new thought forced its way to acceptance. He looked wistfully at his
only son. "And thou wouldst go there and pit thy young wits against the
Indian's devilish cunning? Well, it may do! Akbal was ever thy sworn
brother and hunting comrade." So it was arranged without further words,
but the father's convulsive hand-clasp, when Jean, in hunter's
buckskins, bade him good-bye at sunrise next morning, proved how loath
he was.
It was ten o'clock when Jean arrived in White Apple, which was about
fifteen miles from Fort Rosalie. Eight miles lay through the black muck
of a swamp where even the wariest foot and quickest eye found their way
with trouble. The foul morass into which the river highlands sloped down
on the landward side gave the shortest road. But its profusion of deadly
reptile life wriggling and hissing at every turn encompassed the narrow
path across the little knolls and tussocks which give the only
foot-grip, with no slight peril to a blundering step. An easier route
meant nearly double the distance.
Almost the first greeting was that of Akbal, but his manner was distant.
He knew of Jean's long absence, but he asked no questions with the
tongue, though his eye was keenly curious.
"I come to chase the buck with my friend once more before the Natchez
seek a new hunting-ground," said Jean.
"Akbal not hunt to-day," was the answer, in broken French; "must listen
to wisdom of great chiefs in council. They meet even now in the Temple
of the Sun. Go; the woods are full of deer and turkeys; but first must
eat, for Akbal's friend much hungry from his walk."
This hospitable dismissal discomfited Jean, for it seemed to close the
gates to further knowledge. The breakfast of venison and sweet maize got
no seasoning of cheer in the gloomy looks of the boyish chief. Through
the door of the lodge the young Frenchman saw the lines of Natchez
warriors stalking through the streets towards the temple, while not a
sound arose in the village. All moved as silently as if they were a
marching troop of phantoms. Akbal sat patiently as a bronze statue,
waiting his guest's motion to depart.
In the centre of the village stood the temple--a huge, round structure
built of logs, now wrinkled with years, and surmounted with a
cylindrical roof thatched with swamp-canes, leaves, and Spanish-moss in
an impervious mat. It rose twenty feet higher than the tallest lodges,
and from one side extended an arched thick-set hedge, embowering a long
passage to the adjacent forest, a quarter of a mile away. Here the
priests and medicine-men of the Sun were wont to seclude themselves from
the rest of the tribe.
The way to accomplish his quest suddenly flashed on Jean's mind. Once he
parted from Akbal, seemingly to plunge into the forest, he could make
his way to the exit of the long, bowery avenue, and thence come to the
outside of the temple. There, it might be, he could learn all he wished,
though with great peril to his life. So when the young chief pressed his
hand in a sad and silent adieu, Jean, after a brief push into the
tangled brake, fetched a detour, and found himself at the mouth of the
passage. Through its dusky green light he moved cautiously forward to a
coign of vantage. This he found in the shrinkage of two ill-fitting
logs, which gave a space for seeing and hearing.
In the centre of the temple, on a rude stone altar, smoked the
unquenched fire which had never died since the natal spark had flamed in
a Mexican temple two hundred years before. This half a dozen hideously
painted priests fed with fragrant barks and gums. Around them five
hundred warriors squatted on the ground, and passed the council-pipe,
while the priests mumbled and chanted, and a portion of the sacred band
drew forth soft and monotonous music from long reed instruments. A
rattlesnake, coiled around the right arm of the chief priest, swayed its
crest with an undulating motion to the cadences of the music, and its
bright eyes seemed to watch every motion with malign intentness, as if
it were the guiding spirit of the council. The braves wore no war-paint,
for their expedition was not meant to blazon its own purpose; but their
faces, so far as they could be seen through the smoke, were distorted
with such ferocity and lust of blood that they could dispense with the
help of pigments. And so the priests chanted, and the players played
their soft melody, and the high-priest stroked his serpent's hideous
head as it curved and swayed to the rhythm of the tune, while the
watching Jean was maddened by the delay and the passage of time and
opportunity. At last, perhaps mindful of some signal from the
high-priest, the snake darted its full length and struck with open mouth
as if at some enemy,[C] Big Serpent arose from the seated ranks.
[C] The rattlesnake was sacred to the Sun God of the Natchez,
and was made to play an important part in their religious
ceremonies, and the mummery which entered, too, into their war
councils. Something similar exists in the rites of the Moqui
Pueblos to-day--a race supposed also to have been of Toltec
origin.
The Great Sun's oration to his warriors, spoken in the Indian tongue,
was mostly jargon to the listener, but he construed enough of it to
unravel the Natchez plot. Under the guise of paying their tribute, they
would surprise the fort the next morning.
Jean waited for nothing more, but withdrew swiftly, and dashed into the
forest. To reach Fort Rosalie as quickly as possible he took his way
again through the noisome swamp which formed so much of the short-cut
to the French post. He had found his way well towards the heart of that
place of gloom and reptilian life. Inspection of every tuft of grass and
weed now made progress slow, and Jean looked forward to a few moments of
rest on the hummock twenty feet off which projected from the edge of a
canebrake. How lucky, he thought, that he had escaped without detection!
On top of this thought came the shock of a challenge, which made his
heart leap.
"_Halte, la!_" and the figure of Akbal pushed through the reeds. His gun
lay in the hollow of one arm, and from the other hand dangled a silver
clasp with which Jean's hunting-shirt had been fastened, and which he
had not missed till this moment. It had been found in the bowery lane
near the temple.
"Better Akbal than another Natchez bring this back to his French
brother," he went on, with a note of mockery in his voice. "Jan Akbal's
prisoner; no hurt him; to-morrow set free."
Quick as a flash Jean's gun swung to his shoulder.
"Stand aside, Akbal, or I shoot you dead. It must be that or pledge of
free passage."
The two stood like duellists with levelled weapons, waiting for the
word, with stern faces and flashing eyes. This was not the time nor
place to remember old comradeship and the rite of blood-brotherhood
which had once been solemnized between them. That rite swore them to an
undying amity, as if born of the same mother and they had tasted the red
drops hot from each other's veins in testimony. But all this was
forgotten. To Jean, Akbal was the barrier to prevent his saving the
garrison. To Akbal, Jean was the agent bent on foiling his people's
revolt from French oppression. But though their fingers touched
triggers, they did not press them. Perhaps this hesitation would have
lasted but a second.
But now Jean heard a whirring noise that disturbed even his tense train
of thinking with a cold chill. He dashed his musket butt at something,
but it flecked him like a giant whip-lash. A monstrous rattlesnake had
fastened its fangs deep in his thigh. Another duellist had stepped to
the fore. Akbal saw the snake spring, and was himself almost as swift in
leaping the interval. He shook his head as he saw the enormous size of
the serpent, which was in the deadliest season of its venom, wriggling
with a broken back.
"Much bad bite, but try save Jean," said he, as he helped him across to
the larger hummock. Luckily Jean's canteen was full of brandy, and this
he gulped down eagerly, while the Indian cut away the buckskin from his
leg. Two needle-point punctures, to be sure, seemed scarcely worth
bothering about, but with an apology, "Knife much hurt, but good," he
plunged the keen-edged blade into the flesh, cutting out the envenomed
parts, and followed it by applying his lips and sucking at the wound for
a full five minutes.
"Fine weed sometimes cure snake-bite. Big bush over there," and he
danced across the bubbling marsh to a bog-oak with a thick mass of green
at its base. The swollen leg and the pain which gnawed through the
drowsiness of the working venom told Akbal that there was no time to be
lost. Flint and steel quickly struck fire, and steeping leaves and roots
he made hot tea and a poultice. So the Indian nurse fought the terrible
poison in the veins of the patient all that afternoon and all the night
long in the firefly-lit darkness of that evil swamp.
The panther screams, which mingled harshly with the subtler horror of
things hissing and splashing in the fetid pools, passed into the dreams
of Jean. Copper-colored fiends with serpent heads storming the palisades
of Fort Rosalie and shrieking the Natchez war-whoop sank their long
curved fangs in the body after the knife had rifled the head. "_Mon
pere! mon pere! sauve mon pere!_" he cried, in his agonized nightmare,
and then awoke, clutching Akbal's arm in a sweat of despair.
"Jan better now, stronger; no more bad dream," said Akbal, who
recognized signs of coming strength; and indeed when daylight struggled
into the swamp the color of the French boy's face had got back its lusty
red.
"Come, come, we must hasten to the fort! I am myself once more," and
Jean stumbled to his feet to fall back again with the sore stiffness of
his wounded thigh. Then he remembered the meaning of Akbal's presence
with a frown. The comrade-foe dragged the heart out of that look with a
word:
"Go soon. Akbal no stop Jan now." He spoke with a proud sadness and
submission in his tone. The serpent omen had come from the Sun God--not
even that deadly bite could stop the young Frenchman's return, and he
himself had been but the instrument of duty. So he carefully bound the
sore leg, and they started across the boggy waste, Jean leaning on his
arm and limping with a determined step. It took long to traverse that
quaking and slippery road, and the sun climbed up the sky, and Jean
became half crazed with anxiety, for his leg would only do so much work,
with all the help of a human crutch.
At last they emerged from the morass and began to climb the upland,
toiling on with the fiercest energy of Jean's tortured spirit. Hark!
that was the sound of cannon from the fort, and then they heard the
faint crackling of guns. "Too late!" half shrieked Jean Vidal, and he
sank on the ground with the reaction, hopeless, helpless, and his face
streaming with tears of rage and grief. Akbal dragged him to a sheltered
place under a bank, and leaped like a deer up the hill. He believed in
the sign of the Sun God, for the rattlesnake was the totem of the
Natchez nation. He did not reason, in his simple, superstitious loyalty,
that he could have left Jean to die of the serpent's bite. He only knew
that he had been inspired to cure him. Now he believed that the further
mission of salvation had been passed from Jean to him, and the French
blood in his veins warmed to the dedication. The lives of the garrison
might yet be kept from the tomahawk and the torture stake.
The fort was already in the hands of the Natchez when Akbal arrived on
the bloody scene. The murdering crew gathered to his assembly whoop,
with Big Serpent at their head. He told the story of the supposed
miracle with fervent eloquence, and the lives of those who had not
already fallen in battle were spared, including Captain Vidal, for these
bloodthirsty warriors of the Natchez were pious in their way, and
believed the sign of the serpent. Jean Vidal, too, remembered the stroke
of that terrible fang with something like superstitious gratitude. Had
it not been for that he and Akbal would probably have slain each other
where they stood, and every Frenchman in the fort would have been
butchered or reserved for a more fiendish death. As it was, Chopart was
the only one to suffer execution, and he justly expiated the deeds of a
cold-blooded tyrant.
XIV
A DRUMMER OF WARBURTON'S
How a Boy Held Fort George at Cape Canso, in 1757
A few hours ago I found an odd-shaped bit of blackened brass. The thing
lies before me now as I write. It is a drum-hook. I know this for the
simple reason that I was once a drummer-boy myself, and could not be
mistaken regarding such a familiar object. I found this drum-hook among
a lot of other odds and ends at the bottom of a well in an old,
long-abandoned fortification. The poor scrap of silent metal brings to
mind the tale of Rupert Haydon, drummer-boy in one of the old line
regiments. His deed of heroism was performed at this same old fort which
I have to-day been ransacking. Perhaps this drum-hook was once used by
him! It is not at all unlikely.
By turning to your map of North America you can easily distinguish Cape
Canso, at the eastern extremity of the mainland of Nova Scotia. Upon an
island, about a mile from the shore and forming with it the harbor of
Canso, is the grass-grown fortress which I have mentioned. The name of
the island is George's; the fort has had several high-sounding titles.
Why should it not? It is old--older perhaps than others with claims of
easier proof. In 1518, over a century before the Pilgrims landed at
Plymouth, legend says that Baron de Lery threw up the first embankments
and claimed the country for the crown of France. Several times this fort
has been besieged and captured, at heavy loss of life. New England sent
expeditions against it. The bloodthirsty Indians repeatedly raided the
place. In 1745 Pepperell and his valiant little army of Massachusetts,
New Hampshire, and Connecticut militia remained here for some weeks, in
order to acquire drill and discipline before moving upon the boasted
Louisburg. And many another martial display has this neglected old fort
witnessed, and personages celebrated in our history have walked within
its ramparts upon occasion.
In the year 1757 Fort George, as it was then called, had as its garrison
a small detachment from Colonel Warburton's regiment of foot. This
trifling force was compelled to watch over a wide extent of territory in
addition to the special place they occupied. France and England were
again at war, and both regular expeditions and lawless guerillas
abounded.
On a certain day in midsummer the garrison embarked upon a small vessel
and sailed away to the relief of a threatened settlement. Rupert Haydon,
the drummer-boy, was left in charge of the fort. With him were several
women, wives of soldiers, and their small children.
"We shall be gone but a week at most, drummer," Captain Peabody had
announced. "It suits me not to leave women and stores so ill protected,
but the commands of my superiors must be obeyed. However, it is scarce
likely that the enemy will have knowledge of the fort's weakness in time
to profit thereby."
The drummer-boy stood at attention and saluted as the soldiers marched
out through the covered way. With the aid of the women he hoisted the
drawbridge and closed the massive timber gates. Then, scrambling up on
top of the parapet, he watched the little sailing craft, her decks all
bright with the scarlet-coated warriors, pass out through the narrow
harbor entrance and disappear from view around the first headland.
Scarcely had the transport so vanished, when Rupert's keen eyes
discovered another vessel making for the harbor from the opposite side.
Mere supposition was useless. The newcomer might prove to be a friend.
If an enemy, the chance of being let alone was problematical. It was now
too late to recall the recently departed garrison. Upon the drummer's
young shoulders lay the whole burden of maintaining the dignity of the
English flag.
Rupert Haydon was only a poorly educated boy, but he must have had a
great deal of latent talent. Even while gazing in consternation at the
fast-approaching vessel, he mentally mapped out a plan of campaign.
Hastily gathering the women about him, he explained the matter to them,
and secured their aid. They were all well used to the happening of the
unexpected, and inured to danger and fatigue. The wife of a British
soldier has never had an easy lot. These rugged-looking though
golden-hearted women donned some uniforms left behind by their husbands,
and became, in outward appearance at least, full-fledged soldiers. The
six small cannon mounted in the fort's bastions were loaded, small-arms
served out, and ammunition placed conveniently to hand. One of the
soldier-women mounted guard upon the ramparts, and marched up and down,
in plain view, with musket upon shoulder. The English ensign was, of
course, flying from the tall staff in the centre of the redoubt.
As the vessel drew nearer, the little garrison began to bustle with
activity, and continued in the same fashion for some while. Two of the
soldier-women would come out of the fort, stroll down to the shore,
examine the stranger with an apparently mild curiosity, and then walk
off together over the hills. Meanwhile the others, including Rupert,
would come and go, disappearing and reappearing in all directions with
the aid of the rocky ravines and clumps of trees upon the island. The
idea of all this was to convince the new-comers, whoever they might be,
that the fort's garrison remained unimpaired, and took no special notice
of a single vessel. That the scheme had a certain effect was shown in
the fact that the stranger came to anchor far down the harbor, well out
of range of Fort George's cannon. It looked very much as if the
appearance of these redcoats coming and going about the island had
impressed her commander unfavorably.
After some delay the ship hoisted a French ensign, and a small boat put
off from her side and headed for the fort landing. This boat contained
three men--two rowing, and one in the stern holding aloft a piece of
white cloth. It was evidently a flag of truce, coming to parley.
Although his worst fears were now realized, and they plainly had a
formidable enemy to deal with, Rupert never wavered, but proceeded to
dispose of his forces in the best manner possible. Leaving only the
sentry upon the parapet, he marched out of the fort at the head of the
others, as if they merely constituted a suitable escorting party. One of
the squad he had equipped beforehand with a flag of truce similar to
that carried by the man in the boat. The drummer drew up his little
company in a single rank upon the glacis, about half-way between the
intrenchments and the water's edge. At such a distance their disguises
could not be discovered. Alone he advanced to the border of the
pebble-strewn strand, and there awaited the coming of the emissary.
The latter was wary of approaching too hastily. He bade his oarsmen back
the skiff stern first to within ten or fifteen yards of the shore. Then
he stopped them, and, while they kept the boat in position with gentle
strokes, he held converse with the intrepid drummer by means of lusty
shoutings.
"I wish to speak with your Commandant," began the stranger, using good
English, yet with a decided Gallic accent. "You are only a child.... A
drummer-boy?... Am I not right?... I judged so by your small stature and
pretty coat.... Inform the Commandant of your fort that I desire a few
words with him."
"It is impossible," replied Rupert, coolly.
"What? Impossible?"
"Yes; I regret to say that the Commandant will not be able to see you at
present. But I am his representative, and can also act as your messenger
if you have something of importance to transmit."
"O-ho! We are very high and mighty, it seems!" retorted the stranger,
angrily. "Like should have like for meals. I will not be so civil as I
first intended. Tell your Commandant that my name is Rabentine--Captain
Rabentine. I have the honor of commanding _La Belle Cerise_, privateer,
of St. Malo."
"A French privateer!" ejaculated Rupert.
"Just so," went on Captain Rabentine, looking from the drummer to his
escort, up at the fort, and back again to the drummer, with some
appearance of suspicion.
"I had thought you were a navy frigate," rejoined Rupert, promptly. "We
are getting rusty for the want of a little fighting."
The other seemed slightly taken aback at this statement.
"Perhaps you may have such a chance even yet," he growled.
"Well, Captain Rabentine," cried the boy, courteously, "what else am I
to say to the Commandant? For surely you took not all this trouble
merely to let us know whom our visitor might be?"
"Inform him," shouted the privateer Captain, waxing wroth, "that I had
intended simply to lay in harbor here and weather out the coming gale.
That a good prize-ship is more to my liking than an empty fort! Perhaps
there might even have been a case of rare wine sent ashore by way of
compliment. But as he chooses to be so distant, and sends a drummer-boy
as fitting ambassador to a French Captain, I shall give myself the
pleasure of--But, pshaw! there is no money in this for my owners. Inform
your Commandant that I have a mind to anchor farther up the harbor,
where the shelter is good, for a few days. That I will not molest him if
he leaves me alone. There you have it in a nutshell. Go, and haste
quickly with the answer."
Gravely turning on his heel the drummer strode back up the hill, joined
his waiting escort, and marched with them to the fort. He was gone upon
this pretended mission some little time; quite long enough further to
exasperate the privateer Captain.
"Truly 'tis a matter of wonderful ceremony," he sneered, when Rupert,
after repeating the former precautionary measures with his escort, was
once more at speaking distance. "All this folderol is wearisome. Your
Commandant may regret not having sent an officer before we are through
with the thing. Did you sufficiently impress him with the fact that I
am not one to be trifled with? Does he realize that his garrison can
scarcely outnumber my crew? _La Belle Cerise_ carries one hundred and
fifty-four as natty sailors as ever swung boarding-pikes, and at a pinch
we can spare a round hundred for landing-party and still have enough on
board to work our biggest guns. He should be thankful that I show an
inclination to leave his puny fort untouched. What has he to say?"
"Our two nations being at war at the present time," announced the
drummer, guardedly, "I am to tell you that we can offer no harbor unless
you care to surrender yourself and crew as prisoners, and your ship as
lawful prize. Failing this, you must--"
"What? Zounds!" howled the easily excited Frenchman. "Your Commandant
may think this good jesting, but I do not share his opinions. Tell him
to look to his defences. The flag of France shall once more wave above
them. We will attack at once, and for every poor fellow I lose in this
worthless assault, two of your survivors shall be strung up to die.
Give way, my boys!" he cried, addressing his oarsmen.
The boat sped off to the vessel. The drummer and his little party
returned within the fort, and prepared as best they could for what was
to follow.
Almost immediately after the arrival of the privateer Captain on board
his ship, three great pinnaces were lowered to the water and filled with
men. The glitter from naked cutlasses, inlaid pistols, and carefully
held muskets could easily be distinguished among them. This flotilla was
soon ready, and at once started for the fort landing. Luckily for the
trivial band of defenders the wind was increasing to such an extent that
Captain Rabentine did not consider it wise to attempt manoeuvring his
ship in an unbuoyed and dangerous harbor. Therefore the flotilla was
without any aid from the guns of _La Belle Cerise_. Moreover, the waves
were commencing to run high, and the overloaded boats labored heavily.
It was necessary to keep them headed to the seas as much as possible,
and, in consequence, their progress towards the shore was rendered
extremely slow.