Some twenty of the Norridgewocks came to the river to see us disembark, Manatqua among them, and it seemed to me they proposed to prevent us from landing. They gathered in a half-circle on the pebbly shore and stared at us grimly, with no signs of welcome in their faces. My father drew out his Norridgewock belt and stepped from the canoe, holding the belt toward Manatqua, and said the Abenaki words of greeting—“You are my friend.”
Now the answer to this should be: “Truly, I am your friend!” but Manatqua did not say the words, only felt meditatively of his scalp-lock and said, “We have looked for you during the passage of ten suns,” this being their flowery and pompous way of speaking.
“Cousin,” said my father, continuing to dangle his belt before Manatqua, “I bring you the belt given to me by your people for sending corn when you had neither corn nor skins with which to buy it. Now when I come again with your belt, I am met with sour faces, as though I had poured sand in your sweetened bear’s fat.
“Cousin, I do not need to be a wise man to know that you have talked with the Frenchman Guerlac, and that he has lied to you about me. You have taken the word of a stranger concerning a friend to whom you have given a belt. You have done this without waiting to hear the explanation of the friend. It is not to the honor of Manatqua or the Norridgewock tribe that they should flutter to every wind that blows, like smoke above a wigwam.”
My father stopped and looked around the half-circle of faces, then dropped the wampum belt back into his shirt.
“You,” he said to Manatqua again, “are my friend.”
“Truly,” Manatqua replied grudgingly, “I am your friend, but the French are the brothers of Manatqua and his people. My friend has insulted our brother the French captain and lifted the knife against another brother who went from these lodges to St. Francis, wounding him so sorely that he must lie on his face in pain.”
My father made an impatient gesture. “Cousin,” he said, “the brother from St. Francis was unwilling to sit in your own lodges, and so went to St. Francis. Why, then, do you cry out because I make him unable to sit in a canoe?”
Now the frequency with which the braves from Norridgewock were leaving the tribe and departing for St. Francis was in no way pleasing to the Abenakis who remained behind, even though those who went were usually headstrong and quarrelsome; so there was silence at my father’s words until a squaw at the back of the circle tittered loudly and vainly attempted to cover the titter with a cough.
Manatqua glowered at the titterer, but spoke to us. “Cousins, come to the Long House where we can talk in peace, without the squalling of jays to distract us.”
He set off for the cabins, my father and I with him, while Natawammet and Woromquid and Hobomok carried our canoe to an empty cabin and overturned it above our packs.
My father lost no time. I heard him say to Manatqua: “Cousin, there came a man from Boston to my wigwam some moons ago, wearing fine hair on his head. The hair did not belong to him, yet it seemed to be real. Each morning he put on the hair, holding it to his head with a wafer of wax, and each night he put it off; yet no wind could blow it from him.”
“M’téoulin!” the sachem cried, fingering his scalp-lock.
“No,” my father said, “it is the habit of the Bostoners to make these things, as they make shirts. If beaver skins should be sent to me by your braves, and you should return to Arundel with me to receive money and paint and shirts in payment, I could send a letter to Boston demanding that hair of this sort be returned for your wearing.”
“Brother,” the sachem asked, “what color is the hair?”
“The color you wish,” my father said. “Black or white; or red, for that matter, unless you desire blue or green.”
The sachem made no answer, but it seemed to me an eager light gleamed in his eye. He despatched a boy to ring the bell on the church, so that the braves might be summoned to a council; and all of us went to the council cabin, which was no larger than the other cabins, but contained more skins to sit on, and smelled more powerfully, though not badly enough to cause more than a heavy feeling in the head. My father had with him a rope of tobacco, and this he gave to Manatqua, who crumbled a part of it into a bowl containing powdered sumach leaves and red willow bark, which makes tobacco more to the taste of the Abenakis, though for my part the odor of the mixture is like a hot shoe pressed against a horse’s hoof.
When the pipe had been smoked Manatqua spoke to my father more amiably.
“You are our friend,” Manatqua said. “This we knew many years ago because of the winter when you gave us corn to replace the seed that was eaten. Also, we know it from our brothers on Swan Island, where you lived among our people and gave good advice. But twelve suns ago this Frenchman came here with eight of our brothers from St. Francis and a small child. He showed us the marks on his braves, and the torn ear and cheek you had inflicted on him without warning. Since we are his brothers in war, he laid upon us the duty of turning you back if you came in pursuit, or of raising the hatchet against you if you persisted in going on. This, he told us, would bring us great rewards from the white chief in Quebec.
“Cousin, you have been our brother in past years, and we cannot raise the hatchet against you. Yet if we do not turn you back we will suffer in two ways. We suffer now from the Bostonnais, who push farther and farther into our lands, building forts and destroying the game, so that we feed ourselves with greater and greater difficulty. If we do not turn you back, then the white chief in Quebec will send war parties against us, or close his lands to us when we have been crowded from these.
“Cousin, you can see empty cabins around you. When last you came among us, they were filled with braves. They have gone to St. Francis to live under the white chief in Quebec, for here they have been robbed of their hunting by your brothers from the south.
“Cousin, these are the thoughts in our minds. Now we will hear your thoughts.”
If I had been skilled in reading faces, I would have known, even before my father began to speak, that there was no anger against him among the Abenakis; for their heads were dropped a little forward and their lips not tightly closed as they looked up at him, showing they listened gladly to his words. But at that time I was too young to know, and so shivered for fear we would not be let to go in pursuit of Mary.
My father wore his Norridgewock belt tied around his arm, so that when he shook his fist at them, which he did to strengthen his statements, their own hieroglyphics of gratitude flashed blue and white and black before them.
“Brothers,” he said, “I have many times heard bitter words on the tongues of the Abenaki people because white men are liars. That is good. I have dealt with you and I have dealt with your brothers on Swan Island, not only in the buying of skins but in the giving of advice, and you know whether or not I am a liar.
“Now the French captain who came among you was a liar. I do not say he was a liar in all things. I do not say he lied to you about his name and about his business, though he may have done even that. Tell me, my brother, how he called himself, so I may know whether he lied in this also.”
“He did not lie,” said Manatqua craftily, “because we asked separately of our brothers from St. Francis who accompanied him. It was as he said. He is Henri Guerlac de Sabrevois, a captain in the regiment of Béarn, a wealthy captain with estates across the water, though he has bought a seigneurie on the Island of Orleans.”
My father shook his head reluctantly. “In this he was no liar, but it is probable he lied about his business.”
“No, no!” Manatqua said. “He pursued an officer of Rogers’ Rangers—may the Weewillmekq’ devour them! We saw the very man. He passed this point at the end of Wikkaikizoos, the moon in which there are heaps of eels on the sand. He stopped to pitch the seams of his canoe; then vanished like the shadow of a cloud. A Mohegan from Stockbridge paddled him in a small canoe, light as a feather.”
My father laughed. “An officer of Rogers’ Rangers! A likely tale! What was h
e doing here? Hunting the magic pouch of Glooskap?” At his words, his hearers laughed as well; for according to the Abenaki tale, the magic pouch of Glooskap is filled with hundreds of beautiful girls, all eager to overwhelm with love the rash person who releases them.
Manatqua shook his head. “He traveled to Quebec, bearing a letter to the white chief Wolfe from the white chief Amherst at Crown Point. He would have gone by the Richelieu and the St. Lawrence, but that road was blocked by Bourlamaque and his French regiments, who occupied Isle Aux Noix. Therefore he took the other road—from Crown Point to Massachusetts; thence up the Kennebec, over the Height of Land and down the Chaudière.”
My father stared hard at Manatqua. “And Guerlac knew about this officer of Rangers?” he asked incredulously.
Manatqua looked uncomfortable. “He knew. He knew, even, of the letter that the officer carried. All things, he said, were known to him and to the white chief in Quebec.”
My father smiled pityingly at Manatqua; then sadly turned his eyes to the red men who sat before him. “Brothers,” he said, “listen to me. The words of the French captain were foolish words. He is a foolish man, without sense. He spoke foolishly to you, and he behaved foolishly to me. Judge, yourselves, of his foolishness. Not long since he came unheralded to my inn; and such was his folly that he held us in contempt, as being ignorant folk. His tongue wagged like that of Kwe-moo the loon, until all of us were in a rage at the foolishness of his speech.
“Among us was a rash man, such as you have among you. When the Frenchman taunted him, the rash one rose up and threw him in the mud of the creek.”
The Abenakis laughed and slapped themselves; for it pleases them to see others thrown in the mud.
“Brothers, continue to listen,” said my father. “Having eight braves with him, the Frenchman attacked an unarmed man and stole his daughter, my son’s friend. We pursued him, my son and I, to bring back the daughter. We fought him, and came within a whisker of wiping him out. Now he complains to you that the attack was unjust.
“Is it unfair for my son and me to attack nine warriors? If this is unfair, then I am a giant, as great as the great lord Glooskap!
“The Frenchman lied to you about this, Brothers! He lied to you about what the white chief in Quebec would do for you. To-day, in Quebec, there is a French chief, Vaudreuil. He, too, is a foolish man, for he is dishonest, and steals the food from the mouths of his children. His white children do not grow in numbers, as do those of the white father in England. We do not need to look on the shoulder blade of a wildcat to know what must happen in Quebec. In a few moons, though I do not know how many, the children of the white father in England will push the French chief into the sea, and there will be no French chief in Quebec. Because I am your friend I advise you that nothing be done to arouse the anger of the children of the white father in England. In numbers they will be like the salmon that come up out of the sea in Amusswikizoos, the moon of fish-catching.
“And now listen to one more word, my brothers. I go north; for it is something that must be done. Soon I shall return. If your beaver skins are saved for me, and otter skins, especially sea otter, I will buy them from you, taking Manatqua to Arundel to receive money and goods in exchange. I will pay you double the price paid by the traders of the Massachusetts Company.
“For beaver I will pay you eight shillings a pound, or two knives; or one tomahawk for two pounds, a shirt for four pounds, a pair of pantaloons for five pounds, a blanket for ten pounds, a musket for twenty pounds, and other things in proportion. These are good prices. They are the prices I pay my Abenaki brothers from Ossipee; and since the winter is before you, there is time for you to take many skins in addition to those you sell to me. These others you can sell to the company or to Clark and Lake, and so will not arouse their anger. Brothers, I have finished.”
My father sat down, and there was silence in the council house while the braves counted on their fingers. After Manatqua had felt his scalp-lock, he rose pompously and burst into an oration, in which he made the usual hullabaloo about land that had been stolen from the Abenakis, and about the bravery of their brothers the French, and about the bravery of the Abenakis, along with several pointed references to his own bravery and his skill as a hunter, after which he spoke bitterly about white men who lie to their Abenaki brothers and thus forfeit fraternal rights.
He closed by declaring the words of the white brother from the south to be honorable and wise. He had no doubt his braves would consent to send their beaver skins to Arundel. He himself, even, would return with the white brother and bring back paint and muskets and shirts to comfort his people during the coming snows.
These words were received with such yells of pleasure that my eardrums rang; and immediately there was preparation for a feast and a dance.
The mist that rises from the Kennebec in the autumn is one that bites into the bones; therefore the squaws built fires on the unpaved street between the houses, so that we could sit along them on either side. Mats of rushes were brought from the cabins to give us seats. Over the fires were hung pots, hominy in one and trouts in another and venison in a third. On iron plates they made pone, which the squaws make thin and crisp out of corn, first crushing the corn on a large rock with a small rock.
After the feast had been cleared away, the braves danced the Beaver Dance, which is danced only in the autumn before they go to hunt the beaver.
Hanging from their belts, when they danced, the braves wore beaver skins; and bound around their heads were dried flags, while in their hands they carried sticks of white birch, which they clattered in unison. The squaws, seated in a long row between the fires and the dancers, beat on drums with gourds filled with dried peas, thus making the noise of water trickling over the beaver dam; and to imitate the sound of the beaver slapping the water with his tail, they slapped themselves violently on the thighs.
Around the dancers circled two m’téoulins, wearing wolverine skins hanging from their heads. These, said Hobomok, represented Lox, the Indian devil, a mischievous animal. They played tricks on the dancers and the squaws, clown-like, so that I laughed until my head hurt. Hobomok said they were not as skillful in their merrymaking as they might have been. The m’téoulins of the Norridgewocks, he declared, had lost their skill at m’téoulin because of the many years that the tribe had asked help from Father Rale’s God instead of depending on reliable m’téoulins. His own father, he said, was a great merrymaker; if I should see him taking the part of Lox in the Beaver Dance, I would ache all over from laughing.
I have since noticed, however, that Hobomok was critical of all m’téoulin except his father’s and his own, and I have had occasion to think that if it had not been for his loyalty he would even have carped at his father’s magic.
Manatqua went with us to our cabins after the dance, fingering his scalp-lock, and asked my father whether it would be possible for him to have two heads of hair from Boston, one black and one vermilion. My father told him he would arrange for the two scalps, and would even, if he wished it, get him one that would be spotted like the skin of a young fawn, or ringed in circles of different colors, which was only permitted to chiefs of the most important station. Later my father told me that he would not offer so much as a chipmunk skin for the life of any brave who attempted to prevent Manatqua from accompanying him back to Arundel.
The squaws gave us hominy and pone at daybreak the next morning; for hunting parties were already starting upstream with the intention of swinging northwestward from the Kennebec onto the Carrabasset and into a country full of beaver. By sun-up we had carried around the falls; nor did we mind when cold gray clouds shut down on us, for the river became rougher and the carries longer and more frequent, and we had little opportunity to become chilled.
Ten leagues we made the first day; and Hobomok, running ahead of the canoe at the carries, killed twelve partridges and a raccoon for supper. We camped that night by the brook at the foot of the sugar-loaf mountain, where the Kenne
bec turns off to the eastward; and to the westward lies the twelve-mile carry that leads to Dead River. We lay on spruce boughs with a fire at our feet, all of us close together. There was a spit of snow in the air, and a dank chill that bit into us. When we untangled ourselves the next morning there was a glare in our eyes; for the first snow of the year clung to the pines, and flakes were still falling.
We lost no time getting our lines in the water. Hobomok pounced on the trouts as we threw them on the bank behind us, stripped them with his thumb, spitted them on a maple wand, and hung them by the fire.
We traveled fast over the carry, with dry moccasins; for the snow had not penetrated beneath the towering pines.
While the day was yet young we dropped our canoe into Bog Brook and pushed down it to the black and sluggish current of Dead River. That river, the west branch of the Kennebec, winds like a serpent in the direction of the distant place that every traveler to Quebec most deeply dreads—the Height of Land.
Toward noon we reached a high point that thrust itself into Dead River from the north, so that the river makes a half-circle around it. Here, the snow having stopped, we landed to build a fire and eat warm food. As was his habit, my father raised his head slowly above the level of the high ground, hoping to surprise a deer or moose. Then, to my consternation, he yelled horribly, leaped up the bank, and dashed across the flat land beyond.
Following him up, I saw, against a growth of pines at the back edge of the open point, an Indian youth, long and scrawny, naked except for a belt cloth and moccasins, clinging to the neck of a young buck and striving to drive a knife into its throat. The buck leaped and pitched. While I watched and primed my musket the arm of the Indian youth slipped from the buck’s neck, and he fell. A hoof slashed down across his side, and as if by magic the trampled snow around him was crimson with blood. The buck reared again. My father shouted and waved his arms, having covered less than half the distance.
Knowing the hoofs of a deer are sharp as a scalping knife, I shot at its shoulder before it could slash a second time. By good fortune the ball struck its shoulder blade, and it fell down across the boy. My father cut its throat and pulled it off the Indian, who was Hobomok’s age or thereabouts. We took him under the arms and dragged him to dry ground under a clump of spruces.
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