Complete weird tales of.., p.748
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 748
“Mayaro slept,” he said quite calmly. “The soldier, Mount, stood fire-guard. Of what my brother Loskiel and this strange maiden did under the Oneida Dancers and the Belt of Tamanund, Mayaro has no knowledge.”
Why should he lie? I did not know. And even were I to attempt to confound his statement by an appeal to Mount, the rifleman must corroborate him, because doubtless the wily Siwanois had not awakened Mount to do his shift at sentry until the maid had vanished, leaving me sleeping.
“Mayaro,” I said, “I ask these things only because I pity her and wish her well. It is for her safety I fear. Could you tell me where she may have 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 brother Loskiel know where?”
“Sagamore,” I said earnestly, “this maid is no wild gypsy thing — no rose-tinted forest pigeon. She has been bred at home, mannered and schooled. She knows the cote, I tell you, and not the bush, where the wild hawk hangs mewing in the sky. Why has she fled to the wilderness alone?”
The Indian said cunningly:
“Why has my brother Loskiel abandoned roof and fire for a bed on the forest 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 said indifferently.
“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 forest summon Morgan’s men to battle. Then ask; and a Sagamore will answer — a Siwanois Mohican — of the magic clan. Hiero!”
That ended it; he had spoken, and I was not fool enough to urge him to another word.
And now, as I rode, my mind was still occupied with my growing concern for the poor child I had come to pity so. Within me a furtive tenderness was growing which sometimes shamed, sometimes angered me, or left me self-contemptuous, restless, or dully astonished that my pride permitted it. For in my heart such sentiments for such a maid as this — tenderness, consciousness of some subtlety about her that attracted me — should have no place. There was every reason why I should pity her and offer aid; none why her grey eyes should hold my own; none why 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 sullen sweetness of the lips, too — and I remembered the lithe grace of her little hands as she broke the morsels of that midnight meal and lifted the 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 these midsummer solitudes, that I should harbor such fantastic thoughts?”
Seldom, as yet, had dream of woman vexed me — and when I dreamed at all it was but a tinselled figment that I saw — the echo, doubtless, of some tale I read concerning raven hair and rosy lips, and of a vague but wondrous fairness adorned most suitably in silks and jewels.
Dimly I was resigned toward some such goal, first being full of honours won with sword and spur, laden with riches, too, and territories stretching to those sunset hills piled up like sapphires north of Frenchman’s Creek.
Out of the castled glory of the dawn, doubtless, I thought, would step one day my vision — to admire my fame and riches. And her I’d marry — after our good King had knighted me.
Alas! For our good King had proved a bloody knave; my visionary lands and riches all had vanished; instead of silk attire and sword, I wore a rifle-shirt and skinning-knife; and out of the dawn-born glory of the hills had stepped no silken damsel of romance to pause and worship me — only a slender, ragged, grey-eyed waif who came indifferent as the chilly wind in spring; who went as April shadows go, leaving no trace behind.
We were riding by the High Dutch Church at last, and beyond, between the roads to Duansboro and Cobus-Kill, we saw the tents and huts of the New York brigade — or as much of it as had arrived — from which we expected soon to be detached.
On a cleared hill beyond the Lower Fort, where the Albany Road runs beside the Fox-Kill, we saw the headquarters flag of the 4th brigade, and Major Nicholas Fish at his tent door, talking to McCrea, our brigade surgeon.
Along the stream were the huts lately tenanted by Colonel Philip Van Cortlandt’s Second New York Regiment, which had gone off toward Wyalusing. Schott’s riflemen camped there now, and, as we rode by, the soldiers stared at our Indian. Then we passed Gansevoort’s Third Regiment, under tents and making ready to march; and the log cantonment of Colonel Lamb’s artillery, where the cannoneers saluted, then, for no reason, cheered us. Beyond were camped Alden’s Regiment, I think, and in the rear the Fourth and Fifth New York. A fort flew our own regimental flag beside the pretty banner of our new nation.
“Oho!” said Boyd, with an oath. “I’m damned if I care for barracks when a bed in the open is good enough. Why the devil have they moved us indoors, 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 junior ensign, Benjamin Chambers, a smart young dandy, met us at the guard-house, directed Boyd to Captain Simpson’s log quarters, and then led 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 the promised land.”
“He is staunch, I think,” said I. “But for heaven’s sake, Benny, are we to 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 this pretty and fragrant aborigine down by the river, and lodge him there under your eye and nose and rifle. I admit very freely, Loskiel, no man in Morgan’s envies you your bed-fellow!” And he whisked his nose with a scented 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 your gentle savage,” he added flippantly.
We seated ourselves on the gate-bench to await the Major’s summons; the dandified young ensign crossed the parade, mincing toward the quarters of Major Parr. And I saw him take a pinch o’ the scented snuff he affected, and whisk his supercilious nose again with his laced hanker. It seemed odd that a man like that should have saved our Captain Simpson’s life at Saratoga.
Riflemen, drovers, batt-men, frontier farmers, and some of the dirty flotsam — trappers, forest-runners, and the like — were continually moving about the parade, going and coming on petty, sordid business of their own; and there were women there, too — pallid refugees from distant farms, and now domiciled within the stockade; gaunt wives of neighbouring settlers, bringing baskets of eggs or pails of milk to sell; and here and there some painted camp-wanton lingering by the gateway on mischief bent, or gossiping with some sister trull, their bold eyes ever roving.
Presently our mincing ensign came to us again, saying that the Sagamore and I were to report ourselves to the Major.
“Jimmy Parr is in good humour,” he whispered. “Leave him in that temper, for mercy’s sake, Loskiel; he’s been scarcely amiable since you left to catch this six-foot savage for him.”
He was a brave soldier, our Major, a splendid officer, and a kind and Christian man, but in no wise inclined to overlook the delinquencies of youthful ensigns; and he had rapped our knuckles soundly more than once. 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 we disliked him, among ourselves we would have dubbed him James, intending thereby disrespect; but to us he was Jimmy, flippantly, perhaps, but with a sure affection under all our impudence. And I think, too, that he 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 gave him the officer’s salute, “I have a good report of you from Lieutenant Boyd. I am gratified, Mr. Loskiel, that my confidence in your ability and in your knowledge of the Indians was not misplaced. And you may inform me now, sir, how it is proper for me to address this Indian guide.”
I glanced at Captain Simpson and Lieutenant Boyd, hesitating for a moment. Then I said:
“Mayaro is a Sagamore, Major — a noble and an ensign of a unique clan — the Siwanois, or magic clan, of the Mohican tribe of the great Delaware nation. You may address him as an equal. Our General Schuyler would so address him. The corps of officers in this regiment can scarce do 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 matched it, 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 in council and debate. The Sagamore of the Siwanois Mohicans is welcome in this army and at the headquarters of this regiment. He is now one of us; his pay is the pay of a captain in the rifles. By order of General Clinton, commanding the Fourth, or New York, Brigade, I am requested to say to the Mohican Sagamore that valuable presents will be offered him for his services by General Sullivan, commander-in-chief of this army. These will be given when the Mohican successfully conducts this army to the 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 pledged his word to his younger brother Loskiel. A Mohican Sagamore never lies. Loskiel is my friend. Why should I lie to him? A Sagamore speaks the truth.”
Which was true in a measure, at least as far as wanton or idle lying is concerned, or cowardly lying either, But he had lied to me concerning his knowledge of the strange maid, Lois, which kind of untruth all Indians consider more civil than a direct refusal to answer a question.
Boyd stood by, smiling, as the Major very politely informed me of the disposition he had made of the Sagamore and myself, recommended Mayaro to my most civil attention, and added that, for the present, I was relieved from routine duty with my battalion.
If the Siwanois perceived any undue precaution in the Major’s manner of lodging him, he did not betray by the quiver of an eyelash that he comprehended he was practically under guard. He stalked forth and across the parade beside me, head high, bearing dignified and tranquil.
At the outer gate our junior ensign languidly dusted a speck of snuff from his wristband, and indicated the roof of our hut, which was visible above the feathery river willows. So we proceeded thither, I resigning my horse to the soldier, Mount, who had been holding him, and who was now detailed to act as soldier-servant to me still.
“Jack,” said I, “if there be fresh-baked bread in the regimental ovens yonder, fetch a loaf, in God’s name. I could gnaw black-birch and reindeer moss, so famished am I — and the Sagamore, too, no doubt, could rattle a flam with a wooden spoon.”
But our chief baker was a Low-Dutch dog from Albany; and it was not until 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 he had asked for in vain. And this, with a bit of salt beef and a bowl of fresh milk, satisfied the Siwanois and myself.
I had been relieved of all routine duty, and was henceforth detailed to foregather with, amuse, instruct and casually keep an eye on my Mohican. In other words, my only duty, for the present, was to act as mentor to the Sagamore, keep him pleasantly affected toward our cause, see that he was not tampered with, and that he had his bellyful three times a day. Also, I was to extract from him in advance any information concerning the Iroquois country that he might have knowledge of.
It was a warm and pleasant afternoon along the river where the batteaux, loaded with stores and soldiers, were passing up, and Oneida canoes danced across the sparkling water toward Fort Plain.
Many of our soldiers were bathing, sporting like schoolboys in the water; Lamb’s artillerymen had their horses out to let them swim; many of the troops were washing their shirts along the gravelly reaches, or, seated cross-legged on the bank, were mending rents with needle and thread. Half a dozen Oneida Indians sat gravely smoking and blinking at the scene — no doubt belonging to our corps of runners, scouts, and guides, for all were shaved, oiled, and painted for war, and, under their 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 down the details of the day. This finished, I pouched quill, ink-horn, and journal, and sat a-thinking for a while of that strange maid, and what mischance might come of her woodland roving all alone — with Indian Butler out, and all that vile and painted, blue-eyed crew under McDonald.
Sombre thoughts assailed me there on that sunny July afternoon; I rested my elbow on my knee, forehead pressed against my palm, pondering. And ever within my breast was I conscious of a faint, dull aching — 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 the rudeness with which she used me, I could never seem to understand; for she had done nothing to win even my pity, and she was but a ragged gypsy thing, and had conducted with scant courtesy.
Why had I given her my ring? Was it only because I pitied her and desired to offer her a gift she might sell when necessary? Why had I used her as a comrade — who had been but the comrade of an hour? Why had I been so loath to part with her whom I scarce had met? What was it in her 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 my mind of her!
What possessed me? To what lesser nature in me was such a woman as this appealing? I would have been ashamed to have any officer or man of my corps see me abroad in company with her. I knew it well enough. I knew that if in this girl anything was truly appealing to my unquiet heart I should 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 rosebud lying in my hand, drooping but still fragrant.
Dismiss her from my thoughts I could not. The steady, relentless desire to see her; the continual apprehension that some mischance might overtake her, left me no peace of mind, so that the memory of her, not yet a pleasure even, nagged, nagged, nagged, till every weary nerve in me became unsteady.
I stretched out above the river bank, composing my body to rest — sleep perhaps. But flies and sun kept me awake, even if I could have quieted my mind.
So up again, and walked to the hut door, where within I beheld the Sagamore gravely repainting himself with the terrific emblems of death. He was seated cross-legged on the floor, my camp mirror before him — a superb specimen of manhood, naked save for clout, beaded sporran, and a pair of thigh moccasins, the most wonderful I had ever seen.
I admired his war-girdle and moccasins, speaking somewhat carelessly of the beautiful shell-work designs as “wampum” — an Iroquois term.
“Seawan,” he said coldly, correcting me and using the softer Siwanois term. Then, with that true courtesy which ever seeks to ease a merited rebuke, he spoke pleasantly concerning shell-beads, and how they were made 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 equivalents in English coinage. And so we conducted very politely and agreeably there in the hut, the while he painted himself like a ghastly death, and brightened the scarlet clan-symbol tatooed on his breast by touching its outlines with his brilliant paint. Also, he rebraided his scalp-lock with great care, doubtless desiring that it should appear a genteel trophy if taken from him, and be an honour to his conqueror and himself.
These matters presently accomplished, he drew from their soft and beaded sheaths hatchet and knife, and fell to shining them up as industriously as a full-fed cat polishes her fur.
“Mayaro,” said I, amused, “is a battle then near at hand that you make so 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, my younger brother.”
“Oho!” said I, smiling. “You understood the express rider when he said that Indians had fired on our pickets a week ago!”
The stern and noble countenance of the Sagamore relaxed into the sunniest of smiles.
“My little brother is very wise. He has discovered that the Siwanois have ears like white men.”
“Aye — but, Sagamore, I was not at all certain that you understood in English more than ‘yes’ and ‘no.’”
“Is it because,” he inquired with a merry glance at me, “my brother has only heard as yet the answer ‘no’ from Mayaro?”
I bit my lip, reddened, and then laughed at the slyly taunting reference to my lack of all success in questioning him concerning the little maiden, Lois.
At the same time, I realized on what a friendly footing I already stood with this Mohican. Few white men ever see an Iroquois or a Delaware laugh; few ever witness any relaxation in them or see their coldly dignified features alter, except in scorn, suspicion, pride, and anger. Only in time of peace and amid their own intimates or families do our Eastern forest Indians put off the expressionless and dignified mask they wear, and become what no white man believes them capable of becoming — human, tender, affectionate, gay, witty, talkative, as the moment suits.
