“Then, brother,” said Tahioni sadly, “our sachems covered themselves in their blankets, and Skenandoa led them from the last Onondaga fire that ever shall burn in North America.”
“And we young warriors followed,” added Kwiyeh, “and we walked in silence, our hands resting on our hatchets.”
“The Long House is breaking in two,” said the Water-snake. “In the middle it is sinking down. It sags already over Oneida Lake. The serpent that lives there shall see it settling down through the deep water to lie in ruins upon the magic sands forever.”
After a decent silence Tahioni patted the Little Red Foot sewed on the breast of my hunting shirt.
“If we all are to perish,” he said proudly, “they shall respect our scalps and our memory. Haih! Oneida! We young men salute our dying nation.”
I lifted my hatchet in silence, then slowly sheathed it.
“Is our Little Maid of Askalege well?” I asked.
“Thiohero is well. The River-reed makes magic yonder in the swale,” said Tahioni seriously.
“Is Thiohero here?” I exclaimed.
Her brother smiled: “She is a girl-warrior as well as our Oneida prophetess. Skenandoa respects and consults her. Spencer, who worships your white God and is still humble before Tharon, has said that my sister is quite a witch. All Oneidas know her to be a sorceress. She can make a pair of old moccasins jump about when she drums.”
“Where is she now?”
“Yonder in the glade dancing with the fire-flies.”
I walked forward in the luminous dusk, surrounded by my Oneidas. And, of a sudden, in the swale ahead I saw sparks whirling up in clouds, but perceived no fire.
“Fire-flies,” whispered Tahioni.
And now, in the centre of the turbulent whirl of living sparks, I saw a slim and supple shape, like a boy warrior stripped for war, and dancing there all alone amid the gold and myriad greenish dots of light eddying above the swale grass.
Swaying, twisting, graceful as a thread of smoke, the little sorceress danced in a perfect whirlwind of fire-flies, which made an incandescent cloud enveloping her.
And I heard her singing in a low, clear voice the song that timed the rhythm of her naked limbs and her painted body, from which the cinctured wampum-broidered sporran flew like a shower of jewels:
“Wood o’ Brakabeen, Hiahya! Leaves, flowers, grasses green, Dancing where you lean Above the stream unseen, Hiahya! Dance, little fireflies, Like shooting stars in winter skies; Dance, little fireflies, As the Oneida Dancers whirl, Where silver clouds unfurl, Revealing a dark Heaven And Sisters Seven. Hiahya! Wood o’ Brakabeen! Hiahya! Grasses green! You shall tell me what they mean Who ride hither, Who ‘bide thither, Who creep unseen In red coats and in green; Who come this way, Who come to slay! Hiahya! my fireflies! Tell me all you know About the foe! Where hath he hidden? Whither hath he ridden? Where are the Maquas in their paint, Who have forgotten their Girl-Sainte? Hiahya! I am The River-Reed! Hiahya! All things take heed! Naked, without drum or mask I do my magic task. Fireflies, tell me what I ask!...”
“He-he!” chuckled The Water-snake, “Thiohero is quite a witch!”
We seated ourselves. If the Little Maid of Askalege, whirling in her dance, perceived us through her veil of living phosphorescence, she made no sign.
And it was a long time before she stood still, swayed outward, reeled across the grass, and fell face down among the ferns.
As I sprang to my feet Tahioni caught my arm.
“Remain very silent and still, my elder brother,” he said gravely.
For a full hour, I think, the girl lay motionless among the ferns. The cloud of fire-flies had vanished. Rarely one sparkled distantly now, far away in the glade.
The delay, in the darkness, seemed interminable before the girl stirred, raised her head, slowly sat upright.
Then she lifted one slim arm and called softly to me:
“Nai, my Captain!”
“Nai, Thiohero!” I answered.
She came creeping through the herbage and gathered herself cross-legged beside me. I took her hands warmly, and released them; and she caressed my arms and face with velvet touch.
“It is happiness to see you, my Captain,” she said softly.
“Nai! Was I not right when I foretold your hurt at the fight near the Drowned Lands?”
“Truly,” said I, “you are a sorceress; and I am deeply grateful to you for your care of me when I lay wounded by Howell’s house.”
“I hear you. I listen attentively. I am glad,” she said. “And I continue to listen for your voice, my Captain.”
“Then — have you talked secretly with the fire-flies?” I asked gravely.
“I have talked with them.”
“And have they told you anything, little sister?”
“The fire-flies say that many green-coats and Maquas have gone to Stanwix,” she replied seriously, “and that other green-coats, — who now wear red coats, — are following from Oswego.”
I nodded: “Sir John’s Yorkers,” I said to Tahioni.
“Also,” she said, “there are with them men in strange uniforms, which are not American, not British.”
“What!” I exclaimed, startled in spite of myself.
“Strange men in strange dress,” she murmured, “who speak neither English nor French nor Iroquois nor Algonquin.”
Then, all in an instant, it came to me what she meant — what Penelope had meant.
“You mean the Chasseurs from Buck Island,” said I, “the Hessians!”
But she did not know, only that they wore gray and green clothing and were tall, ruddy men — taller for the odd caps they wore, and their long legs buttoned in black to the hips.
“Hessians,” I repeated. “Hainault riflemen hired out to the King of England by their greedy and contemptible German master and by that great ass, George Third, shipped hither to stir in us Americans a hatred for himself that never shall be extinguished!”
“Are their scalps well haired?” inquired Tahioni anxiously.
It seemed a ludicrous thing to say, and I was put to it to stifle my sudden mirth.
“They wear pig-tails in eel-skins, and stiffened with pomade that stinks from New York to Albany,” said I.
Then my mood sobered again; and I thought of Penelope’s vision and wondered whether I was truly fated to meet my end in combat with these dogs of Germans.
The Screech-owl had made a fire. Also, before my arrival he had killed an August doe, and a haunch was now a-roasting and filling my nostrils with a pleasant odour.
We spread our blankets and ate our parched corn, watching our meat cooking.
“And McDonald?” I inquired of Thiohero, who sat close to me and rested her head on my shoulder while eating her parched com.
“My fire-flies tell me,” said she gravely, “that the outlaws travel this way, and shall hang on the Schoharie in ambush.”
“When?”
“When there is a battle near Stanwix.”
“Oh. Shall McDonald come to Brakabeen?”
“Yes.”
I gazed absently at the fire, slowly chewing my parched corn.
CHAPTER XXVIII
OYANEH!
The problem which I must now solve staggered me. How was it possible, with my little scout of five, to discover McDonald’s approach and also find Sir John’s line of communication and penetrate his purpose?
On a leaf of my carnet I made a map which was shaped like an immense right-angle triangle, its apex Fort Stanwix in the west; its base Schoharie Creek; the Mohawk River its perpendicular; its hypothenuse my bee’s-flight to Oneida.
The only certain information I possessed was that Sir John and St. Leger had sailed from Buck Island to Oswego, and from there were marching somewhere. I guessed, of course, that they were approaching the Mohawk by way of Oneida Lake; yet, even so, they might have detached McDonald’s outlaws and sent them to Otsego; or they might be coming upon us in full force from that same direction, with flanking war parti
es flung out toward Stanwix to aid their strategy.
One thing, however, seemed almost certain, and that was the direction their waggons must take from Oneida Lake; for I did not think Sir John would attempt Otsego in any force after his tragic dose of a pathless wilderness the year before.
I saw very plainly, however, that I must now give up any attempt to scout for McDonald’s painted demons on the Schoharie until I had discovered Sir John’s objective and traced his line of communications. And I realized that I must now move quickly.
There were only two logical methods left open to me to accomplish this hazardous business with my handful of scouts. The easier way was instantly to face about, secure two good canoes at Schoharie, make directly for the Mohawk River, and follow it westward by water day and night.
But the surer way to run across Sir John’s trail — and perhaps McDonald’s — was to take to the western forests, follow the hypothenuse of the great triangle, and, travelling lightly and swiftly northwest, headed straight for Oneida Lake.
This was what, finally, I decided to attempt as I lay on my blanket that night; and I was loath to leave the Schoharie and ashamed to turn tail to McDonald’s ragamuffins, when the entire district was in so great distress, and Brakabeen farms a rat’s nest of disloyal families.
But there seemed to be no other way to conduct if I obeyed my orders, too; — no better method of discovering McDonald and of devising punishment for him, even though in the meanwhile he should carry fire and sword through Schoharie, — perhaps menace Schenectady, — perhaps Albany itself.
No, there was no other choice; and finally I realized this, after a night passed in agonized indecision, and asking God’s guidance to aid my inexperience in this so terrible a crisis.
At dawn my Indians began to paint.
After we had eaten a bowl of samp I called them around me, shewed them the map I had made in my carnet, told them what I had decided, and invited opinions from everybody. I added that there now was no time for any customary formalities of deliberation so dear to all Indians: I told them that Tharon and God were one; and that our ancestors understood and approved what we were about to do.
Then I laid a handful of dry sticks upon the ground, pretended that this was a fire; warmed my hands at it; lighted an imaginary pipe; puffed it and passed it around in pantomime.
Still employing symbols to reassure these young Oneida warriors concerning time-honoured formalities which they dared not disregard, I drew a circle in the air with my finger, cut it twice with an imaginary horizontal line to indicate a sunrise and a sunset, then turned to Tahioni and bade him answer my speech of yesterday after a night’s deliberation.
The young warrior replied gravely that he and his comrades had consulted, and were of one mind with me. He said that it was with sorrow that they turned their backs on McDonald, who was a great villain and who surely would now be coming to Schoharie to murder and destroy; but that it did no good to sever the tail of a snake. He said that the fanged head of the Tory Serpent was somewhere east of Oneida Lake; that if we scouted swiftly and thoroughly in that direction we could very soon surmise where the poisonous head was about to strike, by discovering and then observing the direction in which the body of the serpent was travelling.
One by one I asked my young men for an opinion: the youthful warriors were unanimous.
Then I turned and gazed fearfully at Thiohero, knowing well enough that these other adolescents would obey her blindly, and in dread lest her own dreams should sway her judgment and counsel her to advise us to some folly. She was their prophetess; there was nothing to do without her sanction. I could not order these Oneidas; I could only attempt to use them through their own instincts and personal loyalty to myself.
The early sun gilded the painted body of their sorceress, making of her clan ensign and the Little Red Foot two brilliant and jewelled symbols.
She stood lithely upright, one smooth knee nestling to the other, her feet in their ankle moccasins planted parallel and close together, and her body all glistening like a gold dragon-fly.
From her painted cincture hung her war-sporran, — a narrow cascade of pale blue wampum barred with scarlet and lined with winter weasel. Hatchet and knife swung from either hip; powder-horn and bullet-wallet dangled beneath her arm-pits. A war bow and a quiver full of scarlet arrows hung at her back. Her hair, shoulder-short and glossy-thick, was bound above the brows by a tight scarlet circlet. From this, across her left ear, sagged a heron’s feather.
Never had I beheld such wild and supple grace in any living thing save only in a young panther clothed in the soft, dun-gold of her wedding fur.
“Thiohero,” I said, “little sister to whom has been given an instinct more delicate than ours, and senses more subtle, and a wisdom both human and superhuman, — you who listen when the forest trees talk one to another under the full moon’s lustre, — you who understand the speech of our lesser comrades that fly through the air paths on bright wings, or run through the dusky woodlands on four furry feet — you who speak secretly with the mighty dead; who whisper and laugh with fairies and little people and stone-throwers; who with your magic drum can make worn-out and cast-off moccasins dance; whose ancestress ate live coals to frighten away the Flying Heads; whose forefathers destroyed the Stonish Giants; we Oneidas of the clan of the Little Red Foot are now of one mind concerning the war-trail we ought to take and follow to the end!
“Little sister; we desire to know your opinion. Hiero!”
Then the Little Maid of Askalege folded her arms, looking me intently in the eyes.
“Brother, and my Captain,” she said very quietly, “a year ago I told you that you should come from Howell’s house in scarlet. And it was so.
“And while you lay at Summer House a Caughnawaga woman, with yellow hair, washed the scarlet from your body.
“And there came a day when, we met under apple-trees in green fruit — this Yellow Haired woman and I. And, stopping, we confronted each the other; and looked deeply into one another’s minds.
“Brother: when I discovered that Yellow Hair was in love with you I became angry. But when I discovered that this young woman also was a sorceress, then I became afraid.
“Brother: there was a vision in her mind, and I also beheld the scene she gazed at.
“Brother: we saw a battle in the North, and men in strange uniforms, and cannon smoke. And we both were looking upon you; and upon a shape near you, which stood wrapped to the head in white garments.
“Brother: I do not know what that shape may have been which stood robed in white like a Chief of the Eight Plumed Ones.
“But at that moment we both understood — the Yellow Haired one and I — that you must surely travel to this place we gazed at.
“So it makes no difference where you decide to go; all trails lead to that appointed place; and you shall surely come there at the hour appointed, though you travel the world over and across before you shall at last arrive.
“Brother: we Oneida, of the Allied Clan of the Little Red Foot, are now of one mind with our elder brother. He is our chief and Captain. He has spoken as an Oneida to Oneidas. We understand. We thank him for his love offered. We thank him for his kinship offered. We accept; and, in our turn, we offer to our elder brother and Captain our love and our kinship. We take him among us as an Oneida.
“At this our fire — for alas! no fire shall burn again at Onondaga, nor at Oneida Lake, nor at The Wood’s Edge, nor at Thendara — I, Thiohero, Sorceress of Askalege, and Oyaneh, salute an Oneida chief and Sachem. Hail Royaneh!”
“Hai! Royaneh!” shouted the young warriors in rising excitement.
The girl come to me slowly, stooped and tore from the ground a strand of club-moss. Then, straightening up, she lifted her arms and held the chaplet of moss over my head, — symbol of the chief’s antlers.
“O nen ti eh o ya nen ton tah ya qua wen ne ken....”
Her young voice faltered, broke:
“Tah o nen sah
gon yan nen tah ah tah o nen ti ton tah ken yahtas!” she added in a strangled voice: “Now I have finished. Now show me the man!”
“He is here!” cried the excited Oneidas. “He wears the antlers!”
Tahioni stretched out his hand; it was trembling when he touched the red foot sewed on my hunting shirt.
“What is his name, O Thiohero, whom you have raised up among the Oneida? Who mourn a great man dead?”
A deep silence fell among them; for what their prophetess had done meant that she must have knowledge that a great man and chief among the Oneida lay dead somewhere at that very moment.
Slowly the girl turned her head from one to another; a veiled look drowned her gaze; the young men were quivering in the imminence of a revelation based upon knowledge which could be explained only by sorcery.
Then the Little Maid of Askalege took a dry stick from the pretended fire, crumbled it, touched her lips with the powder in sign of personal and intimate mourning.
“Spencer, Interpreter and Oneida Chief, shall die this week in battle,” she said in a dull voice.
A murmur of horror and rage, instantly checked and suppressed, left the Oneidas staring at their prophetess.
“Therefore,” she whispered, “I acquaint you that we have chosen this young man to take his place; we lift the antlers; we give him the same name, — Hahyion!”
“Haih! Hahyion!” shouted the Oneidas with up-flung hands.
I was dumb. I could not speak. I dared not ask this girl why and by what knowledge she presumed to predict the death of Spencer, and to raise me up in his place and give me the same name.
In spite of me her magic made me shudder.
But now that I was truly an Oneida, and in absolute authority, I must act quickly.
“Come, then,” said I in a shaky voice, “we People of the Rock must march on the Gates of Sunset. If my fate lies there, why then I am due to die in that place!... Make ready, Oneidas!”
The Screech-owl found a hollow under a windfall; and here we hurriedly hid our heavier baggage.
Then, when all had completed painting the Little Red Foot on their bellies, I stepped swiftly ahead of them and turned northwest.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 1002
