THE GATHERING
Now, no sooner had we broken camp, covered our fire, packed, saddled,
and mounted, than all around us, as we advanced, the wilderness began
to wear an aspect very different to that brooding solitude which
hitherto had been familiar to us--our shelter and our menace also.
For we had proceeded on our deeply-trodden war trail no more than a
mile or two before we encountered the raw evidences of an army's
occupation. Everywhere spotted leads, game trails, and runways had been
hacked, trimmed, and widened into more open wood-walks; foot-paths
enlarged to permit the passage of mounted men; cattle-roads cleared,
levelled, made smoother for wagons and artillery; log bridges built
across the rapid streams that darkled westward, swamps and swales paved
with logs, and windfalls hewn in twain and the huge abattis dragged
wide apart or burnt to ashes where it lay. Yet, still the high debris
bristling from some fallen forest giant sprawling athwart the highway
often delayed us. Our details had not yet cleared out the road entirely.
We were, however, within a wolf-hound's easy run to Cherry Valley, Fort
Hunter, and the Mohawk--the outer edges of my own country. Northeast of
us lay Schenectady behind its fort; north of us lay my former home, Guy
Park, and near it old Fort Johnson and Johnson Hall. Farther still to
the northward stretched the Vale and silvery Sacandaga with its pretty
Fish House settlement now in ashes; and Summer House Point and Fonda's
Bush were but heaps of cinders, too, the brave Broadalbin yeomen
prisoners, their women and children fled to Johnstown, save old man
Stoner and his boys, and that Tory villain Charlie Cady who went off
with Sir John.
Truly I should know something of these hills and brooks and forests
that we now traversed, and of the silent, solitary roads that crept
into the wilderness, penetrating to distant, lonely farms or grist
mills where some hardy fellow had cleared the bush and built his cabin
on the very borders of that dark and fearsome empire which we were
gathering to enter and destroy.
Here it lay, close on our left flank--so close that its strange
gigantic shadow fell upon us, like a vast hand, stealthy and chill.
And it was odd, but on the edges of these trackless shades, here, even
with fresh evidences on every side that our own people lately passed
this way--yes, even when we began to meet or overtake men of our own
color--the stupendous desolation yielded nothing of its brooding
mystery and dumb magnificence.
Westward, the green monotony of trees stretched boundless as an ocean,
and as trackless and uncharted--gigantic forests in the depths of which
twilight had brooded since first the world was made.
Here, save for the puny, man-made trail--save for the tiny scars left
by his pygmy hacking at some high forest monument, all this magic
shadow-land still bore the imprint of our Lord's own fingers.
The stillness and the infinite majesty, the haunting fragrance clinging
to the craftsmanship of hands miraculous; all the sweet odour and
untainted beauty which enveloped it in the making, and which had
remained after creation's handiwork was done, seemed still to linger in
this dim solitude. And it was as though the twilight through the wooded
aisles was faintly tinctured still, where the sweet-scented garments of
the Lord had passed.
There was no underbrush, no clinging sprays or fairy brambles
intertwined under the solemn arches of the trees; only the immemorial
strata of dead leaves spread one above another in endless coverlets of
crumbling gold; only a green and knee-deep robe of moss clothing the
vast bases of the living columns.
And into this enchanted green and golden dusk no sunlight penetrated,
save along the thread-like roads, or where stark-naked rocks towered
skyward, or where, in profound and velvet depths, crystalline streams
and rivers widened between their Indian willow bottoms. And these were
always set with wild flowers, every bud and blossom gilded by the sun.
As we journeyed on, the first wayfarer we encountered after passing our
outer line of pickets was an express rider from General Sullivan's
staff, one James Cook, who told us that the right division of the army,
General James Clinton's New York brigade, which was ours, was still
slowly concentrating in the vicinity of Otsego Lake; that innumerable
and endless difficulties in obtaining forage and provisions had delayed
everything; that the main division, Sullivan's, was now arriving at
Easton and Wyoming; and that, furthermore, the enemy had become vastly
agitated over these ominous preparations of ours, but still believed,
from their very magnitude, that we were preparing for an advance into
Canada.
"Ha-ha!" said Boyd merrily. "So much the better, for if they continue
to believe that, they will keep their cursed scalping parties snug at
home."
"No, sir," said the express soberly. "Brant and his Mohawks are out
somewhere or other, and so is Walter Butler and his painted crew."
"In this same district?"
"No doubt of it, sir. Indians fired on our pickets last week. It will
go hard with the outlying farms and settlements. Small doubt, too, that
they will strike heavily and strive to draw this army from whatever
plan it meditated."
"Then," said Boyd with a careless laugh, "it is for us to strike more
heavily still and draw them with the very wind of our advance into a
common vortex of destruction with the Iroquois."
The express rode on, and Boyd, in excellent humour, continued talking
to me, saying that he knew our Commander-in-Chief, and that he was an
officer not to be lightly swayed or turned from the main purpose, but
would hew to the line, no matter what destruction raged and flamed
about him.
"No, Loskiel, they may murder and burn to right and left of us, and it
may wring his heart and ours to hear the agonized appeals for aid; but
if I judge our General, he will not be halted or drawn aside until the
monstrous, loathesome body of this foul empire lies chopped to bits,
writhing and dying in the flames of Catharines-town."
"He must truly be a man of iron," said I, "if we win through."
"We will win through, Loskiel," he said gaily, "--to Catharines-town or
paradise--to hell or heaven. And what a tale to tell our children--we
who survive!"
An odd expression came into his handsome face, and he said in a low and
dreamy voice:
"I think that almost every man will live to tell that story--yet, I can
never hear myself telling the tale in years to come."
On paths and new-made highways we began to encounter people and
cattle--now a long line of oxen laden with military stores or with
canoes and flatboats, and conducted by batt-men in smock and frock, now
a sweating company of military surveyors from headquarters, burdened
with compass, chain, and Jacob-staff, already running their lines into
the wilderness. Here trudged the frightened family of some settler,
making toward the forts; there a company of troops came gaily marching
out on some detail, or perhaps, with fixed bayonets, herded sheep and
cattle down some rutted road.
It seemed scarce possible that we were already within scouting range of
that never-to-be-forgotten region of Wyoming, where just one year ago
old John Butler with his Rangers, his hell-born Senecas, and Johnson's
Greens, had done their bloody business; where, in "The Shades of
Death," a hundred frightened women and little children had perished in
that ghastly darkness. Also, we were but a few miles from that scene of
terror where, through the wintry dawn at Cherry Valley, young Walter
Butler damned his soul for all eternity while men, women, and children,
old and young, died horribly amid the dripping knives and bayonets of
his painted fiends, or fell under the butchering hatchets of his
Senecas.
I could see that Boyd also was thinking of this ghastly business, as I
caught his sombre eye. He seemed to shudder, then:
"Patience," he muttered grimly, with a significant nod toward the
Siwanois, who strode silently between our horses. "We have our guide at
last. A Siwanois hates the Iroquois no more fiercely than do we
white-skins. Wait till he leads our van within rifle-range of
Catharines-town! And if Walter Butler be there, or that bloodless beast
Sir John, or Brant, or any of that hell-brood, and if we let them get
away, may God punish us with the prisoner's fire! Amen."
Never before had I heard him speak that way, or with such savage
feeling; and his manner of expression, and the uncanny words he used
concerning fire caused me to shudder, too--knowing that if he had ever
dreaded anything it was the stake, and the lingering death that lasted
till the very soul lay burnt to cinders before the tortured body died.
We exchanged no further conversation; many people passed and repassed
us; the woods opened somewhat; the jolly noise of axes resounded near
at hand among the trees.
Just ahead of us the road from Mattisses' Grist Mill and Stoney Kill
joined ours, where stood the Low Dutch Church. Above us lay the Middle
Fort, and the roads to Cherry Valley and Schenectady forked beyond it
by the Lutheran Church and the Lower Fort. We took the Cherry Valley
Road.
Here, through this partly cleared and planted valley of the Scoharie
Kill, between the river and the lake, was now gathering a great
concourse of troops and of people; and all the roads were lively with
their comings and goings. Every woodland rang with the racket of their
saws and axes; over the log bridges rumbled their loaded transport
wagons; road and trail were filled with their crowding cattle; the
wheels of Eckerson's and Becker's grist mills clattered and creaked
under the splash of icy, limpid waters, and everywhere men were
hammering and sawing and splitting, erecting soldiers' huts, huts for
settlers, sheds, stables, store-houses, and barracks to shelter this
motley congregation assembling here under the cannon of the Upper Fort,
the Lower, and the Middle.
As we rode along, many faces we passed were familiar to us; we
encountered officers from our own corps and from other regiments, with
whom we were acquainted, and who greeted us gaily or otherwise,
according to their temper and disposition. But everybody--officers,
troops, batt-men--looked curiously at our Siwanois Indian, who returned
the compliment not at all, but with stately stride and expressionless
visage moved straight ahead of him, as though he noticed nothing.
Twice since we had started at daybreak that morning, I had managed to
lag behind and question him concerning the maid who now shared
well-nigh every thought of mine--asking if he knew who she was, and
where she came from, and why she journeyed, and whither.
He answered--when he replied at all--that he had no knowledge of these
things. And I knew he lied, but did not know how I might make him speak.
Nor would he tell me how and when she had slipped away from me the
night before, or where she had likely gone, pretending that I had been
mistaken when I told him I had seen him watching us beside the
star-illumined stream.
"Mayaro slept," he said quite calmly. "The soldier, Mount, stood
fire-guard. Of what my brother Loskiel and this strange maiden did
under the Oneida Dancers and the Belt of Tamanund, Mayaro has no
knowledge."
Why should he lie? I did not know. And even were I to attempt to
confound his statement by an appeal to Mount, the rifleman must
corroborate him, because doubtless the wily Siwanois had not awakened
Mount to do his shift at sentry until the maid had vanished, leaving me
sleeping.
"Mayaro," I said, "I ask these things only because I pity her and wish
her well. It is for her safety I fear. Could you tell me where she may
have gone?"
"Fowls to the home-yard; the wild bird to the wood," he said gravely.
"Where do the rosy-throated pigeons go in winter? Does my brother
Loskiel know where?"
"Sagamore," I said earnestly, "this maid is no wild gypsy thing--no
rose-tinted forest pigeon. She has been bred at home, mannered and
schooled. She knows the cote, I tell you, and not the bush, where the
wild hawk hangs mewing in the sky. Why has she fled to the wilderness
alone?"
The Indian said cunningly:
"Why has my brother Loskiel abandoned roof and fire for a bed on the
forest moss?"
"A man must do battle for his own people, Sagamore."
"A white maid may do what pleases her, too, for aught I know," he said
indifferently.
"Why does it please her to roam abroad alone?"
"How should I know?"
"You do know!"
"Loskiel," he said, "if I know why, perhaps I know of other matters,
too. Ask me some day--before they send you into battle."
"What matters do you know of?"
"Ask me no more, Loskiel--until your conch-horns blowing in the forest
summon Morgan's men to battle. Then ask; and a Sagamore will answer--a
Siwanois Mohican--of the magic clan. Hiero!"
That ended it; he had spoken, and I was not fool enough to urge him to
another word.
And now, as I rode, my mind was still occupied with my growing concern
for the poor child I had come to pity so. Within me a furtive
tenderness was growing which sometimes shamed, sometimes angered me, or
left me self-contemptuous, restless, or dully astonished that my pride
permitted it. For in my heart such sentiments for such a maid as
this--tenderness, consciousness of some subtlety about her that
attracted me--should have no place. There was every reason why I should
pity her and offer aid; none why her grey eyes should hold my own; none
why the frail body of her in her rags should quicken any pulse of mine;
none why my nearness to her should stop my heart and breath.
Yet, all day long her face and slim shape haunted me--a certain sullen
sweetness of the lips, too--and I remembered the lithe grace of her
little hands as she broke the morsels of that midnight meal and lifted
the cup of chilly water in which I saw the star-light dancing. And
"Lord!" thought I, amazed at my own folly. "What madness lies in these
midsummer solitudes, that I should harbor such fantastic thoughts?"
Seldom, as yet, had dream of woman vexed me--and when I dreamed at all
it was but a tinselled figment that I saw--the echo, doubtless, of some
tale I read concerning raven hair and rosy lips, and of a vague but
wondrous fairness adorned most suitably in silks and jewels.
Dimly I was resigned toward some such goal, first being full of honours
won with sword and spur, laden with riches, too, and territories
stretching to those sunset hills piled up like sapphires north of
Frenchman's Creek.
Out of the castled glory of the dawn, doubtless, I thought, would step
one day my vision--to admire my fame and riches. And her I'd
marry--after our good King had knighted me.
Alas! For our good King had proved a bloody knave; my visionary lands
and riches all had vanished; instead of silk attire and sword, I wore a
rifle-shirt and skinning-knife; and out of the dawn-born glory of the
hills had stepped no silken damsel of romance to pause and worship
me--only a slender, ragged, grey-eyed waif who came indifferent as the
chilly wind in spring; who went as April shadows go, leaving no trace
behind.
We were riding by the High Dutch Church at last, and beyond, between
the roads to Duansboro and Cobus-Kill, we saw the tents and huts of the
New York brigade--or as much of it as had arrived--from which we
expected soon to be detached.
On a cleared hill beyond the Lower Fort, where the Albany Road runs
beside the Fox-Kill, we saw the headquarters flag of the 4th brigade,
and Major Nicholas Fish at his tent door, talking to McCrea, our
brigade surgeon.
Along the stream were the huts lately tenanted by Colonel Philip Van
Cortlandt's Second New York Regiment, which had gone off toward
Wyalusing. Schott's riflemen camped there now, and, as we rode by, the
soldiers stared at our Indian. Then we passed Gansevoort's Third
Regiment, under tents and making ready to march; and the log cantonment
of Colonel Lamb's artillery, where the cannoneers saluted, then, for no
reason, cheered us. Beyond were camped Alden's Regiment, I think, and
in the rear the Fourth and Fifth New York. A fort flew our own
regimental flag beside the pretty banner of our new nation.
"Oho!" said Boyd, with an oath. "I'm damned if I care for barracks when
a bed in the open is good enough. Why the devil have they moved us
indoors, do you think?"
I knew no more than did he, and liked our new quarters no better.
At the fort gate the sentry saluted, and we dismounted. Our junior
ensign, Benjamin Chambers, a smart young dandy, met us at the
guard-house, directed Boyd to Captain Simpson's log quarters, and then
led the Sagamore inside.
"Is this our Moses?" whispered the young ensign in my ear. "Egad,
Loskiel, he looks a treacherous devil, in his paint, to lead us to the
promised land."
"He is staunch, I think," said I. "But for heaven's sake, Benny, are we
to sleep in filthy barracks in July?"
"Not you, I hear," he said, laughing, "----though they're clean enough,
by the way! But the Major's orders were to build a hut for you and this
pretty and fragrant aborigine down by the river, and lodge him there
under your eye and nose and rifle. I admit very freely, Loskiel, no man
in Morgan's envies you your bed-fellow!" And he whisked his nose with a
scented handkerchief.
"They would envy me if they knew this Sagamore as I think I know him,"
said I, delighted that I was not to lie in barracks foul or clean.
"Where is this same humble hut, my fashionable friend?"
"I'll show you presently. I think that Jimmy Parr desires to see your
gentle savage," he added flippantly.
We seated ourselves on the gate-bench to await the Major's summons; the
dandified young ensign crossed the parade, mincing toward the quarters
of Major Parr. And I saw him take a pinch o' the scented snuff he
affected, and whisk his supercilious nose again with his laced hanker.
It seemed odd that a man like that should have saved our Captain
Simpson's life at Saratoga.
Riflemen, drovers, batt-men, frontier farmers, and some of the dirty
flotsam--trappers, forest-runners, and the like--were continually
moving about the parade, going and coming on petty, sordid business of
their own; and there were women there, too--pallid refugees from
distant farms, and now domiciled within the stockade; gaunt wives of
neighbouring settlers, bringing baskets of eggs or pails of milk to
sell; and here and there some painted camp-wanton lingering by the
gateway on mischief bent, or gossiping with some sister trull, their
bold eyes ever roving.
Presently our mincing ensign came to us again, saying that the Sagamore
and I were to report ourselves to the Major.
"Jimmy Parr is in good humour," he whispered. "Leave him in that
temper, for mercy's sake, Loskiel; he's been scarcely amiable since you
left to catch this six-foot savage for him."
He was a brave soldier, our Major, a splendid officer, and a kind and
Christian man, but in no wise inclined to overlook the delinquencies of
youthful ensigns; and he had rapped our knuckles soundly more than
once. But we all loved him in our small mess of five--Captain Simpson,
Lieutenant Boyd, and we two ensigns; and I think he knew it. Had we
disliked him, among ourselves we would have dubbed him James, intending
thereby disrespect; but to us he was Jimmy, flippantly, perhaps, but
with a sure affection under all our impudence. And I think, too, that
he knew we spoke of him among ourselves as Jimmy, and did not mind.
"Well, sir," he said sternly, as I entered with the Sagamore and gave
him the officer's salute, "I have a good report of you from Lieutenant
Boyd. I am gratified, Mr. Loskiel, that my confidence in your ability
and in your knowledge of the Indians was not misplaced. And you may
inform me now, sir, how it is proper for me to address this Indian
guide."
I glanced at Captain Simpson and Lieutenant Boyd, hesitating for a
moment. Then I said:
"Mayaro is a Sagamore, Major--a noble and an ensign of a unique
clan--the Siwanois, or magic clan, of the Mohican tribe of the great
Delaware nation. You may address him as an equal. Our General Schuyler
would so address him. The corps of officers in this regiment can scarce
do less, I think."
Major Parr nodded, quietly offered his hand to the silent Siwanois,
and, holding that warrior's sinewy fist in an iron grip that matched
it, named him to Captain Simpson. Then, looking at me, he said slowly,
in English:
"Mayaro is a great chief among his people--great in war, wise in
council and debate. The Sagamore of the Siwanois Mohicans is welcome in
this army and at the headquarters of this regiment. He is now one of
us; his pay is the pay of a captain in the rifles. By order of General
Clinton, commanding the Fourth, or New York, Brigade, I am requested to
say to the Mohican Sagamore that valuable presents will be offered him
for his services by General Sullivan, commander-in-chief of this army.
These will be given when the Mohican successfully conducts this army to
the Genessee Castle and to Catharines-town. I have spoken."
And to me he added bluntly:
"Translate, Mr. Loskiel."
"I think the Sagamore has understood, sir," said I. "Is it not so,
Sagamore?"
"Mayaro has understood," said the Indian quietly.
"Does the great Mohican Sagamore accept?"
"My elder brother," replied the Sagamore calmly, "Mayaro has pledged
his word to his younger brother Loskiel. A Mohican Sagamore never lies.
Loskiel is my friend. Why should I lie to him? A Sagamore speaks the
truth."
Which was true in a measure, at least as far as wanton or idle lying is
concerned, or cowardly lying either, But he had lied to me concerning
his knowledge of the strange maid, Lois, which kind of untruth all
Indians consider more civil than a direct refusal to answer a question.
Boyd stood by, smiling, as the Major very politely informed me of the
disposition he had made of the Sagamore and myself, recommended Mayaro
to my most civil attention, and added that, for the present, I was
relieved from routine duty with my battalion.
If the Siwanois perceived any undue precaution in the Major's manner of
lodging him, he did not betray by the quiver of an eyelash that he
comprehended he was practically under guard. He stalked forth and
across the parade beside me, head high, bearing dignified and tranquil.
At the outer gate our junior ensign languidly dusted a speck of snuff
from his wristband, and indicated the roof of our hut, which was
visible above the feathery river willows. So we proceeded thither, I
resigning my horse to the soldier, Mount, who had been holding him, and
who was now detailed to act as soldier-servant to me still.
"Jack," said I, "if there be fresh-baked bread in the regimental ovens
yonder, fetch a loaf, in God's name. I could gnaw black-birch and
reindeer moss, so famished am I--and the Sagamore, too, no doubt, could
rattle a flam with a wooden spoon."
But our chief baker was a Low-Dutch dog from Albany; and it was not
until I had bathed me in the Mohawk, burrowed into my soldier's chest,
and put on clean clothing that Jack Mount managed to steal the loaf he
had asked for in vain. And this, with a bit of salt beef and a bowl of
fresh milk, satisfied the Siwanois and myself.
I had been relieved of all routine duty, and was henceforth detailed to
foregather with, amuse, instruct and casually keep an eye on my
Mohican. In other words, my only duty, for the present, was to act as
mentor to the Sagamore, keep him pleasantly affected toward our cause,
see that he was not tampered with, and that he had his bellyful three
times a day. Also, I was to extract from him in advance any information
concerning the Iroquois country that he might have knowledge of.
It was a warm and pleasant afternoon along the river where the
batteaux, loaded with stores and soldiers, were passing up, and Oneida
canoes danced across the sparkling water toward Fort Plain.
Many of our soldiers were bathing, sporting like schoolboys in the
water; Lamb's artillerymen had their horses out to let them swim; many
of the troops were washing their shirts along the gravelly reaches, or,
seated cross-legged on the bank, were mending rents with needle and
thread. Half a dozen Oneida Indians sat gravely smoking and blinking at
the scene--no doubt belonging to our corps of runners, scouts, and
guides, for all were shaved, oiled, and painted for war, and, under
their loosened blankets, I could see their lean and supple bodies,
stark naked, except for clout and ankle moccasin.
I sat in the willow-shade before the door of our hut, cross-legged,
too, writing in my journal of what had occurred since last I set down
the details of the day. This finished, I pouched quill, ink-horn, and
journal, and sat a-thinking for a while of that strange maid, and what
mischance might come of her woodland roving all alone--with Indian
Butler out, and all that vile and painted, blue-eyed crew under
McDonald.
Sombre thoughts assailed me there on that sunny July afternoon; I
rested my elbow on my knee, forehead pressed against my palm,
pondering. And ever within my breast was I conscious of a faint, dull
aching--a steady and perceptible apprehension which kept me restless,
giving my mind no peace, my brooding thoughts no rest.
That this shabby, wandering girl had so gained me, spite of the
rudeness with which she used me, I could never seem to understand; for
she had done nothing to win even my pity, and she was but a ragged
gypsy thing, and had conducted with scant courtesy.
Why had I given her my ring? Was it only because I pitied her and
desired to offer her a gift she might sell when necessary? Why had I
used her as a comrade--who had been but the comrade of an hour? Why had
I been so loath to part with her whom I scarce had met? What was it in
her that had fixed my attention? What allure? What unusual quality?
What grace of mind or person?
A slender, grey-eyed gypsy-thing in rags! And I could no longer rid my
mind of her!
What possessed me? To what lesser nature in me was such a woman as this
appealing? I would have been ashamed to have any officer or man of my
corps see me abroad in company with her. I knew it well enough. I knew
that if in this girl anything was truly appealing to my unquiet heart I
should silence even the slightest threat of any response--discourage,
ignore, exterminate the last unruly trace of sentiment in her regard.
Yet I remained there motionless, thinking, thinking--her faded rosebud
lying in my hand, drooping but still fragrant.
Dismiss her from my thoughts I could not. The steady, relentless desire
to see her; the continual apprehension that some mischance might
overtake her, left me no peace of mind, so that the memory of her, not
yet a pleasure even, nagged, nagged, nagged, till every weary nerve in
me became unsteady.
I stretched out above the river bank, composing my body to rest--sleep
perhaps. But flies and sun kept me awake, even if I could have quieted
my mind.
So up again, and walked to the hut door, where within I beheld the
Sagamore gravely repainting himself with the terrific emblems of death.
He was seated cross-legged on the floor, my camp mirror before him--a
superb specimen of manhood, naked save for clout, beaded sporran, and a
pair of thigh moccasins, the most wonderful I had ever seen.
I admired his war-girdle and moccasins, speaking somewhat carelessly of
the beautiful shell-work designs as "wampum"--an Iroquois term.
"Seawan," he said coldly, correcting me and using the softer Siwanois
term. Then, with that true courtesy which ever seeks to ease a merited
rebuke, he spoke pleasantly concerning shell-beads, and how they were
made and from what, and how it was that the purple beads were the gold,
the white beads the silver, and the black beads the copper equivalents
in English coinage. And so we conducted very politely and agreeably
there in the hut, the while he painted himself like a ghastly death,
and brightened the scarlet clan-symbol tatooed on his breast by
touching its outlines with his brilliant paint. Also, he rebraided his
scalp-lock with great care, doubtless desiring that it should appear a
genteel trophy if taken from him, and be an honour to his conqueror and
himself.
These matters presently accomplished, he drew from their soft and
beaded sheaths hatchet and knife, and fell to shining them up as
industriously as a full-fed cat polishes her fur.
"Mayaro," said I, amused, "is a battle then near at hand that you make
so complete a preparation for it?"
A half-smile appeared for a moment on his lips:
"It is always well to be prepared for life or death, Loskiel, my
younger brother."
"Oho!" said I, smiling. "You understood the express rider when he said
that Indians had fired on our pickets a week ago!"
The stern and noble countenance of the Sagamore relaxed into the
sunniest of smiles.
"My little brother is very wise. He has discovered that the Siwanois
have ears like white men."
"Aye--but, Sagamore, I was not at all certain that you understood in
English more than 'yes' and 'no.'"
"Is it because," he inquired with a merry glance at me, "my brother has
only heard as yet the answer 'no' from Mayaro?"
I bit my lip, reddened, and then laughed at the slyly taunting
reference to my lack of all success in questioning him concerning the
little maiden, Lois.
At the same time, I realized on what a friendly footing I already stood
with this Mohican. Few white men ever see an Iroquois or a Delaware
laugh; few ever witness any relaxation in them or see their coldly
dignified features alter, except in scorn, suspicion, pride, and anger.
Only in time of peace and amid their own intimates or families do our
Eastern forest Indians put off the expressionless and dignified mask
they wear, and become what no white man believes them capable of
becoming--human, tender, affectionate, gay, witty, talkative, as the
moment suits.
At Guy Park, even, I had never seen an Iroquois relax in dignity and
hauteur, though, of course, it was also true that Guy Johnson was never
a man to inspire personal confidence or any intimacy. Nor was Walter
Butler either; and Brant and his Mohawks detested and despised him.
But I had been told that Indians--I mean the forest Indians, not the
vile and filthy nomad butchers of the prairies--were like ourselves in
our own families; and that, naturally, they were a kindly,
warm-hearted, gay, and affectionate people, fond of their wives and
children, and loyal to their friends.
Now, I could not but notice how, from the beginning, this Siwanois had
conducted, and how, when first we met, his eye and hand met mine. And
ever since, also--even when I was watching him so closely--in my heart
I really found it well-nigh impossible to doubt him.
He spoke always to me in a manner very different to that of any Indian
I had ever known. And now it seemed to me that from the very first I
had vaguely realized a sense of unwonted comradeship with this Siwanois.
At all events, it was plain enough now that, for some reason unknown to
me, this Mohican not only liked me, but so far trusted me--entertained,
in fact, so unusual a confidence in me--that he even permitted himself
to relax and speak to me playfully, and with the light familiarity of
an elder brother.
"Sagamore," I said, "my heart is very anxious for the safety of this
little forest-running maid. If I could find her, speak to her again, I
think I might aid her."
Mayaro's features became smooth and blank.
"What maiden is this my younger brother fears for?" he asked mildly.
"Her name is Lois. You know well whom I mean."
"Hai!" he exclaimed, laughing softly. "Is it still the rosy-throated
pigeon of the forest for whom my little brother Loskiel is spreading
nets?"
My face reddened again, but I said, smilingly:
"If Mayaro laughs at what I say, all must be well with her. My elder
brother's heart is charitable to the homeless."
"And to children, also," he said very quietly. And added, with a gleam
of humour, "All children, O Loskiel, my littlest brother! Is not my
heart open to you?"
"And mine to you, Mayaro, my elder brother."
"Yet, you watched me at the fire, every night," he said, with keenest
delight sparkling in his dark eyes.
"And yet I tracked and caught you after all!" I said, smiling through
my slight chagrin.
"Is my little brother very sure I did not know he followed me?" he
asked, amused.
"Did you know, Mayaro?"
The Siwanois made a movement of slight, but good-humoured, disdain:
"Can my brother who has no wings track and follow the October swallow?"
"Then you were willing that I should see the person to whom you brought
food under the midnight stars?"
"My brother has spoken."
"Why were you willing that I should see?"
"Where there are wild pigeons there are hawks, Loskiel. But perhaps the
rosy throat could not understand the language of a Siwanois."
"You warned her not to rove alone?"
He inclined his head quietly.
"She refused to heed you! Is that true? She left Westchester in spite
of your disapproval?"
"Loskiel does not lie."
"She must be mad!" I said, with some heat. "Had she not managed to keep
our camp in view, what had become of her now, Sagamore?" I added,
reluctantly admitting by implication yet another defeat for me.
"Of course I know that you must have kept in communication with
her--though how you did so I do not know."
The Siwanois smiled slyly.
"Who is she? What is she, Mayaro? Is she, after all, but a camp-gypsy
of the better class? I can not believe it--yet--she roves the world in
tatters, haunting barracks and camps. Can you not tell me something
concerning her?"
The Indian made no reply.
"Has she made you promise not to?"
He did not answer, but I saw very plainly that this was so.
Mystified, perplexed, and more deeply troubled than I cared to admit to
myself, I rose from the door-sill, buckled on belt, knife, and hatchet,
and stood looking out over the river in silence for a while.
The Siwanois said pleasantly, yet with a hidden hint of malice:
"If my brother desires to walk abroad in the pleasant weather, Mayaro
will not run away. Say so to Major Parr."
I blushed furiously at the mocking revelation that he had noted and
understood the precautions of Major Parr.
"Mayaro," I said, "I trust you. See! You are confided to me, I am
responsible for you. If you leave I shall be disgraced. But--Siwanois
are free people! The Sagamore is my elder brother who will not blacken
my face or cast contempt upon my uniform. See! I trust my brother
Mayaro, I go."
The Sagamore looked me square in the eye with a face which was utterly
blank and expressionless. Then he gathered his legs under him, sprang
noiselessly to his feet, laid his right hand on the hilt of my knife,
and his left one on his own, drew both bright blades with a
simultaneous and graceful movement, and drove his knife into my sheath,
mine into his own.
My heart stood still; I had never expected even to witness such an
act--never dared believe that I should participate in it.
The Siwanois drew my knife from his sheath, touched the skin of his
wrist with the keen edge. I followed his example; on our wrists two
bright spots of blood beaded the skin.
Then the Sagamore filled a tin cup with clean water and extended his
wrist. A single drop of blood fell into it. I did the same.
Then in silence still, he lifted the cup to his lips, tasted it, and
passed it to me. I wet my lips, offered it to him again. And very
solemnly he sprinkled the scarcely tinted contents over the grass at
the door-sill.
So was accomplished between this Mohican and myself the rite of blood
brotherhood--an alliance of implicit trust and mutual confidence which
only death could end.