So far as the world knew, the Chief of the Long Knives slept peacefully
in his house. And such was his sense of power that not even a sentry
paced the street without. For by these things is the Indian mind
impressed. In the tiny kitchen a dozen men and a boy tried to hush their
breathing, and sweltered. For it was very hot, and the pent-up odor of
past cookings was stifling to men used to the open. In a corner, hooded
under a box, was a lighted lantern, and Tom McChesney stood ready to
seize it at the first alarm. On such occasions the current of time runs
sluggish. Thrice our muscles were startled into tenseness by the baying
of a hound, and once a cock crew out of all season. For the night was
cloudy and pitchy black, and the dawn as far away as eternity.
Suddenly I knew that every man in the room was on the alert, for the
skilled frontiersman, when watchful, has a sixth sense. None of them
might have told you what he had heard. The next sound was the faint
creaking of Colonel Clark’s door as it opened. Wrapping a blanket around
the lantern, Tom led the way, and we massed ourselves behind the front
door. Another breathing space, and then the war-cry of the Puans broke
hideously on the night, and children woke, crying, from their sleep. In
two bounds our little detachment was in the street, the fire spouting
red from the Deckards, faint, shadowy forms fading along the line of
trees. After that an uproar of awakening, cries here and there, a drum
beating madly for the militia. The dozen flung themselves across the
stream, I hot in their wake, through Mr. Brady’s gate, which was
open; and there was a scene of sweet tranquillity under the lantern’s
rays,--the North Wind and his friends wrapped in their blankets and
sleeping the sleep of the just.
“Damn the sly varmints,” cried Tom, and he turned over the North Wind
with his foot, as a log.
With a grunt of fury the Indian shed his blanket and scrambled to his
feet, and stood glaring at us through his paint. But suddenly he met the
fixed sternness of Clark’s gaze, and his own shifted. By this time his
followers were up. The North Wind raised his hands to heaven in token of
his innocence, and then spread his palms outward. Where was the proof?
“Look!” I cried, quivering with excitement; “look, their leggings and
moccasins are wet!”
“There’s no devil if they beant!” said Tom, and there was a murmur of
approval from the other men.
“The boy is right,” said the Colonel, and turned to Tom. “Sergeant, have
the chiefs put in irons.” He swung on his heel, and without more ado
went back to his house to bed. The North Wind and two others were
easily singled out as the leaders, and were straightway escorted to the
garrison house, their air of injured innocence availing them not a whit.
The militia was dismissed, and the village was hushed once more.
But all night long the chiefs went to and fro, taking counsel among
themselves. What would the Chief of the Pale Faces do?
The morning came with a cloudy, damp dawning. Within a decent time (for
the Indian is decorous) blanketed deputations filled the archways under
the trees and waited there as the minutes ran into hours. The Chief of
the Long Knives surveyed the morning from his door-step, and his eyes
rested on a solemn figure at the gate. It was the Hungry Wolf. Sorrow
was in his voice, and he bore messages from the twenty great chiefs who
stood beyond. They were come to express their abhorrence of the night’s
doings, of which they were as innocent as the deer of the forest.
“Let the Hungry Wolf tell the chiefs,” said Colonel Clark, briefly,
“that the council is the place for talk.” And he went back into the
house again.
Then he bade me run to Captain Bowman with an order to bring the North
Wind and his confederates to the council field in irons.
The day followed the promise of the dawn. The clouds hung low, and now
and again great drops struck the faces of the people in the field. And
like the heavens, the assembly itself was charged with we knew not
what. Was it peace or war? As before, a white man sat with supreme
indifference at a table, and in front of him three most unhappy chiefs
squatted in the grass, the shame of their irons hidden under the blanket
folds. Audacity is truly a part of the equipment of genius. To have
rescued the North Wind and his friends would have been child’s play; to
have retired from the council with threats of war, as easy.
And yet they craved pardon.
One chief after another rose with dignity in the ring and came to the
table to plead. An argument deserving mention was that the North
Wind had desired to test the friendship of the French for the Big
Knives,--set forth without a smile. To all pleaders Colonel Clark shook
his head. He, being a warrior, cared little whether such people were
friends or foes. He held them in the hollow of his hand. And at length
they came no more.
The very clouds seemed to hang motionless when he rose to speak, and you
who will may read in his memoir what he said. The Hungry Wolf caught the
spirit of it, and was eloquent in his own tongue, and no word of it was
lost. First he told them of the causes of war, of the thirteen council
fires with the English, and in terms that the Indian mind might grasp,
and how their old father, the French King, had joined the Big Knives in
this righteous fight.
“Warriors,” said he, “here is a bloody belt and a white one; take which
you choose. But behave like men. Should it be the bloody path, you may
leave this town in safety to join the English, and we shall then see
which of us can stain our shirts with the most blood. But, should it be
the path of peace as brothers of the Big Knives and of their friends the
French, and then you go to your homes and listen to the bad birds,
you will then no longer deserve to be called men and warriors,--but
creatures of two tongues, which ought to be destroyed. Let us then part
this evening in the hope that the Great Spirit will bring us together
again with the sun as brothers.”
So the council broke up. White man and red went trooping into town,
staring curiously at the guard which was leading the North Wind and his
friends to another night of meditation. What their fate would be no man
knew. Many thought the tomahawk.
That night the citizens of the little village of Pain Court, as St.
Louis was called, might have seen the sky reddened in the eastward. It
was the loom of many fires at Cahokia, and around them the chiefs of
the forty tribes--all save the three in durance vile--were gathered in
solemn talk. Would they take the bloody belt or the white one? No man
cared so little as the Pale Face Chief. When their eyes were turned from
the fitful blaze of the logs, the gala light of many candles greeted
them. And above the sound of their own speeches rose the merrier note of
the fiddle. The garrison windows shone like lanterns, and behind these
Creole and backwoodsman swung the village ladies in the gay French
dances. The man at whose bidding this merrymaking was held stood in a
corner watching with folded arms, and none to look at him might know
that he was playing for a stake.
The troubled fires of the Indians had died to embers long before the
candles were snuffed in the garrison house and the music ceased.
The sun himself was pleased to hail that last morning of the great
council, and beamed with torrid tolerance upon the ceremony of kindling
the greatest of the fires. On this morning Colonel Clark did not sit
alone, but was surrounded by men of weight,--by Monsieur Gratiot and
other citizens, Captain Bowman and the Spanish officers. And when at
length the brush crackled and the flames caught the logs, three of the
mightiest chiefs arose. The greatest, victor in fifty tribal wars, held
in his hand the white belt of peace. The second bore a long-stemmed pipe
with a huge bowl. And after him, with measured steps, a third came
with a smoking censer,--the sacred fire with which to kindle the pipe.
Halting before Clark, he first swung the censer to the heavens, then to
the earth, then to all the spirits of the air,--calling these to witness
that peace was come at last,--and finally to the Chief of the Long
Knives and to the gentlemen of dignity about his person. Next the Indian
turned, and spoke to his brethren in measured, sonorous tones. He bade
them thank that Great Spirit who had cleared the sky and opened their
ears and hearts that they might receive the truth,--who had laid bare to
their understanding the lies of the English. Even as these English
had served the Big Knives, so might they one day serve the Indians.
Therefore he commanded them to cast the tomahawk into the river, and
when they should return to their land to drive the evil birds from it.
And they must send their wise men to Kaskaskia to hear the words of
wisdom of the Great White Chief, Clark. He thanked the Great Spirit for
this council fire which He had kindled at Cahokia.
Lifting the bowl of the censer, in the eyes of all the people he drew
in a long whiff to bear witness of peace. After him the pipe went the
interminable rounds of the chiefs. Colonel Clark took it, and puffed;
Captain Bowman puffed,--everybody puffed.
“Davy must have a pull,” cried Tom; and even the chiefs smiled as I
coughed and sputtered, while my friends roared with laughter. It gave
me no great notion of the fragrance of tobacco. And then came such a
hand-shaking and grunting as a man rarely sees in a lifetime.
There was but one disquieting question left: What was to become of the
North Wind and his friends? None dared mention the matter at such a
time. But at length, as the day wore on to afternoon, the Colonel was
seen to speak quietly to Captain Bowman, and several backwoodsmen went
off toward the town. And presently a silence fell on the company as they
beheld the dejected three crossing the field with a guard. They were led
before Clark, and when he saw them his face hardened to sternness.
“It is only women who watch to catch a bear sleeping,” he said. “The Big
Knives do not kill women. I shall give you meat for your journey home,
for women cannot hunt. If you remain here, you shall be treated as
squaws. Set the women free.”
Tom McChesney cast off their irons. As for Clark, he began to talk
immediately with Monsieur Gratiot, as though he had dismissed them from
his mind. And their agitation was a pitiful thing to see. In vain they
pressed about him, in vain they even pulled the fringe of his shirt to
gain his attention. And then they went about among the other chiefs, but
these dared not intercede. Uneasiness was written on every man’s face,
and the talk went haltingly. But Clark was serenity itself. At length
with a supreme effort they plucked up courage to come again to the
table, one holding out the belt of peace, and the other the still
smouldering pipe.
Clark paused in his talk. He took the belt, and flung it away over the
heads of those around him. He seized the pipe, and taking up his sword
from the table drew it, and with one blow clave the stem in half. There
was no anger in either act, but much deliberation.
“The Big Knives,” he said scornfully, “do not treat with women.”
The pleading began again, the Hungry Wolf interpreting with tremors of
earnestness. Their lives were spared, but to what purpose, since the
White Chief looked with disfavor upon them? Let him know that bad men
from Michilimackinac put the deed into their hearts.
“When the Big Knives come upon such people in the wilderness,” Clark
answered, “they shoot them down that they may not eat the deer. But they
have never talked of it.”
He turned from them once more; they went away in a dejection to wring
our compassion, and we thought the matter ended at last. The sun
was falling low, the people beginning to move away, when, to the
astonishment of all, the culprits were seen coming back again. With them
were two young men of their own nation. The Indians opened up a path for
them to pass through, and they came as men go to the grave. So mournful,
so impressive withal, that the crowd fell into silence again, and the
Colonel turned his eyes. The two young men sank down on the ground
before him and shrouded their heads in their blankets.
“What is this?” Clark demanded.
The North Wind spoke in a voice of sorrow:--
“An atonement to the Great White Chief for the sins of our nation.
Perchance the Great Chief will deign to strike a tomahawk into their
heads, that our nation may be saved in war by the Big Knives.” And the
North Wind held forth the pipe once more.
“I have nothing to say to you,” said Clark.
Still they stood irresolute, their minds now bereft of expedients. And
the young men sat motionless on the ground. As Clark talked they peered
out from under their blankets, once, twice, thrice. He was still talking
to the wondering Monsieur Gratiot. But no other voice was heard, and the
eyes of all were turned on him in amazement. But at last, when the drama
had risen to the pitch of unbearable suspense, he looked down upon
the two miserable pyramids at his feet, and touched them. The blankets
quivered.
“Stand up,” said the Colonel, “and uncover.”
They rose, cast the blankets from them, and stood with a stoic dignity
awaiting his pleasure. Wonderful, fine-limbed men they were, and for the
first time Clark’s eyes were seen to kindle.
“I thank the Great Spirit,” said he, in a loud voice, “that I have found
men among your nation. That I have at last discovered the real chiefs of
your people. Had they sent such as you to treat with me in the beginning
all might have been well. Go back to your people as their chiefs, and
tell them that through you the Big Knives have granted peace to your
nation.”
Stepping forward, he grasped them each by the hand, and, despite
training, joy shone in their faces, while a long-drawn murmur arose
from the assemblage. But Clark did not stop there. He presented them to
Captain Bowman and to the French and Spanish gentlemen present, and they
were hailed by their own kind as chiefs of their nation. To cap it all
our troops, backwoodsmen and Creole militia, paraded in line on the
common, and fired a salute in their honor.
Thus did Clark gain the friendship of the forty tribes in the Northwest
country.