CHAPTER V
THE GATHERING
Now, no sooner had we broken camp, covered our fire, packed, saddled,and mounted, than all around us, as we advanced, the wilderness beganto wear an aspect very different to that brooding solitude whichhitherto had been familiar to us--our shelter and our menace also.
For we had proceeded on our deeply-trodden war trail no more than amile or two before we encountered the raw evidences of an army'soccupation. Everywhere spotted leads, game trails, and runways had beenhacked, trimmed, and widened into more open wood-walks; foot-pathsenlarged to permit the passage of mounted men; cattle-roads cleared,levelled, made smoother for wagons and artillery; log bridges builtacross the rapid streams that darkled westward, swamps and swales pavedwith logs, and windfalls hewn in twain and the huge abattis draggedwide apart or burnt to ashes where it lay. Yet, still the high debrisbristling from some fallen forest giant sprawling athwart the highwayoften delayed us. Our details had not yet cleared out the road entirely.
We were, however, within a wolf-hound's easy run to Cherry Valley, FortHunter, and the Mohawk--the outer edges of my own country. Northeast ofus lay Schenectady behind its fort; north of us lay my former home, GuyPark, and near it old Fort Johnson and Johnson Hall. Farther still tothe northward stretched the Vale and silvery Sacandaga with its prettyFish House settlement now in ashes; and Summer House Point and Fonda'sBush were but heaps of cinders, too, the brave Broadalbin yeomenprisoners, their women and children fled to Johnstown, save old manStoner and his boys, and that Tory villain Charlie Cady who went offwith Sir John.
Truly I should know something of these hills and brooks and foreststhat we now traversed, and of the silent, solitary roads that creptinto the wilderness, penetrating to distant, lonely farms or gristmills where some hardy fellow had cleared the bush and built his cabinon the very borders of that dark and fearsome empire which we weregathering to enter and destroy.
Here it lay, close on our left flank--so close that its strangegigantic shadow fell upon us, like a vast hand, stealthy and chill.
And it was odd, but on the edges of these trackless shades, here, evenwith fresh evidences on every side that our own people lately passedthis way--yes, even when we began to meet or overtake men of our owncolor--the stupendous desolation yielded nothing of its broodingmystery and dumb magnificence.
Westward, the green monotony of trees stretched boundless as an ocean,and as trackless and uncharted--gigantic forests in the depths of whichtwilight had brooded since first the world was made.
Here, save for the puny, man-made trail--save for the tiny scars leftby his pygmy hacking at some high forest monument, all this magicshadow-land still bore the imprint of our Lord's own fingers.
The stillness and the infinite majesty, the haunting fragrance clingingto the craftsmanship of hands miraculous; all the sweet odour anduntainted beauty which enveloped it in the making, and which hadremained after creation's handiwork was done, seemed still to linger inthis dim solitude. And it was as though the twilight through the woodedaisles was faintly tinctured still, where the sweet-scented garments ofthe Lord had passed.
There was no underbrush, no clinging sprays or fairy bramblesintertwined under the solemn arches of the trees; only the immemorialstrata of dead leaves spread one above another in endless coverlets ofcrumbling gold; only a green and knee-deep robe of moss clothing thevast bases of the living columns.
And into this enchanted green and golden dusk no sunlight penetrated,save along the thread-like roads, or where stark-naked rocks toweredskyward, or where, in profound and velvet depths, crystalline streamsand rivers widened between their Indian willow bottoms. And these werealways set with wild flowers, every bud and blossom gilded by the sun.
As we journeyed on, the first wayfarer we encountered after passing ourouter line of pickets was an express rider from General Sullivan'sstaff, one James Cook, who told us that the right division of the army,General James Clinton's New York brigade, which was ours, was stillslowly concentrating in the vicinity of Otsego Lake; that innumerableand endless difficulties in obtaining forage and provisions had delayedeverything; that the main division, Sullivan's, was now arriving atEaston and Wyoming; and that, furthermore, the enemy had become vastlyagitated over these ominous preparations of ours, but still believed,from their very magnitude, that we were preparing for an advance intoCanada.
"Ha-ha!" said Boyd merrily. "So much the better, for if they continueto believe that, they will keep their cursed scalping parties snug athome."
"No, sir," said the express soberly. "Brant and his Mohawks are outsomewhere or other, and so is Walter Butler and his painted crew."
"In this same district?"
"No doubt of it, sir. Indians fired on our pickets last week. It willgo hard with the outlying farms and settlements. Small doubt, too, thatthey will strike heavily and strive to draw this army from whateverplan it meditated."
"Then," said Boyd with a careless laugh, "it is for us to strike moreheavily still and draw them with the very wind of our advance into acommon vortex of destruction with the Iroquois."
The express rode on, and Boyd, in excellent humour, continued talkingto me, saying that he knew our Commander-in-Chief, and that he was anofficer not to be lightly swayed or turned from the main purpose, butwould hew to the line, no matter what destruction raged and flamedabout him.
"No, Loskiel, they may murder and burn to right and left of us, and itmay wring his heart and ours to hear the agonized appeals for aid; butif I judge our General, he will not be halted or drawn aside until themonstrous, loathesome body of this foul empire lies chopped to bits,writhing and dying in the flames of Catharines-town."
"He must truly be a man of iron," said I, "if we win through."
"We will win through, Loskiel," he said gaily, "--to Catharines-town orparadise--to hell or heaven. And what a tale to tell our children--wewho survive!"
An odd expression came into his handsome face, and he said in a low anddreamy voice:
"I think that almost every man will live to tell that story--yet, I cannever hear myself telling the tale in years to come."
On paths and new-made highways we began to encounter people andcattle--now a long line of oxen laden with military stores or withcanoes and flatboats, and conducted by batt-men in smock and frock, nowa sweating company of military surveyors from headquarters, burdenedwith compass, chain, and Jacob-staff, already running their lines intothe wilderness. Here trudged the frightened family of some settler,making toward the forts; there a company of troops came gaily marchingout on some detail, or perhaps, with fixed bayonets, herded sheep andcattle down some rutted road.
It seemed scarce possible that we were already within scouting range ofthat never-to-be-forgotten region of Wyoming, where just one year agoold John Butler with his Rangers, his hell-born Senecas, and Johnson'sGreens, had done their bloody business; where, in "The Shades ofDeath," a hundred frightened women and little children had perished inthat ghastly darkness. Also, we were but a few miles from that scene ofterror where, through the wintry dawn at Cherry Valley, young WalterButler damned his soul for all eternity while men, women, and children,old and young, died horribly amid the dripping knives and bayonets ofhis painted fiends, or fell under the butchering hatchets of hisSenecas.
I could see that Boyd also was thinking of this ghastly business, as Icaught his sombre eye. He seemed to shudder, then:
"Patience," he muttered grimly, with a significant nod toward theSiwanois, who strode silently between our horses. "We have our guide atlast. A Siwanois hates the Iroquois no more fiercely than do wewhite-skins. Wait till he leads our van within rifle-range ofCatharines-town! And if Walter Butler be there, or that bloodless beastSir John, or Brant, or any of that hell-brood, and if we let them getaway, may God punish us with the prisoner's fire! Amen."
Never before had I heard him speak that way, or with such savagefeeling; and his manner of expression, and the uncanny words he usedconcerning fire caused me to shudder,
too--knowing that if he had everdreaded anything it was the stake, and the lingering death that lastedtill the very soul lay burnt to cinders before the tortured body died.We exchanged no further conversation; many people passed and repassedus; the woods opened somewhat; the jolly noise of axes resounded nearat hand among the trees.
Just ahead of us the road from Mattisses' Grist Mill and Stoney Killjoined ours, where stood the Low Dutch Church. Above us lay the MiddleFort, and the roads to Cherry Valley and Schenectady forked beyond itby the Lutheran Church and the Lower Fort. We took the Cherry ValleyRoad.
Here, through this partly cleared and planted valley of the ScoharieKill, between the river and the lake, was now gathering a greatconcourse of troops and of people; and all the roads were lively withtheir comings and goings. Every woodland rang with the racket of theirsaws and axes; over the log bridges rumbled their loaded transportwagons; road and trail were filled with their crowding cattle; thewheels of Eckerson's and Becker's grist mills clattered and creakedunder the splash of icy, limpid waters, and everywhere men werehammering and sawing and splitting, erecting soldiers' huts, huts forsettlers, sheds, stables, store-houses, and barracks to shelter thismotley congregation assembling here under the cannon of the Upper Fort,the Lower, and the Middle.
As we rode along, many faces we passed were familiar to us; weencountered officers from our own corps and from other regiments, withwhom we were acquainted, and who greeted us gaily or otherwise,according to their temper and disposition. But everybody--officers,troops, batt-men--looked curiously at our Siwanois Indian, who returnedthe compliment not at all, but with stately stride and expressionlessvisage moved straight ahead of him, as though he noticed nothing.
Twice since we had started at daybreak that morning, I had managed tolag behind and question him concerning the maid who now sharedwell-nigh every thought of mine--asking if he knew who she was, andwhere she came from, and why she journeyed, and whither.
He answered--when he replied at all--that he had no knowledge of thesethings. And I knew he lied, but did not know how I might make him speak.
Nor would he tell me how and when she had slipped away from me thenight before, or where she had likely gone, pretending that I had beenmistaken when I told him I had seen him watching us beside thestar-illumined stream.
"Mayaro slept," he said quite calmly. "The soldier, Mount, stoodfire-guard. Of what my brother Loskiel and this strange maiden didunder the Oneida Dancers and the Belt of Tamanund, Mayaro has noknowledge."
Why should he lie? I did not know. And even were I to attempt toconfound his statement by an appeal to Mount, the rifleman mustcorroborate him, because doubtless the wily Siwanois had not awakenedMount to do his shift at sentry until the maid had vanished, leaving mesleeping.
"Mayaro," I said, "I ask these things only because I pity her and wishher well. It is for her safety I fear. Could you tell me where she mayhave gone?"
"Fowls to the home-yard; the wild bird to the wood," he said gravely."Where do the rosy-throated pigeons go in winter? Does my brotherLoskiel know where?"
"Sagamore," I said earnestly, "this maid is no wild gypsy thing--norose-tinted forest pigeon. She has been bred at home, mannered andschooled. She knows the cote, I tell you, and not the bush, where thewild hawk hangs mewing in the sky. Why has she fled to the wildernessalone?"
The Indian said cunningly:
"Why has my brother Loskiel abandoned roof and fire for a bed on theforest moss?"
"A man must do battle for his own people, Sagamore."
"A white maid may do what pleases her, too, for aught I know," he saidindifferently.
"Why does it please her to roam abroad alone?"
"How should I know?"
"You do know!"
"Loskiel," he said, "if I know why, perhaps I know of other matters,too. Ask me some day--before they send you into battle."
"What matters do you know of?"
"Ask me no more, Loskiel--until your conch-horns blowing in the forestsummon Morgan's men to battle. Then ask; and a Sagamore will answer--aSiwanois Mohican--of the magic clan. Hiero!"
That ended it; he had spoken, and I was not fool enough to urge him toanother word.
And now, as I rode, my mind was still occupied with my growing concernfor the poor child I had come to pity so. Within me a furtivetenderness was growing which sometimes shamed, sometimes angered me, orleft me self-contemptuous, restless, or dully astonished that my pridepermitted it. For in my heart such sentiments for such a maid asthis--tenderness, consciousness of some subtlety about her thatattracted me--should have no place. There was every reason why I shouldpity her and offer aid; none why her grey eyes should hold my own; nonewhy the frail body of her in her rags should quicken any pulse of mine;none why my nearness to her should stop my heart and breath.
Yet, all day long her face and slim shape haunted me--a certain sullensweetness of the lips, too--and I remembered the lithe grace of herlittle hands as she broke the morsels of that midnight meal and liftedthe cup of chilly water in which I saw the star-light dancing. And"Lord!" thought I, amazed at my own folly. "What madness lies in thesemidsummer solitudes, that I should harbor such fantastic thoughts?"
Seldom, as yet, had dream of woman vexed me--and when I dreamed at allit was but a tinselled figment that I saw--the echo, doubtless, of sometale I read concerning raven hair and rosy lips, and of a vague butwondrous fairness adorned most suitably in silks and jewels.
Dimly I was resigned toward some such goal, first being full of honourswon with sword and spur, laden with riches, too, and territoriesstretching to those sunset hills piled up like sapphires north ofFrenchman's Creek.
Out of the castled glory of the dawn, doubtless, I thought, would stepone day my vision--to admire my fame and riches. And her I'dmarry--after our good King had knighted me.
Alas! For our good King had proved a bloody knave; my visionary landsand riches all had vanished; instead of silk attire and sword, I wore arifle-shirt and skinning-knife; and out of the dawn-born glory of thehills had stepped no silken damsel of romance to pause and worshipme--only a slender, ragged, grey-eyed waif who came indifferent as thechilly wind in spring; who went as April shadows go, leaving no tracebehind.
We were riding by the High Dutch Church at last, and beyond, betweenthe roads to Duansboro and Cobus-Kill, we saw the tents and huts of theNew York brigade--or as much of it as had arrived--from which weexpected soon to be detached.
On a cleared hill beyond the Lower Fort, where the Albany Road runsbeside the Fox-Kill, we saw the headquarters flag of the 4th brigade,and Major Nicholas Fish at his tent door, talking to McCrea, ourbrigade surgeon.
Along the stream were the huts lately tenanted by Colonel Philip VanCortlandt's Second New York Regiment, which had gone off towardWyalusing. Schott's riflemen camped there now, and, as we rode by, thesoldiers stared at our Indian. Then we passed Gansevoort's ThirdRegiment, under tents and making ready to march; and the log cantonmentof Colonel Lamb's artillery, where the cannoneers saluted, then, for noreason, cheered us. Beyond were camped Alden's Regiment, I think, andin the rear the Fourth and Fifth New York. A fort flew our ownregimental flag beside the pretty banner of our new nation.
"Oho!" said Boyd, with an oath. "I'm damned if I care for barracks whena bed in the open is good enough. Why the devil have they moved usindoors, do you think?"
I knew no more than did he, and liked our new quarters no better.
At the fort gate the sentry saluted, and we dismounted. Our juniorensign, Benjamin Chambers, a smart young dandy, met us at theguard-house, directed Boyd to Captain Simpson's log quarters, and thenled the Sagamore inside.
"Is this our Moses?" whispered the young ensign in my ear. "Egad,Loskiel, he looks a treacherous devil, in his paint, to lead us to thepromised land."
"He is staunch, I think," said I. "But for heaven's sake, Benny, are weto sleep in filthy barracks in July?"
"Not you, I hear," he said, laughing, "----though they're clean enough,by the
way! But the Major's orders were to build a hut for you and thispretty and fragrant aborigine down by the river, and lodge him thereunder your eye and nose and rifle. I admit very freely, Loskiel, no manin Morgan's envies you your bed-fellow!" And he whisked his nose with ascented handkerchief.
"They would envy me if they knew this Sagamore as I think I know him,"said I, delighted that I was not to lie in barracks foul or clean."Where is this same humble hut, my fashionable friend?"
"I'll show you presently. I think that Jimmy Parr desires to see yourgentle savage," he added flippantly.
We seated ourselves on the gate-bench to await the Major's summons; thedandified young ensign crossed the parade, mincing toward the quartersof Major Parr. And I saw him take a pinch o' the scented snuff heaffected, and whisk his supercilious nose again with his laced hanker.It seemed odd that a man like that should have saved our CaptainSimpson's life at Saratoga.
Riflemen, drovers, batt-men, frontier farmers, and some of the dirtyflotsam--trappers, forest-runners, and the like--were continuallymoving about the parade, going and coming on petty, sordid business oftheir own; and there were women there, too--pallid refugees fromdistant farms, and now domiciled within the stockade; gaunt wives ofneighbouring settlers, bringing baskets of eggs or pails of milk tosell; and here and there some painted camp-wanton lingering by thegateway on mischief bent, or gossiping with some sister trull, theirbold eyes ever roving.
Presently our mincing ensign came to us again, saying that the Sagamoreand I were to report ourselves to the Major.
"Jimmy Parr is in good humour," he whispered. "Leave him in thattemper, for mercy's sake, Loskiel; he's been scarcely amiable since youleft to catch this six-foot savage for him."
He was a brave soldier, our Major, a splendid officer, and a kind andChristian man, but in no wise inclined to overlook the delinquencies ofyouthful ensigns; and he had rapped our knuckles soundly more thanonce. But we all loved him in our small mess of five--Captain Simpson,Lieutenant Boyd, and we two ensigns; and I think he knew it. Had wedisliked him, among ourselves we would have dubbed him James, intendingthereby disrespect; but to us he was Jimmy, flippantly, perhaps, butwith a sure affection under all our impudence. And I think, too, thathe knew we spoke of him among ourselves as Jimmy, and did not mind.
"Well, sir," he said sternly, as I entered with the Sagamore and gavehim the officer's salute, "I have a good report of you from LieutenantBoyd. I am gratified, Mr. Loskiel, that my confidence in your abilityand in your knowledge of the Indians was not misplaced. And you mayinform me now, sir, how it is proper for me to address this Indianguide."
I glanced at Captain Simpson and Lieutenant Boyd, hesitating for amoment. Then I said:
"Mayaro is a Sagamore, Major--a noble and an ensign of a uniqueclan--the Siwanois, or magic clan, of the Mohican tribe of the greatDelaware nation. You may address him as an equal. Our General Schuylerwould so address him. The corps of officers in this regiment can scarcedo less, I think."
Major Parr nodded, quietly offered his hand to the silent Siwanois,and, holding that warrior's sinewy fist in an iron grip that matchedit, named him to Captain Simpson. Then, looking at me, he said slowly,in English:
"Mayaro is a great chief among his people--great in war, wise incouncil and debate. The Sagamore of the Siwanois Mohicans is welcome inthis army and at the headquarters of this regiment. He is now one ofus; his pay is the pay of a captain in the rifles. By order of GeneralClinton, commanding the Fourth, or New York, Brigade, I am requested tosay to the Mohican Sagamore that valuable presents will be offered himfor his services by General Sullivan, commander-in-chief of this army.These will be given when the Mohican successfully conducts this army tothe Genessee Castle and to Catharines-town. I have spoken."
And to me he added bluntly:
"Translate, Mr. Loskiel."
"I think the Sagamore has understood, sir," said I. "Is it not so,Sagamore?"
"Mayaro has understood," said the Indian quietly.
"Does the great Mohican Sagamore accept?"
"My elder brother," replied the Sagamore calmly, "Mayaro has pledgedhis word to his younger brother Loskiel. A Mohican Sagamore never lies.Loskiel is my friend. Why should I lie to him? A Sagamore speaks thetruth."
Which was true in a measure, at least as far as wanton or idle lying isconcerned, or cowardly lying either, But he had lied to me concerninghis knowledge of the strange maid, Lois, which kind of untruth allIndians consider more civil than a direct refusal to answer a question.
Boyd stood by, smiling, as the Major very politely informed me of thedisposition he had made of the Sagamore and myself, recommended Mayaroto my most civil attention, and added that, for the present, I wasrelieved from routine duty with my battalion.
If the Siwanois perceived any undue precaution in the Major's manner oflodging him, he did not betray by the quiver of an eyelash that hecomprehended he was practically under guard. He stalked forth andacross the parade beside me, head high, bearing dignified and tranquil.
At the outer gate our junior ensign languidly dusted a speck of snufffrom his wristband, and indicated the roof of our hut, which wasvisible above the feathery river willows. So we proceeded thither, Iresigning my horse to the soldier, Mount, who had been holding him, andwho was now detailed to act as soldier-servant to me still.
"Jack," said I, "if there be fresh-baked bread in the regimental ovensyonder, fetch a loaf, in God's name. I could gnaw black-birch andreindeer moss, so famished am I--and the Sagamore, too, no doubt, couldrattle a flam with a wooden spoon."
But our chief baker was a Low-Dutch dog from Albany; and it was notuntil I had bathed me in the Mohawk, burrowed into my soldier's chest,and put on clean clothing that Jack Mount managed to steal the loaf hehad asked for in vain. And this, with a bit of salt beef and a bowl offresh milk, satisfied the Siwanois and myself.
I had been relieved of all routine duty, and was henceforth detailed toforegather with, amuse, instruct and casually keep an eye on myMohican. In other words, my only duty, for the present, was to act asmentor to the Sagamore, keep him pleasantly affected toward our cause,see that he was not tampered with, and that he had his bellyful threetimes a day. Also, I was to extract from him in advance any informationconcerning the Iroquois country that he might have knowledge of.
It was a warm and pleasant afternoon along the river where thebatteaux, loaded with stores and soldiers, were passing up, and Oneidacanoes danced across the sparkling water toward Fort Plain.
Many of our soldiers were bathing, sporting like schoolboys in thewater; Lamb's artillerymen had their horses out to let them swim; manyof the troops were washing their shirts along the gravelly reaches, or,seated cross-legged on the bank, were mending rents with needle andthread. Half a dozen Oneida Indians sat gravely smoking and blinking atthe scene--no doubt belonging to our corps of runners, scouts, andguides, for all were shaved, oiled, and painted for war, and, undertheir loosened blankets, I could see their lean and supple bodies,stark naked, except for clout and ankle moccasin.
I sat in the willow-shade before the door of our hut, cross-legged,too, writing in my journal of what had occurred since last I set downthe details of the day. This finished, I pouched quill, ink-horn, andjournal, and sat a-thinking for a while of that strange maid, and whatmischance might come of her woodland roving all alone--with IndianButler out, and all that vile and painted, blue-eyed crew underMcDonald.
Sombre thoughts assailed me there on that sunny July afternoon; Irested my elbow on my knee, forehead pressed against my palm,pondering. And ever within my breast was I conscious of a faint, dullaching--a steady and perceptible apprehension which kept me restless,giving my mind no peace, my brooding thoughts no rest.
That this shabby, wandering girl had so gained me, spite of therudeness with which she used me, I could never seem to understand; forshe had done nothing to win even my pity, and she was but a raggedgypsy thing, and had conducted with scant courtesy.
Why had I given her my ring?
Was it only because I pitied her anddesired to offer her a gift she might sell when necessary? Why had Iused her as a comrade--who had been but the comrade of an hour? Why hadI been so loath to part with her whom I scarce had met? What was it inher that had fixed my attention? What allure? What unusual quality?What grace of mind or person?
A slender, grey-eyed gypsy-thing in rags! And I could no longer rid mymind of her!
What possessed me? To what lesser nature in me was such a woman as thisappealing? I would have been ashamed to have any officer or man of mycorps see me abroad in company with her. I knew it well enough. I knewthat if in this girl anything was truly appealing to my unquiet heart Ishould silence even the slightest threat of any response--discourage,ignore, exterminate the last unruly trace of sentiment in her regard.
Yet I remained there motionless, thinking, thinking--her faded rosebudlying in my hand, drooping but still fragrant.
Dismiss her from my thoughts I could not. The steady, relentless desireto see her; the continual apprehension that some mischance mightovertake her, left me no peace of mind, so that the memory of her, notyet a pleasure even, nagged, nagged, nagged, till every weary nerve inme became unsteady.
I stretched out above the river bank, composing my body to rest--sleepperhaps. But flies and sun kept me awake, even if I could have quietedmy mind.
So up again, and walked to the hut door, where within I beheld theSagamore gravely repainting himself with the terrific emblems of death.He was seated cross-legged on the floor, my camp mirror before him--asuperb specimen of manhood, naked save for clout, beaded sporran, and apair of thigh moccasins, the most wonderful I had ever seen.
I admired his war-girdle and moccasins, speaking somewhat carelessly ofthe beautiful shell-work designs as "wampum"--an Iroquois term.
"Seawan," he said coldly, correcting me and using the softer Siwanoisterm. Then, with that true courtesy which ever seeks to ease a meritedrebuke, he spoke pleasantly concerning shell-beads, and how they weremade and from what, and how it was that the purple beads were the gold,the white beads the silver, and the black beads the copper equivalentsin English coinage. And so we conducted very politely and agreeablythere in the hut, the while he painted himself like a ghastly death,and brightened the scarlet clan-symbol tatooed on his breast bytouching its outlines with his brilliant paint. Also, he rebraided hisscalp-lock with great care, doubtless desiring that it should appear agenteel trophy if taken from him, and be an honour to his conqueror andhimself.
These matters presently accomplished, he drew from their soft andbeaded sheaths hatchet and knife, and fell to shining them up asindustriously as a full-fed cat polishes her fur.
"Mayaro," said I, amused, "is a battle then near at hand that you makeso complete a preparation for it?"
A half-smile appeared for a moment on his lips:
"It is always well to be prepared for life or death, Loskiel, myyounger brother."
"Oho!" said I, smiling. "You understood the express rider when he saidthat Indians had fired on our pickets a week ago!"
The stern and noble countenance of the Sagamore relaxed into thesunniest of smiles.
"My little brother is very wise. He has discovered that the Siwanoishave ears like white men."
"Aye--but, Sagamore, I was not at all certain that you understood inEnglish more than 'yes' and 'no.'"
"Is it because," he inquired with a merry glance at me, "my brother hasonly heard as yet the answer 'no' from Mayaro?"
I bit my lip, reddened, and then laughed at the slyly tauntingreference to my lack of all success in questioning him concerning thelittle maiden, Lois.
At the same time, I realized on what a friendly footing I already stoodwith this Mohican. Few white men ever see an Iroquois or a Delawarelaugh; few ever witness any relaxation in them or see their coldlydignified features alter, except in scorn, suspicion, pride, and anger.Only in time of peace and amid their own intimates or families do ourEastern forest Indians put off the expressionless and dignified maskthey wear, and become what no white man believes them capable ofbecoming--human, tender, affectionate, gay, witty, talkative, as themoment suits.
At Guy Park, even, I had never seen an Iroquois relax in dignity andhauteur, though, of course, it was also true that Guy Johnson was nevera man to inspire personal confidence or any intimacy. Nor was WalterButler either; and Brant and his Mohawks detested and despised him.
But I had been told that Indians--I mean the forest Indians, not thevile and filthy nomad butchers of the prairies--were like ourselves inour own families; and that, naturally, they were a kindly,warm-hearted, gay, and affectionate people, fond of their wives andchildren, and loyal to their friends.
Now, I could not but notice how, from the beginning, this Siwanois hadconducted, and how, when first we met, his eye and hand met mine. Andever since, also--even when I was watching him so closely--in my heartI really found it well-nigh impossible to doubt him.
He spoke always to me in a manner very different to that of any IndianI had ever known. And now it seemed to me that from the very first Ihad vaguely realized a sense of unwonted comradeship with this Siwanois.
At all events, it was plain enough now that, for some reason unknown tome, this Mohican not only liked me, but so far trusted me--entertained,in fact, so unusual a confidence in me--that he even permitted himselfto relax and speak to me playfully, and with the light familiarity ofan elder brother.
"Sagamore," I said, "my heart is very anxious for the safety of thislittle forest-running maid. If I could find her, speak to her again, Ithink 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-throatedpigeon of the forest for whom my little brother Loskiel is spreadingnets?"
My face reddened again, but I said, smilingly:
"If Mayaro laughs at what I say, all must be well with her. My elderbrother's heart is charitable to the homeless."
"And to children, also," he said very quietly. And added, with a gleamof humour, "All children, O Loskiel, my littlest brother! Is not myheart open to you?"
"And mine to you, Mayaro, my elder brother."
"Yet, you watched me at the fire, every night," he said, with keenestdelight sparkling in his dark eyes.
"And yet I tracked and caught you after all!" I said, smiling throughmy slight chagrin.
"Is my little brother very sure I did not know he followed me?" heasked, 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 broughtfood 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 therosy 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 spiteof your disapproval?"
"Loskiel does not lie."
"She must be mad!" I said, with some heat. "Had she not managed to keepour 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 withher--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-gypsyof the better class? I can not believe it--yet--she roves the world intatters, haunting barracks and camps. Can you not tell me somethingconcerning her?"
The Indian made no reply.
"Has she made you p
romise 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 tomyself, 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, Mayarowill not run away. Say so to Major Parr."
I blushed furiously at the mocking revelation that he had noted andunderstood the precautions of Major Parr.
"Mayaro," I said, "I trust you. See! You are confided to me, I amresponsible for you. If you leave I shall be disgraced. But--Siwanoisare free people! The Sagamore is my elder brother who will not blackenmy face or cast contempt upon my uniform. See! I trust my brotherMayaro, I go."
The Sagamore looked me square in the eye with a face which was utterlyblank and expressionless. Then he gathered his legs under him, sprangnoiselessly 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 asimultaneous 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 anact--never dared believe that I should participate in it.
The Siwanois drew my knife from his sheath, touched the skin of hiswrist with the keen edge. I followed his example; on our wrists twobright spots of blood beaded the skin.
Then the Sagamore filled a tin cup with clean water and extended hiswrist. 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, andpassed it to me. I wet my lips, offered it to him again. And verysolemnly he sprinkled the scarcely tinted contents over the grass atthe door-sill.
So was accomplished between this Mohican and myself the rite of bloodbrotherhood--an alliance of implicit trust and mutual confidence whichonly death could end.