CHAPTER XIV
THE LITTLE RED FOOT
By dusk we were ten rifles; for an hour after we left Fish House Johnny Silver and Luysnes joined us on the Sacandaga trail; and, just as the sun set behind the Mayfield mountains, comes rushing down stream a canoe with Godfrey Shew’s bow-paddle flashing red in the last rays and Joe de Golyer steering amid the rattling rapids, nigh buried in a mountain of silvery spray.
And here, by the river, we ate, but lighted no fire, though it seemed safe to do so.
I sent Godfrey Shew and the Water-snake far up the Iroquois trail to watch it. The others gathered in a friendly circle to munch their corn and jerked meat, and the Frenchmen were merry, laughing and jesting and casting sly, amorous eyes toward Thiohero, who laughed, too, in friendly fashion and was at her ease and plainly not displeased with gallantry.
It had proved a swift comradery between us and our young Oneidas, and I marvelled at the rapid accomplishment of such friendly accord in so brief a time, yet understood it came through the perfect faith of these Oneidas in their young Athabasca witch; and that what their prophetess found good they did not even think of questioning.
Her voice was soft, her smile bewitching; she ate with the healthy appetite of an animal, yet was polite to those who offered meat. And her sweet “neah-wennah” never failed any courtesy offered by these rough Forest Runners, who now, for the first time in their reckless lives, I think, were afforded a glimpse of the forest Indian as he really is when at his ease and among friends.
For it is not true that the Iroquois live perpetually in their paint; that they are cruel by nature, brutal, stern, and masters of silence; or that they stalk gloomily through life with hatchet ever loosened and no pursuit except war in their ferocious minds.
White men who have mistreated them see them so; but the real Iroquois, except the Senecas, who are different, are naturally a kindly, merry, and trustful people among themselves, not quarrelsome, not fierce, but like children, loving laughter and all things gay and bright and mischievous.
Their women, though sometimes broad in speech and jests, are more truly chaste in conduct than the women of any nation I ever heard of, except the Irish.
They have their fixed and honourable places in clan, nation, and Federal affairs.
Rank follows the female line; the son of a chief does not succeed to the antlers, but any of his mother’s relatives may. And in the Great Rite of the Iroquois, which is as sacred to them as is our religion to us, and couched in poetry as beautiful as ever Homer sang, the most moving part of the ceremony concerns the Iroquois women, — the women of the Six Nations of the Long House, respected, honoured, and beloved.
We ate leisurely, feeling perfectly secure there in the starlight of the soft June night.
The Iroquois war-trail ran at our elbows, trodden a foot deep, hard as a sheep path, and from eighteen inches to two feet in width — a clean, firm, unbroken trail through a primeval wilderness, running mile after mile, mile after mile, over mountains, through valleys, by lonely lakes, along lost rivers, to the distant Canadas in the North.
On this trail, above us, two of my men lay watching, as I have said, which was merely a customary precaution, for we were far out of earshot of the Big Eddy, and even of our own sentries.
We were like one family eating together, and Silver and Luysnes jested and played pranks on each other, and de Golyer and Nick entered into gayest conversation with the Oneidas through their interpreter, the River-reed.
As for Nick, I saw him making calf’s eyes at the lithe young sorceress, which I perceived displeased her not at all; yet she gaily divided herself between translating for the others and keeping up a lively repartee with Nick.
The Oneidas, now, had begun to shine up their war-hatchets, sitting cross-legged and contentedly rubbing up knife, axe, and rifle; and I was glad to see them so at home and so confident of our friendship.
Older men might not have been so easily won, but these untried young warriors seemed very children, and possessing the lovable qualities of children, being alternately grave and gay, serious and laughing, frank and impatient, yet caressing in speech and gesture.
From Kwiyeh, the Screech-owl, I had an account of how, burning for glory, these four youngsters had stolen away from Oneida Lake, and, painting themselves, had gone North of their own accord, to win fame for the Oneida nation, which for the greater part had espoused our cause.
He told me that they had seen Sir John pass, floundering madly northward and dragging three brass cannon; but explained naïvely that four Oneidas considered it unsafe to give battle to two hundred white men.
For a week, however, it appeared, they had hung on Sir John’s flanks, skulking for a stray scalp; but it was evident that the Baronet’s people were thoroughly frightened, and the heavy flank guards and the triple line of sentries by night made any hope of a stray scalp futile.
Then, it appeared, these four Oneidas gave up the quest and struck out for the Iroquois trail. And suddenly came upon nearly two score Mohawks, silently passing southward, painted for war, oiled, shaved, and stripped, and evidently searching for Sir John, to aid and guide him in his flight to Canada.
Which proved to me the Baronet’s baseness, because his flight was plainly a premeditated one, and the Mohawks could not have known of it unless Sir John had been in constant communication with Canada — a thing he had pledged his honour not to do.
Others around me, now, were listening to the burly young Oneida’s account of their first war-path; and presently their young sorceress took up the tale in English and in Oneida, explaining with lively gestures to both red men and white.
“Not one of the Mohawks saw us,” she said scornfully, “and when they made a camp and had sent their hunters out to kill game, we came so near that we could see their warriors curing and hooping the scalps they had taken and painting on every scalp the Little Red Foot — even on the scalps of two little boys.”
Nick turned pale, but said nothing. A sickness came to my stomach and I spoke with difficulty.
“What were these scalps, little sister, which you saw the Mohawks curing?”
“White people’s. Three were of men, — one very thin and gray; two were the glossy hair of women; and two the scalps of children — —”
She flung back her blanket with a peculiarly graceful gesture:
“Be honoured, O white brothers, that these Mohawk dogs were forced to paint upon every scalp the Little Red Foot!”
After a silence: “Some poor settler’s family,” muttered Nick; and fell a-fiddling with his hatchet.
“All died fighting,” I added in a dull voice.
Thiohero snapped her fingers and her dark eyes flamed.
“What are the Mohawks, after all!” she said in a tense voice. “Who are they, to paint for war without fire-right given them at Onondaga? What do they amount to, these Keepers of the Eastern Gate, since Sir William died?
“They have become outlaws and there is no honour among them!
“Their clan-right is destroyed and neither Wolf, Bear, nor Tortoise know them any longer. Nor does any ensign of my own clan of the Heron know these mad yellow wolves that howl and tear the Long House with their teeth to destroy it! Like carcajoux, they defile the Iroquois League and smother its fire in their filth! Dig up the ashes of Onondaga for any living ember, O you Oneidas! You shall find not one live spark! And this is what the Canienga have done to the Great Confederacy!”
Tahioni said, looking straight ahead of him: “The Great League of the Iroquois is broken. Skenandoa has said it, and he has painted his face scarlet! The Long House crumbles slowly to its fall.
“Those who should have guarded the Eastern Gate have broken it down. Death to the Canienga!”
Kwiyeh lifted his right hand high in the starlight:
“Death to the Canienga! They have defiled Thendara. Spencer has said it. They have spat upon the Fire at the Wood’s Edge. They have hewn down the Great Tree. They have uncovered the w
ar-axe which lay deep buried under the roots.
“Death to the Canienga!”
I turned to Thiohero: “O River-reed, my little sister! Oyaneh! Is it true that your great chief, Skenandoa, has put on red paint?”
She said calmly: “It is true, my brother. Skenandoa has painted himself in red. And when your General Herkimer rides into battle, on his right hand rides Skenandoa; and on his left hand rides Thomas Spencer, the Oneida interpreter!”
Tahioni said solemnly: “And before them rides the Holder of Heaven. We Oneidas can not doubt it. Is it true, my sister?”
The girl answered: “The Holder of Heaven has flung a red wampum belt between Oneida and Canienga! Five more red belts remain in his hand. They are so brightly red that even the Senecas can see the colour of these belts from the Western Gate of the Long House.”
There was a silence; then I chose De Luysnes and Kwiyeh to relieve our sentinels, and went north with them along the starlit trail.
When I returned with Hanoteh and Godfrey Shew, the Oneidas were still sitting up in their blankets, and the Frenchmen lay on theirs, listening to Nick, who had pulled his fife from his hunting shirt and was trilling the air of the Little Red Foot while Joe de Golyer sang the words of the endless and dreary ballad — old-time verses, concerning bloody deeds of the Shawanese, Western Lenape, and French in ‘56, when blood ran from every creek and man, woman and child went down to death fighting.
I hated the words, but the song had ever haunted me with its quaint and sad refrain:
“Lord Loudon he weareth a fine red coat, And red is his ladye’s foot-mantelle; Red flyeth ye flagge from his pleasure-boat, And red is the wine he loves so well: But, oh! for the dead at Minden Town, — Naked and bloody and black with soot, Where the Lenni-Lenape and the French came down To paint them all with the Little Red Foot!”
“For God’s sake, quit thy piping, Nick,” said I, “and let us sleep while we may, for we move again at dawn.”
At which Nick obediently tucked away his fife, and de Golyer, who had a thin voice like a tree-cat, held his songful tongue; and presently we all lay flat and rolled us in our blankets.
The night was still, save for a love-sick panther somewhere on the mountain, a-caterwauling under the June stars. But the distant and melancholy love-song and the golden melody of the stream pouring through its bowlders blended not unpleasantly in my ears, and presently conspired to lull me into slumber.
The mountain peaks were red when I awoke and spoke aloud to rouse my people. One by one they sat up, owlish with sleep, yet soon clearing their eyes and minds with remembering the business that lay before us.
I sent Joe de Golyer and Tahioni to relieve our sentinels, Luysnes and the Screech-owl.
When these came in with report that all was still as death on the Iroquois trail, we ate breakfast and drank at the river, where some among us also washed our bodies, — among others the River-reed, who stripped unabashed, innocent of any shame, and cleansed herself knee-deep in a crystal green pool under the Indian willows.
When she came back, the disk of blue paint was gone from her brow, and I saw her a-fishing in her beaded wallet and presently bring forth blue and red paint and a trader’s mirror about two inches in diameter.
Then the little maid of Askalege sat down cross-legged and began to paint herself for battle.
At the root of her hair, where it made a point above her forehead, she painted a little crescent moon in blue. And touched no more her face; but on her belly she made a blue picture of a heron — her clan being the Heron, which is an ensign unknown among Iroquois.
Now she took red paint, and upon her chest she made a tiny human foot.
I was surprised, for neither for war nor for any ceremony I ever heard of had I seen that dread symbol on any Indian.
The Oneidas, also, were looking at her in curiosity and astonishment, pausing in their own painting to discover what she was about.
Then, as it struck me, so, apparently, it came to them at the same instant what their sorceress meant, — what pledge to friend and foe alike this tiny red foot embodied, shining above her breast. And the two young warriors who had painted the tortoise in blue upon their bellies, now made each a little red foot upon their chests.
“By gar!” exclaimed Silver, “ees it onlee ze gens-du-bois who shall made a boast to die fighting? Nom de dieu, non!” And he unrolled his blanket and pulled out a packet of red cloth and thread and needle — which is like a Frenchman, who lacks for nothing, even in the wilderness.
He made a pattern very deftly out of his cloth, using the keen point of his hunting knife; and, as we all, now, wished to sew a little red foot upon the breasts of our buckskin shirts, and as he had cloth enough for all, and for Joe de Golyer, too, when we should come up with him, I and my men were presently marked with the dread device, which was our pledge and our defiance.
The sun had painted scarlet the lower Adirondack peaks when we started north on the Sacandaga trail.
When we came up with our sentinels, I gave Joe time to sew on his symbol, and the Oneida time to paint it upon his person. Then we examined flint and priming, tightened girth and cincture, tested knife, hatchet, and the stoppers of our powder horns; and I went from one to another to inspect all, and to make my dispositions for the march to the Big Eddy on West River.
We marched in the following fashion: Tahioni and Nick as left flankers, two hundred yards in advance of us, and in sight of the trail. On the right flank, the Water-snake and Johnny Silver at the same intervals.
Then, on the trail itself, I leading, Luysnes next, then the River-reed. Then a hundred yards interval, and Joe de Golyer on the left rear, Kwiyeh on the right rear, and Godfrey on the trail.
“And,” I said, “if you catch a roving Tree-eater, slay him not, but bring him to me, for if there be any of these wild rovers, the Montagnais, in our vicinity, they should know something of what is now happening in the Canadas, and they shall tell us what they know, or I’m a Tory! Forward! Our alarm signal is the long call-note of the Canada sparrow!”
CHAPTER XV
WEST RIVER
The Water-snake caught an Adirondack just before ten o’clock, and was holding him on the trail as I came up, followed by Luysnes and Thiohero.
The Indian was a poor, starved-looking creature in ragged buckskins and long hair, from which a few wild-turkey quills fell to his scrawny neck.
He wore no paint, had been armed with a trade-rifle, the hammer of which was badly loosened and mended with copper wire, and otherwise he carried arrows in a quiver and a greasy bow.
Like a fierce, lean forest thing, made abject by fear, the Adirondack’s sloe-black eyes now flickered at me, now avoided my gaze. I looked down at the rags which served him for a blanket, and on which lay his wretched arms, including knife and hatchet.
“Let him loose,” said I to the Water-snake; “here is no Mengwe but a poor brother, who sees us armed and in our paint and is afraid.”
And I went to the man and offered my hand. Which he touched as though I were a rattlesnake.
“Brother,” said I, “we white men and Oneidas have no quarrel with any Saguenay that I know about. Our quarrel is with the Canienga, and that is the reason we wear paint on this trail. And we have stopped our Saguenay brother in the forest on his lawful journey, to say to him, and to all Saguenays, that we mean them no harm.”
There was an absolute silence; Luysnes and Thiohero drew closer around the Tree-eater; the Water-snake gazed at his captive in slight disgust, yet, I noticed, held his rifle in a position for instant use.
The Saguenay’s slitted eyes travelled from one to another, then he looked at me.
“Brother,” I said, “how many Maquas are there camped near the Big Eddy?”
His low, thick voice answered in a dialect or language I did not comprehend.
“Can you speak Iroquois?” I demanded.
He muttered something in his jargon. Thiohero touched my arm:
“The Sagu
enay says he understands the Iroquois tongue, but can speak it only with difficulty. He says that he is a hunter and not a warrior.”
“Ask him to answer me concerning the Maqua.”
A burst of volubility spurted from the prisoner.
Again the girl translated the guttural reply:
“He says he saw painted Mohawks fishing in the Big Eddy, and others watching the trail. He does not know how many, because he can not count above five numbers. He says the Mohawks stoned him and mocked him, calling him Tree-eater and Woodpecker; and they drove him away from the Big Eddy, saying that no Saguenay was at liberty to fish in Canienga territory until permitted by the Canienga; and that unless he started back to Canada, where he belonged, the Iroquois women would catch him and beat him with nettles.”
As Thiohero uttered the dread name, Canienga, I could see our captive shrink with the deep fear that the name inspired. And I think any Iroquois terrified him, for it seemed as though he dared not sustain the half-contemptuous, half-indifferent glances of my Oneidas, but his eyes shifted to mine in dumb appeal for refuge.
“What is my brother’s name?” I asked.
“Yellow Leaf,” translated the girl.
“His clan?”
“The Hawk,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.
“Nevertheless,” said I, very quietly, “my Saguenay brother is a man, and not an animal to be mocked by the Maqua!”
And I stooped and picked up his blanket and weapons, and gave them to him.
“The Saguenays are free people,” said I. “The Yellow Leaf is free as is his clan ensign, the Hawk. Brother, go in peace!”
And I motioned my people forward.
Our flankers, who, keeping stations, had waited, now started on again, the Water-snake running swiftly to his post on the extreme right flank.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 983
