Complete weird tales of.., p.744
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 744
“Yes, here, this night.”
“How good — how generous you have been!” I exclaimed with a warmth and sincerity that invaded every fibre of me. “And have you come through this wild storm all the long way afoot?”
“Yes,” she said, calmly, “afoot. Since when, sir, have beggars ridden to a tryst except in pretty fables?”
“Had I known it, I would have taken horse and gone for you and brought you here riding pillion behind me.”
“Had I desired you to come for me, Mr. Loskiel, I should not have troubled you here.”
She loosened the shabby scarlet cloak so that it dropped from below her eyes and left the features exposed. Enough of lantern light from the other shed fell on her face for me to see her smooth, cool cheeks all dewy with the rain, as I had seen them once before in the gloom of the coming storm.
She turned her head, glancing back at the other shed where men and horses stood in grotesque shadow shapes under the windy lantern light; then she looked cautiously around the shed where we stood.
“Come nearer,” she motioned.
And once again, as before, my nearness to her seemed for a moment to meddle with my heart and check it; then, as though to gain the beats they lost, every little pulse began to hurry faster.
She said in a low voice:
“The Sagamore is now closeted with Major Lockwood. I left him at the porch and came out here to warn you. Best go to him now, sir. And I will bid you a — good night.”
“Has he business also with Major Lockwood?”
“He has indeed. You will learn presently that the Sagamore came by North Castle, and that the roads south of the church are full of riders — hundreds of them — in jack-boots and helmets.”
“Were their jackets red?”
“He could not tell. They were too closely cloaked,”
“Colonel Moylan’s dragoons?” I said anxiously. “Do you think so?”
“The Sagamore did not think so, and dared not ask, but started instantly cross-country with the information. I had been waiting to intercept him and bring him here to you, as I promised you, but missed him on the Bedford road, where he should have passed. Therefore, I hastened hither to confess to you my failure, and chanced to overtake him but a moment since, as he crossed the dooryard yonder.”
Even in my growing anxiety, I was conscious of the faithfulness that this poor girl had displayed — this ragged child who had stood in the storm all night long on the Bedford road to intercept the Indian. Faithful, indeed! For, having missed him, she had made her way here on foot merely to tell me that she could not keep her word to me.
“Has the Sagamore spoken with Colonel Sheldon?” I asked gently.
“I do not know.”
“Will you tarry here till I return?”
“Have you further use of me, Mr. Loskiel?”
Her direct simplicity checked me. After all, now that she had done her errand, what further use had I for her? I did not even know why I had asked her to tarry here until my return; and searched my mind seeking the reason. For it must have been that I had some good reason in my mind.
“Why, yes,” I said, scarce knowing why, “I have further use for you. Tarry for a moment and I shall return. And,” I added mentally, “by that time I shall have discovered the reason.”
She said nothing; I hastened back to the house, where even from the outside I could hear the loud voice of Sheldon vowing that if what this Indian said were true, the cavalry he had discovered at North Castle must be Moylan’s and no other.
I entered and listened a moment to Major Lockwood, urging this obstinate man to send out his patrols; then I walked over to the window where Boyd stood in whispered consultation with an Indian.
The savage towered at least six feet in his soaking moccasins; he wore neither lock nor plume, nor paint of any kind that I could see, carried neither gun nor blanket, nor even a hatchet. There was only a heavy knife at the beaded girdle, which belted his hunting shirt and breeches of muddy tow-cloth.
As I approached them, the Mohican turned his head and shot a searching glance at me. Boyd said:
“This is the great Sagamore, Mayaro, Mr. Loskiel; and I have attempted to persuade him to come north with us tomorrow. Perhaps your eloquence will succeed where my plain speech has failed.” And to the tall Sagamore he said: “My brother, this is Ensign Loskiel, of Colonel Morgan’s command — my comrade and good friend. What this man’s lips tell you has first been taught them by his heart. Squirrels chatter, brooks babble, and the tongues of the Iroquois are split. But this is a man, Sagamore, such as are few among men. For he lies not even to women.” And though his countenance was very grave, I saw his eyes laughing at me.
The Indian made no movement until I held out my hand. Then his sinewy fingers touched mine, warily at first, like the exploring antennae of a nervous butterfly. And presently his steady gaze began to disturb me.
“Does my brother the Sagamore believe he has seen me somewhere heretofore?” I asked, smilingly. “Perhaps it may have been so — at Johnson Hall — or at Guy Park, perhaps, where came many chiefs and sachems and Sagamores in the great days of the great Sir William — the days that are no more, O Sagamore!”
And: “My brother’s given name?” inquired the savage bluntly.
“Euan — Euan Loskiel, once of the family of Guy Johnson, but now, for these three long battle years, officer in Colonel Morgan’s regiment,” I said. “Has the wise Sagamore ever seen me before this moment?”
The savage’s eyes wavered, then sought the floor.
“Mayaro has forgotten,” he replied very quietly, using the Delaware phrase — a tongue of which I scarcely understood a word. But I knew he had seen me somewhere, and preferred not to admit it. Indian caution, thought I, and I said:
“Is my brother Siwanois or Mohican?”
A cunning expression came into his features:
“If a Siwanois marries a Mohican woman, of what nation are the children, my new brother, Loskiel?”
“Mohican,” I said in surprise,— “or so it is among the Iroquois,” and the next moment could have bitten off my tongue for vexation that I should have so clumsily reminded a Sagamore of a subject nation of his servitude, by assuming that the Lenni-Lenape had conformed even to the racial customs of their conquerors.
The hot flush now staining my face did not escape him, and what he thought of my stupid answer to him or of my embarrassment, I did not know. His calm countenance had not altered — not even had his eyes changed, which features are quickest to alter when Indians betray emotion.
I said in a mortified voice:
“The Siwanois Sagamore will believe that his new brother, Loskiel, meant no offense.” And I saw that the compliment had told.
“Mayaro has heard,” he said, without the slightest emphasis of resentment. Then, proudly and delicately yielding me reason, and drawing his superb figure to its full and stately height: “When a Mohican Sagamore listens, all Algonquins listen, and the Siwanois clan grow silent in the still places. When a real man speaks, real men listen with respect. Only the Canienga continue to chirp and chatter; only the Long House is full of squirrel sounds and the noise of jays.” His lip curled contemptuously. “Let the echoes of the Long House answer the Kanonsis. Mayaro’s ears are open.”
Boyd, with a triumphant glance at me, said eagerly:
“Is not this hour the hour for the great Siwanois clan of the Lenni-Lenape to bid defiance to the Iroquois? Is it not time that the Mohawks listen to the reading of those ancient belts, and count their dishonoured dead with brookside pebbles from the headwaters of the Sacandaga to the Delaware Capes?”
“Can squirrels count?” retorted Mayaro disdainfully. “Does my white brother understand what the blue-jays say one to another in the yellowing October woods? Not in the Kanonsis, nor yet in the Kanonsionni may the Mohicans read to the Mohawks the ancient wampum records. The Lenni-Lenape are Algonquin, not Huron-Iroquois. Let those degraded Delawares who still sit in the Long House count their white belts while, from both doors of the Confederacy, Seneca and Mohawk belt-bearers hurl their red wampum to the four corners of the world.”
“The Mohicans, while they wait, may read of glory and great deeds,” I said, “but the belts in their hands are not white. How can this be, my brother?”
The Sagamore’s eyes flashed:
“The belts we remember are red!” he said. “We Mohicans have never understood Iroquois wampum. Let the Lenape of the Kansonsionni bear Iroquois belts!”
“In the Long House,” said I, “the light is dim. Perhaps the Canienga’s ambassadors can no longer perceive the red belts in the archives of the Lenape.”
It had so far been a careful and cautious exchange of subtlest metaphor between this proud and sensitive Mohican and me; I striving to win him to our cause by recalling the ancient greatness and the proud freedom of his tribe, yet most carefully avoiding undue pressure or any direct appeal for an immediate answer to Boyd’s request. But already I had so thoroughly prepared the ground; and the Sagamore’s responses had been so encouraging, that the time seemed to have come to put the direct and final question. And now, to avoid the traditional twenty-four hours’ delay which an Indian invariably believes is due his own dignity before replying to a vitally important demand, I boldly cast precedent and custom to the four winds, and once more seized on allegory to aid me in this hour of instant need.
I began by saluting him with the most insidious and stately compliment I could possibly offer to a Sagamore of a conquered race — a race which already was nearly extinct — investing this Mohican Sagamore with the prerogatives of his very conquerors by the subtlety of my opening phrase:
“O Sagamore! Roya-neh! Noble of the three free clans of a free Mohican people! Our people have need of you. The path is dark to Catharines-town. Terror haunts those frightful shades. Roya-nef! We need you!
“Brother! Is there occasion for belts between us to confirm a brother’s words, when this leathern girth I wear around my body carries a red wampum which all may see and read — my war axe and my knife?”
I raised my right arm slowly, and drew with my forefinger a great circle in the air around us:
“Brother! Listen attentively! Since a Sagamore has read the belt I yesterday delivered, the day-sun has circled us where we now stand. It is another day, O Roya-neh! In yonder fireplace new ashes whiten, new embers redden. We have slept (touching my eyelids and then laying my right hand lightly over his); we have eaten (again touching his lips and then my own); and now — now here — now, in this place and on this day, I have returned to the Mohican fire — the Fire of Tamanund! Now I am seated (touching both knees). Now my ears are open. Let the Sagamore of the Mohicans answer my belt delivered! I have spoken, O Roya-neh!”
For a full five minutes of intense silence I knew that my bold appeal was being balanced in the scales by one of a people to whom tradition is a religion. One scale was weighted with the immemorial customs and usages of a great and proud people; the other with a white man’s subtle and flattering recognition of these customs, conveyed in metaphor, which all Indians adore, and appealing to imagination — an appeal to which no Huron, no Iroquois, no Algonquin, is ever deaf.
In the breathless silence of suspense the irritable, high-pitched voice of Colonel Sheldon came to my ears. It seemed that after all he had sent out a few troopers and that one had just returned to report a large body of horsemen which had passed the Bedford road at a gallop, apparently headed for Ridgefield. But I scarcely noted what was being discussed in the further end of the hall, so intent was I on the Sagamore’s reply — if, indeed, he meant to answer me at all. I could even feel Boyd’s body quivering with suppressed excitement as our elbows chanced to come in contact; as for me, I scarce made out to control myself at all, and any nether lip was nearly bitten through ere the Mohican lifted his symmetrical head and looked me full and honestly in the eyes.
“Brother,” he said, in a curiously hushed voice, “on this day I come to you here, at this fire, to acquaint you with my answer; answering my brother’s words of yesterday.”
I could hear Boyd’s deep breath of profound relief. “Thank God!” I thought.
The Sagamore spoke again, very quietly:
“Brother, the road is dark to Catharines-town. There are no stars there, no moon, no sun — only a bloody mist in the forest. For to that dreadful empire of the Iroquois only blind trails lead. And from them ghosts of the Long House arise and stand. Only a thick darkness is there — an endless gloom to which the Mohican hatchets long, long ago dispatched the severed souls they struck! In every trail they stand, these ghosts of the Kanonsi, Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga — ghosts of the Tuscarora. The Mohawk beasts who wear the guise of men are there. Mayaro spits upon them! And upon their League! And upon their Atotarho the Siwanois spit!”
Suddenly his arm shot out and he grasped the hilt of my knife, drew it from my belt, and then slowly returned it. I drew his knife and rendered it again.
“Brother,” he said, “I have this day heard your voice coming to me out of the Northland! I have read the message on the belt you bore and wear; your voice has not lied to my ears; your message is clear as running springs to my eyes. I can see through to their pleasant depths. No snake lies hidden under them. So now — now, I say — if my brother’s sight is dimmed on the trail to Catharines-town, Mayaro will teach him how to see under the night-sun as owls see, so that behind us, the steps of many men shall not stumble, and the darkness of the Long House shall become redder than dawn, lighted by the flames of a thousand rifles!
“Brother! A Sagamore never lies. I have drawn my brother’s knife! Brother, I have spoken!”
And so it was done in that house and in the dark of dawn. Boyd silently gave him his hands, and so did I; then Boyd led him aside with a slight motion of dismissal to me.
As I walked toward the front door, which was now striding open, I saw Major Tallmadge go out ahead of me, run to the mounting-block, and climb into his saddle. Colonel Sheldon followed him to the doorway, and called after him:
“Take a dozen men with you, and meet Colonel Moylan! A dozen will be sufficient, Major!”
Then he turned back into the house, saying to Major Lockwood and Mr. Hunt he was positive that the large body of dragoons in rapid motion, which had been seen and reported by one of our videttes a few minutes since, could be no other than Moylan’s expected regiment; and that he would mount his own men presently and draw them up in front of the Meeting House.
The rain had now nearly ceased; a cloudy, greyish horizon became visible, and the dim light spreading from a watery sky made objects dimly discernible out of doors.
I hastened back to the shed where I had left the strange maid swathed in her scarlet cape; and found her there, slowly pacing the trampled sod before it.
As I came up with her, she said:
“Why are the light dragoons riding on the Bedford road? Is aught amiss?”
“A very large body of horse has passed our videttes, making toward Ridgefield. Colonel Sheldon thinks it must be Moylan’s regiment.”
“Do you?”
“It may be so.”
“And if it be the leather-caps?”
“Then we must find ourselves in a sorry pickle.”
As I spoke, the little bugle-horn of Sheldon’s Horse blew boots and saddles, and four score dragoons scrambled into their saddles down by the barns, and came riding up the sloppy road, their horses slipping badly and floundering through the puddles and across the stream, where, led by a captain, the whole troop took the Meeting House road at a stiff canter.
We watched them out of sight, then she said:
“I have awaited your pleasure, Mr. Loskiel. Pray, in what further manner can I be of service to — my country?”
“I have come back to tell you,” said I, “that you can be of no further use. Our errand to the Sagamore has now ended, and most happily. You have served your country better than you can ever understand. I have come to say so, and to thank you with — with a heart — very full.”
“Have I then done well?” she asked slowly.
“Indeed you have!” I replied, with such a warmth of feeling that it surprised myself.
“Then why may I not understand this thing that I have done — for my country?”
“I wish I might tell you.”
“May you not?”
“No, I dare not.”
She bit her lip, gazing at nothing over the ragged collar of her cape, and stood so, musing. And after a while she seemed to come to herself, wearily, and she cast a tragic upward glance at me. Then, dropping her eyes, and with the slightest inclination of her head, not looking at me at all, she started across the trampled grass.
“Wait — —” I was by her side again in the same breath.
“Well, sir?” And she confronted me with cool mien and lifted brows. Under them her grey eyes hinted of a disdain which I had seen in them more than once.
“May I not suitably express my gratitude to you?” I said.
“You have already done so.”
“I have tried to do so properly, but it is not easy for me to say how grateful to you we men of the Northland are — how deeply we must ever remain in your debt. Yet — I will attempt to express our thanks — if you care to listen.”
After a pause: “Then — if there is nothing more to say—”
“There is, I tell you. Will you not listen?”
“I have been thanked — suitably.... I will say adieu, sir.”
“Would you — would you so far favour me as to make known to me your name?” I said, stammering a little.
“Lois is my name,” she said indifferently.
“No more than that?”
“No more than that.”
How it was now going with me I did not clearly understand, but it appeared to be my instinct not to let her slip away into the world without something more friendly said — some truer gratitude expressed — some warmth.
“Lois,” I said very gravely, “what we Americans give to our country demands no ignoble reward. Therefore, I offer none of any sort. Yet, because you have been a good comrade to me — and because now we are about to go our different ways into the world before us — I ask of you two things. May I do so?”
