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.
CHAPTER VI
THE SPRING WAIONTHA
It happened the following afternoon that, having written in my journal, and dressed me in my best, I left the Mohican in the hut a-painting and shining up his weapons, and walked abroad to watch the remaining troops and the artillery start for Otsego Lake.
A foot regiment — Colonel Gansevoort’s — had struck tents and marched with its drums and colours early that morning, carrying also the regimental wagons and batteaux. However, I had been told that this veteran regiment was not to go with the army into the Iroquois country, but was to remain as a protection to Tryon County. But now Colonel Lamb’s remaining section of artillery was to march to the lake; and whether this indicated that our army at last was fairly in motion, nobody knew. Yet, it seemed scarcely likely, because Lieutenant Boyd had been ordered out with a scout of twenty men toward the West branch of the Delaware, and he told me that he expected to be absent for several days. Besides, it was no secret that arms had not yet been issued and distributed to all the recruits in the foot regiments; that Schott’s riflemen had not yet drawn their equipment, and that as yet we had not collected half the provisions required for an extensive campaign, although nearly every day the batteaux came up the river with stores from Schenectady and posts below.
Strolling up from the river that afternoon, very fine in my best, and, I confess, content with myself except for the lack of hair powder, queue, and ribbon, which ever disconcerted me, I saw already the two guns of the battalion of artillery moving out of their cantonment, the limbers, chests, and the forge well horsed and bright with polish and paint, the men somewhat patched and ragged, but with queues smartly tied and heads well floured.
Had our cannoneers been properly and newly uniformed, it had been a fine and stirring sight, with the artillery bugle-horn sounding the march, and the camp trumpets answering, and Colonel Lamb riding ahead with his mounted officers, very fine and nobly horsed, the flag flying
smartly and most beautiful against the foliage of the terraced woods.
A motley assembly had gathered to see them march out; our General Clinton and his staff, in the blue and buff of the New York Line, had come over, and all the officers and soldiers off duty, too, as well as the people of the vicinity, and a horde of workmen, batteaux-men, and forest runners, including a dozen Oneida Indians of the guides.
Poor Alden’s 6th Massachusetts foot regiment, which was just leaving for the lake on its usual road-mending detail, stood in spiritless silence to see the artillery pass; their Major, Whiting, as well as the sullen rank and file, seeming still to feel the disgrace of Cherry Valley, where their former colonel lost his silly life, and Major Stacia was taken, and still remained a prisoner.
As for us of Morgan’s, we were very sorry for the mortified New Englanders, yet not at all forgetful of their carping and insolent attitude toward the ragged New York Line — where at least the majority of our officers were gentlemen and where proper and military regard for rank was most decently maintained. Gad! To hear your New Englander talk, a man might think that this same war was being maintained and fought by New England alone. And, damn them, they got Schuyler laid aside after all. But the New York Line went about its grim and patient business, unheeding their New England arrogance as long as His Excellency understood the truth concerning the wretched situation. And I for one marvelled that the sniffling ‘prentices of Massachusetts and the Connecticut barbers and tin-peddlers had the effrontery to boast of New England valour while that arch-malcontent, Ethan Allen, and his petty and selfish yokels of Vermont, openly defied New York and Congress, nor scrupled to conduct most treasonably, to their everlasting and black disgrace. No Ticonderoga, no Bennington, could wipe out that outrageous treachery, or efface the villainy of what was done to Schuyler — the man who knew no fear, the officer without reproach.
The artillery jolted and clinked away down the rutty road which their wheels and horses cut into new and deeper furrows; a veil of violet dust hung in their wake, through which harness, cannon, and drawn cutlass glittered and glimmered like sunlit ripples through a mist.
Then came our riflemen marching as escort, smart and gay in their brown forest-dress, the green thrums rippling and flying from sleeve and leggin’ and open double-cape, and the raccoon-tails all a-bobbing behind their caps like the tails that April lambkins wriggle.
Always the sight of my own corps thrilled me. I thanked God for those big, sun-masked men with their long, silent, gliding stride, their shirts open to their mighty chests, and the heavy rifles all swinging in glancing unison on their caped shoulders, carried as lightly as so many reeds.
I stood at salute as our Major and Captain Simpson strode by; grinned ever so little as Boyd came swinging along, his naked cutlass drawn, scarlet fringes tossing on his painted cape. He whispered as he passed:
“Murphy and Elerson took two scalps last night. They’re drying on hoops in the barracks. Look and see if they be truly Seneca.”
At that I was both startled and disgusted; but it was well-nigh impossible to prevent certain of our riflemen who had once been wood-runners from treating the Iroquois as the Iroquois treated them. And they continued to scalp them as naturally as they once had clipped pads and ears from panther and wolf. Mount and the rifleman Renard no longer did it, and I had thought to have persuaded Murphy and Elerson to conduct more becoming. But it seemed that I had failed.
My mind was filled with resentful thoughts as I entered the Lower Fort and started across the swarming parade toward the barracks, meaning to have a look at these ghastly trophies and judge to what nation they belonged.
People of every walk in life were passing and repassing where our regimental wagons were being loaded, and I threaded my way with same difficulty amid a busy throng, noticing nobody, unless it were one of my own corps who saluted my cockade.
Halfway across, a young woman bearing a gunny-sack full of linen garments and blankets to be washed blocked my passage, and being a woman I naturally gave her right of way. And the next instant saw it was Lois.
She had averted her head, and was now hurriedly passing on, and I turned sharply on my heel and came up beside her.
“Lois,” I managed to say with a voice that was fairly steady, “have you forgotten me?”
Her head remained resolutely averted; and as I continued beside her, she said, without looking at me:
“Do you not understand that you are disgracing yourself by speaking to me on the parade? Pass on, sir, for your own sake.”
“I desire to speak to you,” I said obstinately.
“No. Pass on before any officers see you!”
My face, I know, was fiery red, and for an instant all the ridicule, the taunts, the shame which I might well be storing up for myself, burned there for anyone to see. But stronger than fear of ridicule rose a desperate determination not to lose this maid again, and whether what I was doing was worthy, and for her sake, or unworthy, and for my own, I did not understand or even question.
“I wish to talk with you,” I said doggedly. “I shall not let you go this time.”
“Are you mad to so conduct under the eyes of the whole fort?” she whispered. “Go your way!”
“I’d be madder yet to let you get away again. My way is yours.”
She halted, cheeks blazing, and looked at me for the first time.
“I ask you not to persist,” she said, “ —— for my sake if not for yours. What an officer or a soldier says to a girl in this fort makes her a trull in the eyes of any man who sees. Do you so desire to brand me, Mr. Loskiel?”
“No,” I said between my teeth, and turned to leave her. And, I think, it was something in my face that made her whisper low and hurriedly:
“Waiontha Spring! If you needs must see me for a moment more, come there!”
I scarcely heard, so tight emotion had me by the throat, and walked on blindly, all a-quiver. Yet, in my ears the strange wards sounded: “Waiontha — Waiontha — come to the Spring Waiontha — if you needs must see me.”
On a settle before the green-log barrack, some of Schott’s riflemen were idling, and now stood, seeing an officer.
“Boys,” I said, “where is this latest foolery of Tim Murphy hung to dry?”
They seemed ashamed, but told me, As I moved on, I said carelessly, partly turning:
“Where is the Spring Waiontha?”
“On the Lake Trail, sir — first branch of the Stoney-Kill.”
“Is there a house there?”
“Rannock’s.”
“A path to find it?”
“A sheep walk only. Rannock is dead. The destructives murdered him when they burned Cherry Valley. Mrs. Rannock brings us eggs and milk.”
I walked on and entered the smoky barracks, and the first thing I saw was a pair o’ scalps, stretched and hooped, a-dangling from the rafters.
Doubtless, Murphy and Elerson meant to sew them to their bullet pouches when cured and painted. And there was one reckless fellow in my company who wore a baldrick fringed with Shawanese scalps; but as these same Shawanese had murdered his father, mother, grandmother, and three little brothers, no officer rebuked him, although it was a horrid and savage trophy; but if the wearing of it were any comfort to him I do not know.
I looked closely at the ornamented scalps, despite my repugnance. They were not Mohawk, not Cayuga, nor Onondaga. Nor did they seem to me like Seneca, being not oiled and braided clean, but tagged at the root with the claws of a tree-lynx. They were not Oneida, not Lenape. Therefore, they must be Seneca scalps. Which meant that Walter Butler and that spawn of satan, Sayanquarata, were now prowling around our outer pickets. For the ferocious Senecas and their tireless war-chief, Sayanquarata, were Butler’s people; the Mohawks and Joseph Brant holding the younger Butler in deep contempt for the cruelty he did practice at Cherry Valley.
Suddenly a shaft of fear struck me like a swift arrow in the breast, as I thought of Butler and of his Mountain Snakes, and
of that mad child, Lois, a-gypsying whither her silly inclination led her; and Death in the forest-dusk watching her with a hundred staring eyes.
“This time,” I muttered, “I shall put a stop to all her forest-running!” And, at the thought, I turned and passed swiftly through the doorway, across the thronged parade, out of the gate.
Hastening my pace along the Lake Road, meeting many people at first, then fewer, then nobody at all, I presently crossed the first little brook that feeds the Stoney-Kill, leaping from stone to stone. Here in the woods lay the Oneida camp. I saw some squaws there sewing.
The sheep walk branched a dozen yards beyond, running northward through what had been a stump field. It was already grown head-high in weeds and wild flowers, and saplings of bird-cherry, which spring up wherever fire has passed. A few high corn-stalks showed what had been planted there a year ago.
After a few moments following the path, I found that the field ended abruptly, and the solid walls of the forest rose once more like green cliffs towering on every side. And at their base I saw a house of logs, enclosed within a low brush fence, and before it a field of brush.
Shirts and soldiers’ blankets lay here and there a-drying on the bushes; a wretched garden-patch showed intensely green between a waste of fire-blackened stumps. I saw chickens in a coop, and a cow switching forest flies. A cloud of butterflies flew up as I approached, where the running water of a tiny rill made muddy hollows on the path. This doubtless must be the outlet to Waiontha Spring, for there to the left a green lane had been bruised through the elder thicket; and this I followed, shouldering my way amid fragrant blossom and sun-hot foliage, then through an alder run, and suddenly out across a gravelly reach where water glimmered in a still and golden pool.
Lois knelt there on the bank. The soldiers’ linen I had seen in her arms was piled beside her. In a willow basket, newly woven, I saw a heap of clean, wet shirts and tow-cloth rifle-frocks.
She heard me behind her — I took care that she should — but she made no sign that she had heard or knew that I was there. Even when I spoke she continued busy with her suds and shirts; and I walked around the gravelly basin and seated myself near her, cross-legged on the sand, both hands clasping my knees.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 700
