necessity of
putting him to death. A way of escaping it would be welcome.
"It is not like last night," he said pleasantly.
"No," said Henry. "There is no chance of another storm."
"Oghtserah," said the chief, pointing to the small, harmless clouds.
"But they are too little to mean anything," said Henry, guessing from
the chief's gesture that "Oghtserah" meant clouds.
"You learn Wyandot," said the chief in the same pleasant tone. "You
learn fast. See Tegshe."
He glanced up.
"Stars?" guessed Henry.
The chief smiled again.
"It is right," he said. "You stay long with us, you learn to talk to
Wyandot. Look!"
He held up one finger.
"Scat," he said.
He held up two.
"Tindee," he said.
He held up three.
"Shaight," he said.
He held up four. "Andaught."
Five--"Weeish."
Six--"Washaw."
Seven--"Sootare."
Eight--"Acetarai."
Nine--"Aintru."
Ten--"Aughsah."
"Now you count ten," he said somewhat in the tone of a schoolmaster to
Henry.
"All right," said Henry tractably. "Here goes: Scat, Tindee, Shaight,
Andaught, Weeish, Washaw, Sootare, Acetarai, Aintru, Aughsah."
The chief's smile deepened.
"You good memory," he said. "You learn very fast." Then he added after a
moment's hesitation: "You make good Wyandot. Wyandots small nation, but
bravest, most cunning and most enduring of all. Wyandot being burned at
the stake calls for his pipe and smokes it peacefully while he dies in
the fire."
"I don't doubt it," said Henry, who had heard of such cases.
The chief glanced at him and concluded that he said enough on that
point. Once more he looked up.
"Washuntyaandeshra."
"The moon," said Henry. "Yes, it's bright."
"You learn. You remember," said the chief. "Now you sleep again."
He walked away, and Henry closed his eyes, but did not go to sleep just
yet. He had understood Timmendiquas perfectly, and it troubled him. He
liked the young chief, but white he was and white he would remain. He
resolutely forced the question out of his mind, and soon he was fast
asleep again.