SCALPS
Probably the day would have been a greater success if Cyril had not been
reading _The Last of the Mohicans_. The story was running in his head at
breakfast, and as he took his third cup of tea he said dreamily, "I wish
there were Red Indians in England--not big ones, you know, but little
ones, just about the right size for us to fight."
Everyone disagreed with him at the time and no one attached any
importance to the incident. But when they went down to the sand-pit to
ask for a hundred pounds in two-shilling pieces with Queen Victoria's
head on, to prevent mistakes--which they had always felt to be a really
reasonable wish that must turn out well--they found out that they had
done it again! For the Psammead, which was very cross and sleepy,
said--
"Oh, don't bother me. You've had your wish."
"I didn't know it," said Cyril.
"Don't you remember yesterday?" said the Sand-fairy, still more
disagreeably. "You asked me to let you have your wishes wherever you
happened to be, and you wished this morning, and you've got it."
"Oh, have we?" said Robert. "What is it?"
"So you've forgotten?" said the Psammead, beginning to burrow. "Never
mind; you'll know soon enough. And I wish you joy of it! A nice thing
you've let yourselves in for!"
"We always do somehow," said Jane sadly.
And now the odd thing was that no one could remember anyone's having
wished for anything that morning. The wish about the Red Indians had not
stuck in anyone's head. It was a most anxious morning. Everyone was
trying to remember what had been wished for, and no one could, and
everyone kept expecting something awful to happen every minute. It was
most agitating; they knew from what the Psammead had said, that they
must have wished for something more than usually undesirable, and they
spent several hours in most agonizing uncertainty. It was not till
nearly dinner-time that Jane tumbled over _The Last of the
Mohicans_,--which had of course, been left face downwards on the
floor,--and when Anthea had picked her and the book up she suddenly
said, "I know!" and sat down flat on the carpet.
"Oh, Pussy, how awful! It was Indians he wished for--Cyril--at
breakfast, don't you remember? He said, 'I wish there were Red Indians
in England,'--and now there are, and they're going about scalping people
all over the country, as likely as not."
"Perhaps they're only in Northumberland and Durham," said Jane
soothingly. It was almost impossible to believe that it could really
hurt people much to be scalped so far away as that.
"Don't you believe it!" said Anthea. "The Sammyadd said we'd let
ourselves in for a nice thing. That means they'll come _here_. And
suppose they scalped the Lamb!"
"Perhaps the scalping would come right again at sunset," said Jane; but
she did not speak so hopefully as usual.
"Not it!" said Anthea. "The things that grow out of the wishes don't go.
Look at the fifteen shillings! Pussy, I'm going to break something, and
you must let me have every penny of money you've got. The Indians will
come _here_, don't you see? That Spiteful Psammead as good as said so.
You see what my plan is? Come on!"
Jane did not see at all. But she followed her sister meekly into
mother's bedroom.
Anthea lifted down the heavy water-jug--it had a pattern of storks and
long grasses on it, which Anthea never forgot. She carried it into the
dressing-room, and carefully emptied the water out of it into the bath.
Then she took the jug back into the bedroom and dropped it on the floor.
You know how a jug always breaks if you happen to drop it by accident.
If you happen to drop it on purpose, it is quite different. Anthea
dropped that jug three times, and it was as unbroken as ever. So at last
she had to take her father's boot-tree and break the jug with that in
cold blood. It was heartless work.
Next she broke open the missionary-box with the poker. Jane told her
that it was wrong, of course, but Anthea shut her lips very tight and
then said--
[Illustration: She broke open the missionary-box with the poker.]
"Don't be silly--it's a matter of life and death."
There was not very much in the missionary-box,--only
seven-and-fourpence,--but the girls between them had nearly four
shillings. This made over eleven shillings, as you will easily see.
Anthea tied up the money in a corner of her pocket-handkerchief. "Come
on, Jane!" she said, and ran down to the farm. She knew that the farmer
was going into Rochester that afternoon. In fact it had been arranged
that he was to take the four children with him. They had planned this in
the happy hour when they believed that they we're going to get that
hundred pounds, in two-shilling pieces, out of the Psammead. They had
arranged to pay the farmer two shillings each for the ride. Now Anthea
hastily explained to him that they could not go, but would he take
Martha and the Baby instead? He agreed, but he was not pleased to get
only half-a-crown instead of eight shillings.
Then the girls ran home again. Anthea was agitated, but not flurried.
When she came to think it over afterwards, she could not help seeing
that she had acted with the most far-seeing promptitude, just like a
born general. She fetched a little box from her corner drawer, and went
to find Martha, who was laying the cloth and not in the best of tempers.
"Look here," said Anthea. "I've broken the water jug in mother's room."
"Just like you--always up to some mischief," said Martha, dumping down a
salt-cellar with a bang.
"Don't be cross, Martha dear," said Anthea. "I've got enough money to
pay for a new one--if only you'll be a dear and go and buy it for us.
Your cousins keep a china-shop, don't they? And I would like you to get
it to-day, in case mother comes home to-morrow. You know she said she
might perhaps."
"But you're all going into town yourselves," said Martha.
"We can't afford to, if we get the new jug," said Anthea; "but we'll pay
for you to go, if you'll take the Lamb. And I say, Martha, look
here--I'll give you my Liberty box, if you'll go. Look, it's most
awfully pretty--all inlaid with real silver and ivory and ebony, like
King Solomon's temple."
"I see," said Martha,--"no, I don't want your box, miss. What you want
is to get the precious Lamb off your hands for the afternoon. Don't you
go for to think I don't see through you!"
This was so true that Anthea longed to deny it at once. Martha had no
business to know so much. But she held her tongue.
Martha set down the bread with a bang that made it jump off its
trencher.
"I _do_ want the jug got," said Anthea softly. "You _will_ go, won't
you?"
"Well, just for this once, I don't mind; but mind you don't get into
none of your outrageous mischief while I'm gone--that's all!"
"He's going earlier than he thought," said Anthea eagerly. "You'd better
hurry and get dressed. Do put on that lovely purple frock, Martha, and
the hat with the pink cornflowers, and the yellow-lace collar. Jane'll
finish laying the cloth, and I'll wash the Lamb and get him ready."
As she washed the unwilling Lamb and hurried him into his best clothes,
Anthea peeped out of the window from time to time; so far all was
well--she could see no Red Indians. When with a rush and a scurry and
some deepening of the damask of Martha's complexion she and the Lamb had
been got off, Anthea drew a deep breath.
"_He's_ safe!" she said, and, to Jane's horror, flung herself down on
the floor and burst into floods of tears. Jane did not understand at all
how a person could be so brave and like a general, and then suddenly
give way and go flat like an air-balloon when you prick it. It is better
not to go flat, of course, but you will observe that Anthea did not give
way till her aim was accomplished. She had got the dear Lamb out of
danger--she felt certain that the Red Indians would be round the White
House or nowhere--the farmer's cart would not come back till after
sunset, so she could afford to cry a little. It was partly with joy that
she cried, because she had done what she meant to do. She cried for
about three minutes, while Jane hugged her miserably and said at
five-second intervals, "Don't cry, Panther dear!"
Then she jumped up, rubbed her eyes hard with the corner of her
pinafore, so that they kept red for the rest of the day, and started to
tell the boys. But just at that moment cook rang the dinner-bell, and
nothing could be said till they had been helped to minced beef. Then
cook left the room, and Anthea told her tale. But it is a mistake to
tell a thrilling tale when people are eating minced beef and boiled
potatoes. There seemed somehow to be something about the food that made
the idea of Red Indians seem flat and unbelievable. The boys actually
laughed, and called Anthea a little silly.
"Why," said Cyril, "I'm almost sure it was before I said that, that Jane
said she wished it would be a fine day."
"It wasn't," said Jane briefly.
"Why, if it was Indians," Cyril went on,--"salt, please, and mustard--I
must have something to make this mush go down,--if it was Indians,
they'd have been infesting the place long before this--you know they
would. I believe it's the fine day."
"Then why did the Sammyadd say we'd let ourselves in for a nice thing?"
asked Anthea. She was feeling very cross. She knew she had acted with
nobility and discretion, and after that it was very hard to be called a
little silly, especially when she had the weight of a burglared
missionary-box and about seven-and-fourpence, mostly in coppers, lying
like lead upon her conscience.
There was a silence, during which cook took away the mincy plates and
brought in the pudding. As soon as she had retired, Cyril began again.
"Of course I don't mean to say," he admitted, "that it wasn't a good
thing to get Martha and the Lamb out of the way for the afternoon; but
as for Red Indians--why, you know jolly well the wishes always come that
very minute. If there was going to be Red Indians, they'd be here now."
"I expect they are," said Anthea; "they're lurking amid the undergrowth,
for anything you know. I do think you're most unkind."
"Indians almost always _do_ lurk, really, though, don't they?" put in
Jane, anxious for peace.
"No, they don't," said Cyril tartly. "And I'm not unkind, I'm only
truthful. And I say it was utter rot breaking the water-jug; and as for
the missionary-box, I believe it's a treason-crime, and I shouldn't
wonder if you could be hanged for it, if any of us was to split"--
"Shut up, can't you?" said Robert; but Cyril couldn't. You see, he felt
in his heart that if there _should_ be Indians they would be entirely
his own fault, so he did not wish to believe in them. And trying not to
believe things when in your heart you are almost sure they are true, is
as bad for the temper as anything I know.
"It's simply idiotic," he said, "talking about Indians, when you can see
for yourself that it's Jane who's got her wish. Look what a fine day it
is----_OH!_--"
He had turned towards the window to point out the fineness of the
day--the others turned too--and a frozen silence caught at Cyril, and
none of the others felt at all like breaking it. For there, peering
round the corner of the window, among the red leaves of the Virginia
creeper, was a face--a brown face, with a long nose and a tight mouth
and very bright eyes. And the face was painted in coloured patches. It
had long black hair, and in the hair were feathers!
Every child's mouth in the room opened, and stayed open. The pudding was
growing white and cold on their plates. No one could move.
Suddenly the feathered head was cautiously withdrawn, and the spell was
broken. I am sorry to say that Anthea's first words were very like a
girl.
"There, now!" she said. "I told you so!"
The pudding had now definitely ceased to charm. Hastily wrapping their
portions in a _Spectator_ of the week before the week before last, they
hid them behind the crinkled paper stove-ornament, and fled upstairs to
reconnoitre and to hold a hurried council.
"Pax," said Cyril handsomely when they reached their mother's bedroom.
"Panther, I'm sorry if I was a brute."
"All right," said Anthea; "but you see now!"
No further trace of Indians, however, could be discerned from the
windows.
"Well," said Robert, "what are we to do?"
"The only thing I can think of," said Anthea, who was now generally
admitted to be the heroine of the day, "is--if we dressed up as like
Indians as we can, and looked out of the windows, or even went out. They
might think we were the powerful leaders of a large neighbouring tribe,
and--and not do anything to us, you know, for fear of awful vengeance."
"But Eliza, and the cook?" said Jane.
"You forget--they can't notice anything," said Robert. "They wouldn't
notice anything out of the way, even if they were scalped or roasted at
a slow fire."
"But would they come right at sunset?"
"Of course. You can't be really scalped or burned to death without
noticing it, and you'd be sure to notice it next day, even if it escaped
your attention at the time," said Cyril. "I think Anthea's right, but we
shall want a most awful lot of feathers."
"I'll go down to the hen-house," said Robert. "There's one of the
turkeys in there--it's not very well. I could cut its feathers without
it minding much. It's very bad--doesn't seem to care what happens to it.
Get me the cutting-out scissors."
Earnest reconnoitring convinced them all that no Indians were in the
poultry-yard. Robert went. In five minutes he came back--pale, but with
many feathers.
"Look here," he said, "this is jolly serious. I cut off the feathers,
and when I turned to come out there was an Indian squinting at me from
under the old hen-coop. I just brandished the feathers and yelled, and
got away before he could get the coop off top of himself. Panther, get
the coloured blankets off our beds, and look slippy, can't you?"
It is wonderful how like an Indian you can make yourself with blankets
and feathers and coloured scarves. Of course none of the children
happened to have long black hair, but there was a lot of black calico
that had been bought to cover school-books with. They cut strips of this
into a sort of fine fringe, and fastened it round their heads with the
amber-coloured ribbons off the girls' Sunday dresses. Then they stuck
turkeys' feathers in the ribbons. The calico looked very like long black
hair, especially when the strips began to curl up a bit.
"But our faces," said Anthea, "they're not at all the right colour.
We're all rather pale, and I'm sure I don't know why, but Cyril is the
colour of putty."
"I'm not," said Cyril.
"The real Indians outside seem to be brownish," said Robert hastily. "I
think we ought to be really _red_--it's sort of superior to have a red
skin, if you are one."
The red ochre cook uses for the kitchen bricks seemed to be about the
reddest thing in the house. The children mixed some in a saucer with
milk, as they had seen cook do for the kitchen floor. Then they
carefully painted each other's faces and hands with it, till they were
quite as red as any Red Indian need be--if not redder.
They knew at once that they must look very terrible when they met Eliza
in the passage, and she screamed aloud. This unsolicited testimonial
pleased them very much. Hastily telling her not to be a goose, and that
it was only a game, the four blanketed, feathered, really and truly
Redskins went boldly out to meet the foe. I say boldly. That is because
I wish to be polite. At any rate, they went.
Along the hedge dividing the wilderness from the garden was a row of
dark heads, all highly feathered.
"It's our only chance," whispered Anthea. "Much better than to wait for
their blood-freezing attack. We must pretend like mad. Like that game of
cards where you pretend you've got aces when you haven't. Fluffing they
call it, I think. Now then. Whoop!"
With four wild war-whoops--or as near them as white children could be
expected to go without any previous practice--they rushed through the
gate and struck four war-like attitudes in face of the line of Red
Indians. These were all about the same height, and that height was
Cyril's.
"I hope to goodness they can talk English," said Cyril through his
attitude.
Anthea knew they could, though she never knew how she came to know it.
She had a white towel tied to a walking-stick. This was a flag of truce,
and she waved it, in the hope that the Indians would know what it was.
Apparently they did--for one who was browner than the others stepped
forward.
"Ye seek a pow-wow?" he said in excellent English. "I am Golden Eagle,
of the mighty tribe of Rock-dwellers."
[Illustration: "Ye seek a pow-wow?" he said]
"And I," said Anthea, with a sudden inspiration, "am the Black
Panther--chief of the--the--the--Mazawattee tribe. My brothers--I don't
mean--yes, I do--the tribe--I mean the Mazawattees--are in ambush below
the brow of yonder hill."
"And what mighty warriors be these?" asked Golden Eagle, turning to the
others.
Cyril said he was the great chief Squirrel, of the Moning Congo tribe,
and, seeing that Jane was sucking her thumb and could evidently think of
no name for herself, he added, "This great warrior is Wild Cat--Pussy
Ferox we call it in this land--leader of the vast Phiteezi tribe."
"And thou, valorous Redskin?" Golden Eagle inquired suddenly of Robert,
who, taken unawares, could only reply that he was Bobs--leader of the
Cape Mounted Police.
"And now," said Black Panther, "our tribes, if we just whistle them up,
will far outnumber your puny forces; so resistance is useless. Return,
therefore, to your land, O brother, and smoke pipes of peace in your
wampums with your squaws and your medicine-men, and dress yourselves in
the gayest wigwams, and eat happily of the juicy fresh-caught
moccasins."
"You've got it all wrong," murmured Cyril angrily. But Golden Eagle only
looked inquiringly at her.
"Thy customs are other than ours, O Black Panther," he said. "Bring up
thy tribe, that we may hold pow-wow in state before them, as becomes
great chiefs."
"We'll bring them up right enough," said Anthea, "with their bows and
arrows, and tomahawks and scalping-knives, and everything you can think
of, if you don't look sharp and go."
She spoke bravely enough, but the hearts of all the children were
beating furiously, and their breath came in shorter and shorter gasps.
For the little real Red Indians were closing up round them--coming
nearer and nearer with angry murmurs--so that they were the centre of a
crowd of dark cruel faces.
"It's no go," whispered Robert. "I knew it wouldn't be. We must make a
bolt for the Psammead. It might help us. If it doesn't--well, I suppose
we shall come alive again at sunset. I wonder if scalping hurts as much
as they say."
"I'll wave the flag again," said Anthea. "If they stand back, we'll run
for it."
She waved the towel, and the chief commanded his followers to stand
back. Then, charging wildly at the place where the line of Indians was
thinnest, the four children started to run. Their first rush knocked
down some half-dozen Indians, over whose blanketed bodies the children
leaped, and made straight for the sand-pit. This was no time for the
safe easy way by which carts go down--right over the edge of the
sand-pit they went, among the yellow and pale purple flowers and dried
grasses, past the little bank martins' little front doors, skipping,
clinging, bounding, stumbling, sprawling, and finally rolling.
Yellow Eagle and his followers came up with them just at the very spot
where they had seen the Psammead that morning.
Breathless and beaten, the wretched children now awaited their fate.
Sharp knives and axes gleamed round them, but worse than these was the
cruel light in the eyes of Golden Eagle and his followers.
"Ye have lied to us, O Black Panther of the Mazawattees--and thou, too,
Squirrel of the Moning Congos. These also, Pussy Ferox of the Phiteezi,
and Bobs of the Cape Mounted Police,--these also have lied to us, if not
with their tongues, yet by their silence. Ye have lied under the cover
of the Truce-flag of the Pale-face. Ye have no followers. Your tribes
are far away--following the hunting trail. What shall be their doom?" he
concluded, turning with a bitter smile to the other Red Indians.
"Build we the fire!" shouted his followers; and at once a dozen ready
volunteers started to look for fuel. The four children, each held
between two strong little Indians, cast despairing glances round them.
Oh, if they could only see the Psammead!
"Do you mean to scalp us first and then roast us?" asked Anthea
desperately.
"Of course!" Redskin opened his eyes at her. "It's always done."
The Indians had formed a ring round the children, and now sat on the
ground gazing at their captives. There was a threatening silence.
Then slowly, by twos and threes, the Indians who had gone to look for
firewood came back, and they came back empty-handed. They had not been
able to find a single stick of wood for a fire! No one ever can, as a
matter of fact, in that part of Kent.
The children drew a deep breath of relief, but it ended in a moan of
terror. For bright knives were being brandished all about them. Next
moment each child was seized by an Indian; each closed its eyes and
tried not to scream. They waited for the sharp agony of the knife. It
did not come. Next moment they were released, and fell in a trembling
heap. Their heads did not hurt at all. They only felt strangely cool!
Wild war-whoops rang in their ears. When they ventured to open their
eyes they saw four of their foes dancing round them with wild leaps and
screams, and each of the four brandished in his hand a scalp of long
flowing black hair. They put their hands to their heads--their own
scalps were safe! The poor untutored savages had indeed scalped the
children. But they had only, so to speak, scalped them of the black
calico ringlets!
[Illustration: Bright knives were being brandished all about them]
The children fell into each other's arms, sobbing and laughing.
"Their scalps are ours," chanted the chief; "ill-rooted were their
ill-fated hairs! They came off in the hands of the victors--without
struggle, without resistance, they yielded their scalps to the
conquering Rock-dwellers! Oh, how little a thing is a scalp so lightly
won!"
"They'll take our real ones in a minute; you see if they don't," said
Robert, trying to rub some of the red ochre off his face and hands on to
his hair.
"Cheated of our just and fiery revenge are we," the chant went on,--"but
there are other torments than the scalping-knife and the flames. Yet is
the slow fire the correct thing. O strange unnatural country, wherein a
man may find no wood to burn his enemy!--Ah for the boundless forests of
my native land, where the great trees for thousands of miles grow but to
furnish firewood wherewithal to burn our foes. Ah, would we were but in
our native forest once more!"
Suddenly like a flash of lightning, the golden gravel shone all round
the four children instead of the dusky figures. For every single
Indian had vanished on the instant at their leader's word. The Psammead
must have been there all the time. And it had given the Indian chief his
wish.
* * * * *
Martha brought home a jug with a pattern of storks and long grasses on
it. Also she brought back all Anthea's money.
"My cousin, she gave me the jug for luck; she said it was an odd one
what the basin of had got smashed."
"Oh, Martha, you are a dear!" sighed Anthea, throwing her arms round
her.
"Yes," giggled Martha, "you'd better make the most of me while you've
got me. I shall give your ma notice directly minute she comes back."
"Oh, Martha, we haven't been so _very_ horrid to you, have we?" asked
Anthea, aghast.
"Oh, it isn't that, miss." Martha giggled more than ever. "I'm a-goin'
to be married. It's Beale the gamekeeper. He's been a-proposin' to me
off and on ever since you come home from the clergyman's where you got
locked up on the church-tower. And to-day I said the word an' made him a
happy man."
* * * * *
Anthea put the seven-and-fourpence back in the missionary-box, and
pasted paper over the place where the poker had broken it. She was very
glad to be able to do this, and she does not know to this day whether
breaking open a missionary-box is or is not a hanging matter!