“Major Parr calls to say that an Oneida runner is ordered to try to find you with despatches from headquarters. I had expected to send this letter by some one in your own regiment when it marched. But now I shall intrust it to the runner.
“I know not how to close my letter — how to say farewell — how to let you know how truly my heart is yours. And becomes more so every hour. Nor can you understand how humbly I thank God for you — that you are what you are — and not like Sir John and — other men.
“Women are of a multitude of kinds — until they love. Then they are of but two kinds. Of one of these kinds shall I be when I love. Not that I doubt myself, yet, who can say what I shall be? Only three, Euan — God, the man who loves me, and myself.”
“I sit here waiting for a rifleman to take my letter to the General who has promised to commit it to the runner.
“A regiment is trying its muskets at the lake. I hear the firing.
“I have a tallow dip and wax and sand, ready to close my letter instantly. No one comes.”
“Lana comes, very tired and pale. Her eyes frighten me, they seem so tragic. I learn that the army marches on the 9th. Yet, you went earlier, and I do not think my eyes resembled hers.”
“Soldiers passing, drums beating. A Pennsylvania regiment. Lana lies on my bed, her face to the wall, scarce breathing at all, as far as I can see. Conch-horns blowing — the strange and melancholy music of your regiment. It seems to fill my heart with dread unutterable.”
“The runner is here! Euan — Euan! Come back to me!
“Lois de Contrecoeur.”
My eyes fell from the letter to the sleeping runner stretched out at my feet, then shifted vaguely toward the river.
After a while I drew my tablets, quill, and ink-horn from my pouch, and setting it on my knees wrote to her with a heart on fire, yet perfectly controlled.
And after I had ended, I sealed the sheet with balsam, pricking the globule from the tree behind me, and setting over it a leaf of partridge-berry. Also I wrote letters to General Clinton and to Major Parr, sealed them as I had sealed the other, and set a tiny, shining leaf on each.
Then, very gently I bent forward and aroused the Oneida runner. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, then got to his feet smiling. And I consigned to him my letters.
The Mohican, on guard by the Susquehanna, was watching me; and as soon as the Red Wings had started on his return, and was well across the Ouleout, I signalled the Sagamore to come to me, leaving the Mole and Tahoontowhee by the Susquehanna.
“Blood-brother of mine,” I said as he came up, “I ask counsel of a wiser head and a broader experience than my own. What is to be done with this Wyandotte?”
“Must that be decided now, Loskiel?”
“Now. Because the Unadilla lies below not far away, and beyond that the Tioga. And I am charged to get myself thither in company with you as soon us may be. Now, what is a Sagamore’s opinion of this Wyandotte?”
“Erie,” he said quietly.
“You believe it?”
“I know it, Loskiel.”
“And the others — the Oneidas and the Stockbridge?”
“They are as certain as I am.”
“Good God! Then why have you not told me this before, Mayaro?”
“Is there haste?”
“Haste? Have I not said that we march immediately? And you would have let me give my order and include that villain in it!”
“Why not? It is an easier and safer way to take a prisoner to Tioga Point than to drag him thither tied.”
“But he may escape — —”
The Sagamore gave me an ironic glance.
“Is it likely,” he said softly, “when we are watching?”
“But he may manage to do us a harm. You saw how cunningly he has kept up communication with our enemies, to leave a trail for them to follow.”
“He has done us what harm he is able,” said the Sagamore coolly.
I hesitated, then asked him what he meant.
“Why,” he said, “their scouts have followed us. There are two of them now across the Susquehanna.”
Thunderstruck, I stared at the river, where its sunlit surface glittered level through the trees.
“Do the others know this?” I asked.
“Surely, Loskiel.”
I looked at my Indians where they lay flat behind their trees, rifles poised, eyes intent on the territory in front of them.
“If my brother does not desire to bring the Wyandotte to General Sullivan, I will go to him now and kill him,” said the Mohican carelessly.
“He ought to hang,” I said between my teeth.
“Yes. It is the most dreadful death a Seneca can die. He would prefer the stake and two days’ torture. Loskiel is right. The Erie has been a priest of Amochol. Let him die by the rope he dreads more than the stake. For all Indians fear the rope, Loskiel, which chokes them so that they can not sing their death-song. There is not one of us who has not courage to sing his death-song at the stake; but who can sing when he is being choked to death by a rope?”
I nodded, looking uneasily toward the river where the two Seneca spies lurked unseen as yet by me.
“Let the men sling their packs,” I said.
“They have done so, Loskiel.”
“Very well. Our order of march will be the same as yesterday. We keep the Wyandotte between us.”
“That is wisdom.”
“Is it to be a running fight, Mayaro?”
“Perhaps, if their main body comes up.”
“Then we had best start across the Ouleout, unless you mean to ford the Susquehanna.”
The Sagamore shook his head with a grimace, saying that it would be easier to swim the Susquehanna at Tioga than to ford it here.
Very quietly we drew in or picked up our pickets, including the ruffianly Wyandotte, or Erie, as he was now judged to be, and, filing as we had filed the night before we crossed the Ouleout and entered the forest.
Two hours later the Oneida in the rear, Tahoontowhee, reported that the Seneca scouts were on our heels, and asked permission to try for a scalp.
By noon he had taken his second scalp, and had received his first wound, a mere scratch from a half-ounce ball, below the knee. But he wore it and the scalp with a dignity unequalled by any monarch loaded with jewelled orders.
“Some day,” said the Sagamore in my ear, “Tahoontowhee will accept the antlers and the quiver.”
“He would be greater yet if he accepted Christ,” said the Stockbridge quietly.
We had halted to breathe, and were resting on our rifles as the Mohican said this; and I was looking at the Stockbridge who so quietly had confessed his Master, when of a sudden the Wyandotte, who had been leaning against a tree, straightened up, turned his head over his shoulder, stared intently at something which we could not see, and then pointed in silence.
So naturally was it done that we all turned also. Then, like a thunder-bolt, his hatchet flew, shearing the raccoon’s tail from my cap, and struck the Stockbridge Indian full between the eyes, dashing his soul into eternity.
CHAPTER XIII
THE HIDDEN CHILDREN
So silently, suddenly, and with such incredible swiftness had this happened, and so utterly unprepared were we for this devilish audacity, that the Erie had shoved his trade-rifle against my ribs and fired before anybody comprehended what he was about.
But he had driven the muzzle so violently against me that the blow knocked me breathless and flat on my face, and his rifle, slipping along with the running swivel of my pouch buckle, was discharged, blowing the pouch-flap to fragments, and setting fire to my thrums without even scorching my body.
As, partly stunned, I lay on the moss, choking in the powder smoke, my head still ringing with the crash of the old smooth-bore, man after man leaped over me like frantic deer, racing at full speed toward the river. And I swayed to my knees, to my feet, and staggered after them, beating out the fire on my smoking fringes as I ran.
The sight of him tore a yell of fury from the Oneidas’ throats; but the Mohican, rifle a-trail, was speeding low and swiftly, and we sprang forward in his tracks.
A few moments later the Sagamore gave tongue to the fierce, hysterical view-halloo of his Wolf Clan; the Oneidas answered till the forest rang with the dreadful tumult of the pack-cry. Then, as I ran up breathless to where they were crouching, a more terrible whoop burst from them. The quarry was at bay.
It was where the river turned south, making a vast and glassy bay. A smooth cliff hung over it, wet and shining with the water from hidden springs, and sheering down into profound and limpid depths.
High on the face of the cliff, squatted on a narrow shelf, and hidden by the rocky formation, our quarry had taken cover. The twisted strands of a wild grapevine, severed by his knife, hung dangling below his eyrie, betraying his mode of ascent. He had gone up hand over hand, aided by his powerful shoulder muscles and by his feet, which must have stuck like the feet of flies to the perpendicular wall of rock.
To follow him, even with the aid of the vine he had severed, had been hopeless in the face of his rifle fire. A thousand men could not have taken him that way, while his powder and lead held out, for they would have been obliged to ascend one by one in slow and painful file, and he had but to shove his gun-muzzle in their faces as they appeared.
The war-yelps of the Oneidas had subtly changed their timbre so that ever amid the shrill yelling I marked the guttural snarls of baffled rage. The Mohican lay on his belly behind a tree, silent, but his eyes were like coals in their red intensity.
Presently the Oneidas, lying prone at our side, ceased their tumult and became silent. And for a long while we lay waiting for a shot.
All this time the Erie had given no sign of life, and I had begun to hope that he had been hit and would ultimately perish there, as wild things perish in solitude and silence.
Then the Mohican said in my ear:
“Unless we can stir him to move and expose himself, we must lose him. For his fellows will surely track us to this place.”
“Good God! By what unfortunate accident should such a hiding place exist so near!” I said miserably.
The Sagamore’s stern visage slightly relaxed.
“It is no accident, Loskiel. Do you not suppose he knew it was here? Else he had never dared attempt what he did.”
“The vile Witch-cat has been here many a time,” said the Grey-Feather, his ferocious gaze fixed on the cliff.
“Is the Mole dead?” I asked.
“He is with his God — Tharon or Christ, whichever it may be, Loskiel.”
“The Mole must not be scalped,” said Tahoontowhee softly. “If the Senecas pass that way they will have at last one thing to boast of.”
I said to the Mohican:
“Hold the Erie. The Night-Hawk and I will go back and bury our dead against Seneca profanation.”
“Let the Grey-Feather go, Loskiel.”
“No. The Mole was Christian. Does a Christian fail his own kind at the last?”
“Loskiel has spoken,” said the Mohican gravely. “The Grey-Feather and I will hold the filthy cat.”
So we went back together across the river, the young Oneida and I; and we hid the Mole deep in the bed of a rotting log, and laid his Testament on his breast over the painted cross, and his weapons beside him. Then, working cautiously, we rolled back the log, replaced the dead leaves, brushed up the deep green pile of the moss, and smoothed all as craftily us we might, so that no Seneca prowling might suspect that a grave was here, and disinter the dead to take his scalp.
Over the blood-wet leaves where he had fallen, we made a fire of dry twigs, letting it burn enough to deceive. Then we covered it as hunters cover their ashes; the Oneida took the Erie’s hatchet; and we hastened back to the others.
They were still lying exactly where we left them. Neither the Erie nor they had stirred or spoken. And, as I settled down in my ambush beside the Mohican, I asked him again whether there was any possible way to provoke the Erie so that he might stir and expose some portion of his limbs or body.
The Night-Hawk, who carried strapped to his back the quiver of an Oneida adolescent containing a boy’s short bow and a dozen game arrows, consulted with the Grey-Feather in a low voice.
Presently he wriggled off to where some sun-dried birch-bark fluttered in the river breeze, returned with it, shredded it with care, strung his bow, tipped an arrow with the bark, and held it out to me.
I struck flint to steel, lighted my tinder, and set the shred of bark afire.
Then the Night-Hawk knelt, bent his bow, and the blazing arrow soared whistling with flame, and fell behind the rock on the shelf.
Arrow after arrow followed, whizzing upward and dropping accurately; but the wet mosses of the cliff extinguished the flashes.
As the last arrow fell, flared a moment, then merely smoked, an insulting laugh came from aloft, and my Indians uttered fierce exclamations and cuddled their rifle-stocks close to their cheeks, fairly trembling for a shot.
“Dogs of Oneidas!” called the Erie. “Go howl for your dead pig of a Stockbridge slave.”
“The Mole wears his scalp with Tharon!” retorted the Grey-Feather, choking with fury. “But Tahoontowhee’s hatchet is still sticking in the Senecas’ heads!”
“For which the Night-Hawk shall burn at the Seneca stake, sobbing his death-song!” shouted the Erie, so fiercely that for a moment we lay silent, hoping that by some ungovernable movement he might expose himself.
“Taunt him!” I whispered; and the Mohican said with a derisive laugh:
“Four scalp-tufts from the mangy Cats of Amochol trim my hatchet-sheath. When the young men ask me what this sparse and sickly fur may be, I shall strip it off and cast it at their feet, saying it is but Erie filth to spit upon.”
“Liar of a conquered nation!” roared the Erie, “for every priest of Amochol who fell by Otsego under your cowardly butcher’s knife, a Siwanois Sagamore shall burn three days, and yet live to die the fourth! The day that August dies, so shall the Sagamore die at the Festival of Dreams in Catharines-town!”
“I shall remember,” said I in a low voice to the Sagamore, “that the Onon-hou-aroria is to be celebrated in Catharines-town on the last day of August.”
He nodded, then:
“A Mohican Sagamore insults a dirty priest of Amochol! I do you honour by offering you battle, with knife, with hatchet, with rifle, with naked hands! Choose, spawn of Atensi — still-born kitten of Iuskeha, choose! Not one soul except myself will raise hand against you. By Tharon, I swear it! Choose! And the victor passes freely and whither he wills!”
The Erie mocked him from his high perch:
“Squirrels talk! Long since has your Tharon been hurled headlong into Biskoonah by Atensi and her flaming grandson!”
At this awful blasphemy, the Mohican fairly blanched so that under his paint his skin grew ashy for a moment.
The Grey-Feather shouted:
“Lying and degraded priest! Mowawak Cannibal of a Sinako Cat! It is Atensi herself who burns with Iuskeha in Biskoonah; and the sacrilegious fires lick your altars!”
The Erie laughed horribly:
“Where is your fool of a stripling called Loskiel? Is he there with you? Or did my hatchet fetch him such a clip that he died of fright and a bullet in his belly?”
“He is unharmed,” replied the Mohican, tauntingly. “A squaw shoots better than a Cat!”
“A lie! I saw my rifle blow a hole in his body!”
“Hatchet and rifle failed. The Ensign, Loskiel, laughed, asking what forest-flies were buzzing at his ear. Loskiel spits on Cats, and brushes th
eir flying hatchets from his ears as others brush mosquitos!”
“Let him speak, then, to prove it!” shouted the Erie, incredulously.
But I remained silent.
Then the Erie’s ferocious laugh rang out from the cliff.
“Now, you Mohican slave and you Oneida dogs, you shall know the power of Amochol. For what was done to Loskiel and to the Praying Mole, will be done to you all on the last day of this month, when the Dream Feast is held at Catharines-town! You shall die. And others shall die — not as you, but on the red altar of the Great Sachem Amochol! Strangled, disemboweled, sacrificed to clothe Atensi!”
The Grey-Feather, unable any longer to retain his self-control, was getting to his feet, staring wildly up at the cliff; but the Mohican drew him back into his form and held him there with powerful grip.
“Listen,” he hissed, “to what this warlock blabbs.”
The Erie laughed, evidently awaiting a retort. None came, and he laughed again triumphantly.
“Amochol’s arm is long, O you Oneida dogs who howl outside the Long House gates! Amochol’s eyes are like the white-crested eagle’s eyes, seeing everything, and his ears are like the red buck’s ears, so that nothing stirs unheard by him.
“Phantoms arise and walk at night; Amochol sees. Under earth and water, demons are breathing; Amochol hears. Then we Eries listen, too, and make the altar fires burn hotter. For the ghosts of the night and the demons that stir must be fed.”
He waited again, doubtless expecting some exclamation of protest against his monstrous profession. After a moment he went on:
“Spectres and demons must be fed — but not on the foul flesh of dogs like you! We cut your throats to feed the Flying Heads.”
He paused; and as no reply was forthcoming, the sorcerer laughed scornfully.
“Your blood becomes water! You cringe at the power of Amochol. But the red altar is not for you. Listen, dogs! Had I not found it necessary to slay your stripling, Loskiel, he had been burned and strangled an that altar!... And there is another at Otsego who shall die strangled on the altar of Amochol — the maiden called Lois! Long have we followed her. Long is the arm of the Red Priest — when his White Sorceress dreams for him!
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 717
