Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  My scout of four and I passed in wearily between the rough, low redoubts at Fish House, after sunset, and gave an account to Peter Wayland, the captain commanding the post, that the northward war-trail was now clean as far as Silver Lake, and that I proposed to block it and watch it above and below.

  Twilight was deepening when we came to John Howell’s deserted log-house on the Vlaie, and heard the owls very mournful in the tamarack forests eastward.

  A few rods farther on the hard ridge and one of my men challenged smartly. In thick darkness he led us over hard ground along the vast wastes of bushes and reeds, to where a new ditch had been dug down to the Vlaie Water.

  Thence he guided us through our chevaux-de-frise; and I saw my own people lying in the shadowy gleam of a watch-fire; and an Oneida slowly moving around the smouldering coals, chanting the refrain of his first scalp-dance:

  SCALP SONG

  “Chiefs in your white plumes! When your Tall Cloud glooms, And we Oneidas wonder To hear your thunder — And the moon pales, And the Seven Dancers wear veils, Is it your rain that wails? Is it the noise of hail? Is it the rush of frightened deer That we Oneidas hear?”

  And the others chanted in sombre answer:

  “It is the weeping of the Mohawk Nation, Mourning amid their desolation, For the scalpless head Of each young warrior dead.

  A Voice from the Dark

  “It is the cry of their women, who bewail Their warriors dead, Not the east wind we hear! It is the noise of their women, who rail At those who fled, Not whistling hail we hear! It is the rush of feet that are afraid, Not the swift flight of deer!”

  Another Voice

  “Let them flee, — the East Gate Keepers — Whose dead lie still as sleepers! Let the Canienga fly before our wrath, Scatter like chaff, When we Oneidas laugh! Koué!”

  Tahioni

  “Holder of Heaven, And every Chief named in the Great Rite! Dancers Seven! And the Eight Thunders plumed in white! At dawn I was a young man, Who had seen no enemy die. But my foe was a deer who ran, And I struck; and let him lie.”

  The Screech-owl Dances

  “The Mohawk Nation has fled, But my war-axe sticks in its head! Koué!”

  The Water-snake Dances

  “Let the Wild Goose keep to the skies! Where the Brant alights, he dies! Koué!”

  Thiohero, their Prophetess

  “The Lodge poles crack in the East! The Long House falls. Who calls the Condolence Feast? Who calls?”

  She Dances Very Slowly

  “Who calls the Roll of the Dead? Who opens the door? The Fire in the West burns red, But our fire-place burns no more! Thendara — Thendara no more!”

  It was plain to me that my Indians meant to make a night of it — even those who, dog weary, had but now returned with me from the futile brant chase and sat eating their samp.

  The French trappers squatted in a row, smoking their pipes and looking on with that odd sympathy for any savage rite, which, I think, partly explains French success among all Indians.

  Firelight glimmered red on their weather-ravaged faces, on their gaudy fringes and moccasins.

  Near them, lolling in the warm young grass, sprawled Nick and Godfrey. I sat down by them, my back against a log. My Saguenay crept to my side. I gave him to eat, and, for my own supper, ate slowly a handful of parched corn, watching my young Oneidas around the fire, where they moved in their slow dance, singing and boasting of their first scalps taken.

  The little maid of Askalege came and seated herself close to me on my right.

  “I am weary,” she murmured, letting her head fall back against the log.

  “Tell me,” said I in English, “is there any reason why this Saguenay, who has proved himself a real man and no wolf, should not sing his own scalp-song among our Oneidas?”

  “None,” she repeated. “The Yellow Leaf is a real man.”

  “Tell him so.”

  The girl turned her head and spoke to the Saguenay in his own gutturals. I also watched to see what effect such praise might have.

  For a few minutes he sat motionless and without any expression upon his narrow visage, yet I knew he must be bursting with pride.

  “Tahioni!” I called out. “Here, also, is a real man who has taken scalps in battle. Shall not our brother, Yellow Leaf, of the Montagnais, sing his first scalp-song at an Oneida fire?”

  There was a pause, then every Oneida hatchet flashed high in the firelight.

  “Koué!” they shouted. “We give fire right to our brother of the Montagnais, who is a real man and no wolf!”

  At that the Saguenay hunter, who, in a single day, had became a warrior, leaped lightly to his feet, and began to trot like a timber wolf around the fire, running hither and thither as an eager, wild thing runs when searching.

  Then he shouted something I did not understand; but Thiohero interpreted, watching him: “He looks in vain for the tracks of a poor Saguenay hunter, which once he was, but he can find only the footprints of a proud Saguenay warrior, which now he has become!”

  Now, in dumb show, this fierce and homeless rover enacted all that had passed, — how he had encountered the Canienga, how they had mocked and stoned him, how we had captured him, proved kind to him, released him; how he had returned to warn us of ambuscade.

  He drew his war-axe and shouted his snarling battle-cry; and all the Oneidas became excited and answered like panthers on a dark mountain.

  Then Yellow Leaf began to dance an erratic, weird dance — and, somehow, I thought of dead leaves eddying in a raw wind as he whirled around the fire, singing his first scalp-song:

  “Who are the Yanyengi, that a Saguenay should fear them? They are but Mowaks, and Real men jeer them! I am a warrior; I wear the lock! I am brother to the People of the Rock! Red is my hatchet; my knife is red; Woe to the Mengwe, who wail their dead! I wear the Little Red Foot and the Hawk; Death to the Maquas who stone and mock! Koué! Haï!”

  An Oneida

  “Hah! Hawasahsai! Hah!”

  The Saguenay

  “Who are the Yanyengi, that Real men should obey them? We People of the Dawn were Born to slay them! I eat twigs in winter when there is no game; What does he eat, the Maqua? What means his name? To each of us a Little Red Foot! To each his clan! Let the Mengwe flee when they scent a Man! Koué! Haï!”

  And

  “Hah! Hawasahsai!”

  chanted the Oneidas, trotting to and fro in the uncertain red light, while we white men sat, chin on fist, a-watching them; and the little sorceress of Askalege beat her palms softly together, timing the rhythm for lack of a drum.

  An hour passed: my Indians still danced and sang and bragged of deeds done and deeds to be accomplished; my young sorceress sat asleep, her head fallen back against me, her lips just parted. At her feet a toad, attracted by the insects which came into the fire-ring, jumped heavily from time to time and snapped them up.

  An intense silence brooded over that vast wilderness called the Drowned Lands; not a bittern croaked, not a wild duck stirred among the reeds.

  Very far away in the mist of the tamaracks I heard owls faintly halooing, and it is a melancholy sound which ever renders me uneasy.

  I was weary to the bones, yet did not desire sleep. A vague presentiment, like a mist on some young peak, seemed to possess my senses, making me feel as lonely as a mountain after the sun has set.

  I had never before suffered from solitude, unless missing the beloved dead means that.

  I missed them now, — parents who seemed ages long absent, — or was it I, their only son, who tarried here below too long, and beyond a reasonable time?

  I was lonely. I looked at the scalps, all curing on their hoops, hanging in a row near the fire. I glanced at Nick. He lay on his blanket, sleeping.... The head of the little Athabasca Sorceress lay heavy on my shoulder; she made no sound of breathing in her quiet sleep. Both her hands were doubled into childish fists, thumbs inside.

  Johnny Silver smoked and smoked, his keen, tireless ey
es on the Scalp Dancers; Luysnes, also, blinked at them in the ruddy glare, his powerful hands clasping his knees; de Golyer was on guard.

  I caught Godfrey’s eye, motioned him to relieve Joe, then dropped my head once more in sombre meditation, lonely, restless, weary, and unsatisfied....

  And now, again, — as it had been for perhaps a longer period of time than I entirely comprehended, — I seemed to see darkly, and mirrored against darkness, the face of the Scottish girl.... And her yellow hair and dark eyes; ... and that little warning glimmer from which dawned that faint smile of hers....

  That I was lonely for lack of her I never dreamed then. I was content to see her face grow vaguely; sweetly take shape from the darkness under my absent gaze; — content to evoke the silent phantom out of the stuff that ghosts are made of — those frail phantoms which haunt the secret recesses of men’s minds.

  I was asleep when Nick touched me. Thiohero still slept against my shoulder; the Yellow Leaf and the Oneidas still danced and vaunted their prowess, and they had set a post in the soft earth near the shore, and had painted it red; and now all their hatchets were sticking in it, while they trotted tirelessly in their scalping dance, and carved the flame-shot darkness with naked knives.

  Wearily I rose, took my rifle, re-primed it, and stumbled away to take my turn on guard, relieving Nick, who, in turn, had replaced Godfrey, whom I had sent after Joe de Golyer.

  They had dug our ditch so well that the Vlaie water filled it, making, with the pointed staves, an excellent abattis against any who came by stealth along the Sacandaga trail.

  Behind this I walked my post, watching the eastern stars, which seemed paler, yet still remained clearly twinkling. And no birds had yet awakened, though the owls had become quiet in the tamaracks, and neither insect nor frog now chanted their endless runes of night.

  Shouldering my rifle, I walked to and fro, listening, scanning the darkness ahead.... And, presently, not lonely; for a slim phantom kept silent pace with me as I walked my post — so near, at times, that my nostrils seemed sweet with the scent of apple bloom.... And I felt her breath against my cheek and heard her low whisper.

  Which presently became louder among the reeds — a little breeze which stirs before dawn and makes a thin ripple around each slender stem.

  Tahioni came to relieve me, grave, not seeming fatigued, and, in his eyes, the shining fire of triumph still unquenched.

  I went back to the fire and lay down on my blanket, where now all were asleep save my Saguenay.

  When he saw me he came and squatted at my feet.

  “Sleep you, also, brother,” said I. “Day dawns and the sunset is far away.”

  But the last time I looked before I slept I saw him still squatting at my feet like a fierce, lean dog, and staring straight before him.

  And I remember that the fresh, joyous chorus of waking birds was like the loud singing of spirit-children. And to the sweet sound of that blessed choir I surrendered mind and body, and so was borne on wings of song into the halls of slumber-land.

  The sun was high when our sentinel hailed a detail from Fish House, bringing us a sheep, three sacks of corn, and a keg of fresh milk.

  I had bathed me in the Vlaie Water, had eaten soupaan, turned over my command to Nick, and now was ready to report in person to the Commandant at Summer House Point.

  My Saguenay had slain a gorgeous wood-duck with his arrows; and now, brave in fresh paint and brilliant plumage, he sat awaiting me in the patched canoe which had belonged, no doubt, to John Howell.

  I went down among the pinxter bushes and tall reeds to the shore; and so we paddled away on the calm, deep current which makes a hundred snake-like curls and bends to every mile, so that the mile itself becomes doubled, — nay, tripled! — ere one attains his destination.

  It was strange how I was not yet rid of that vague sense of impending trouble, nor could account for the foreboding in any manner, being full of health and now rested.

  My mind, occupied by my report, which I was now reading where I had written it in my carnet, nevertheless seemed crowded with other thoughts, — how we would seem each to the other when we met again, — Penelope Grant and I. And if she would seem to take a pleasure in my return ... perhaps say as much ... smile, perhaps.... And we might walk a little on the new grass under the apple bloom....

  A troubled mind! And knew not the why and wherefore of its own restlessness and apprehension. For the sky was softly blue, and the water, too; and a gentle wind aided our paddles, which pierced the stream so silently that scarce a diamond-drop fell from the sunlit blades.

  I could see the Summer House, and a striped jack flying in the sun. The green and white lodge seemed very near across the marshes, yet it was some little time before I first smelled the smoke of camp fires, and then saw it rising above the bushes.

  Presently a Continental on guard hailed our canoe. We landed. A corporal came, then a sergeant, — one Caspar Quant, whom I knew, — and so we were passed on, my Indian and I, until the gate-guard at the Point halted us and an officer came from the roadside, — one Captain Van Pelt, whom I knew in Albany.

  Saluted, and the officer’s salute rendered, he became curious to see the fresh scalps flapping at my Saguenay’s girdle, and the new war-paint and the oil smelling rank in the sweet air.

  But I told him nothing, asking only for the Commandant, who, he gave account, was a certain Major Westfall, lodging at the Summer House, and lately transferred from the Massachusetts Line, along with other Yankee officers — why? — God and Massachusetts knew, perhaps.

  So I passed the gate and walked toward the lodge. Sir John’s blooded cattle were grazing ahead, and I saw Flora at the well, and Colas busy among beds of garden flowers, spading and weeding under the south porch.

  And I saw something else that halted me. For, seated upon a low limb of an apple tree, her two little feet hanging down, and garbed in pink-flowered chintz and snowy fichu, I beheld Penelope Grant, a-knitting.

  And by all the pagan gods! — there in a ring around her strolled and lolled a dozen Continental officers in buff and blue and gold!

  There was no reason why, but the scene chilled me.

  One o’ these dandies had her ball of wool, and was a-winding of it as he sat cross-legged on the turf, a silly, happy look on his beardless face.

  Another was busy writing on a large sheet of paper, — verses, no doubt! — for he seemed vastly pleased with his progress, and I saw her look at him shyly under her dark lashes, and could have slain him for the smirk he rendered. Also, it did not please me that her petticoat was short and revealed her ankles and slim feet in silver-buckled shoon.

  I was near; I could hear their voices, their light laughter; and, rarely, her voice in reply to some pointed gallantry or jest.

  None had perceived me advancing among the trees, nor now noticed me where I was halted there in the checkered sunshine.

  But, as I stirred and moved forward, the girl turned her head, caught a glimpse of me and my painted Indian, stared in silence, then slid from her perch and stood up on the grass, her needles motionless.

  All the young popinjays got to their feet, and all stared as I offered them the salute of rank; but all rendered it politely.

  “Lieutenant of Rangers Drogue to report to Major Westfall,” said I bluntly, in reply to a Continental Captain’s inquiry.

  “Yonder, sir, on the porch with Lady Johnson,” said he.

  I bared my head, then, and walked to Penelope. She curtsied: I bent to her hand.

  “Are you well, my lord?” she asked in a colourless voice, which chilled me again for its seeming lack of warmth.

  “And you, Penelope?”

  “I am well, I thank you.”

  “I am happy to learn so.”

  That was all. I bowed again. She curtsied. I replaced my mole-skin cap, saluted the popinjays, and marched forward. My Indian stalked at my heels.

  God knew why, but mine had become a troubled mind that sunny morning.
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  CHAPTER XVII

  DEEPER TROUBLE

  I had been welcomed like a brother by Polly Johnson. Claudia, too, made a little fête of my return, unscathed from my first war-trail. And after I had completed my report to the Continental Major, who proved complacent to the verge of flattery, I was free to spend the day at the Summer House — or, rather, I was at liberty to remain as long a time as it took a well-mounted express to ride to Johnstown with my report and return with further orders from Colonel Dayton for me and my small command.

  A Continental battalion still garrisoned the Point; their officers as I had been forced to notice in the orchard, were received decently by Lady Johnson.

  And, at that crisis in her career, I think I admired Polly Johnson as entirely as I ever had admired any woman I ever knew.

  For she was still only a child, and had been petted and spoiled always by flattery and attentions: and she was not very well — her delicate condition having now become touchingly apparent. She was all alone, — save for Claudia, — among the soldiery of a new and hostile nation; she was a fugitive from her own manor; and she must have been constantly a prey to the most poignant anxieties concerning her husband, whom she loved, — whatever were his fishy sentiments regarding her! — and who, she knew, was now somewhere in the Northern and trackless wilderness and fighting nature herself for his very life.

  Her handsome and beloved brother, also, was roaming the woods, somewhere, with Walter Butler and McDonald and a bloody horde of Iroquois in their paint, — and, worse still, a horde of painted white men, brutes in man’s guise and Mohawk war-paint and feathers, who already were known by the terrifying name of Blue-eyed Indians.

  Yet this young girl, having resolved to face conditions with courage and composure, after her first bitter and natural outburst, never whimpered, never faltered.

  Enemy officers, if gentlemen, she received with quiet, dignified civility, and no mention of politics or war was suffered to embarrass anybody at her table.