Calico Bush

by Rachel Field

  “I doubt she could do more for him than we’re doin’,” his mother said wearily. “But she’s got more witchhazel, an’ ours is runnin’ low.”

  “We could get you more of the bark to steep,” Marguerite told her. “It will not be flowing now—still, we could cut it roots and all. I could find that place again.”

  Dolly Sargent looked dubious. “I daren’t let you an’ the young ones go so far alone in the woods,” she said. “Much as he needs it, I’d be fearful every moment you were gone.”

  That night Marguerite prayed that the fog might lift. She prayed fervently, with all the phrases she could remember and with many added ones of her own making. But still the wind stayed east and still the thick gray wall of blowing damp pressed up from the water. Joel slept in fitful snatches, with Dolly getting what rest she could as she sat the nights through beside him. She looked nearly as worn as he, and her voice was sharp with anxiety when she spoke to the children. It was two days and two nights since the accident. There was nothing left now with which to dress the injured leg except cold water from the spring. Joel Sargent seemed quieter, but this was from weakness, and he still had spells of wanderings in his mind.

  “I’ve heard Aunt Hepsa say there was healing in that brown kelp down on the beach,” Marguerite suggested on the third morning, when the fog still held. “There’s a lot of it down in the farther cove. Let the children go with me and bring some.”

  “Well, go along then,” Dolly had consented half-heartedly. “It would be coolin’ and no harm to try.”

  Taking the old splint basket, the five set off together with Pumpkin. It was still some hours till noon, and the sun was making valiant attempts to burn off the fog. Their spirits rose somewhat at this and at being away from the house and the sound of Joel’s moans and hard breathing. One of the remaining hens had laid an egg, which was entrusted to Susan’s care.

  “That ought to make him better,” said Becky. “An egg is ’most as good a cure as herbs, I guess.”

  “I had an egg all by myself when I cut my head open,” put in Jacob reminiscently, “an’ it made me well.”

  They moved on more cheerfully after this. Marguerite carried the basket and walked ahead with Patty at her side. They went through a patch of spruce woods near shore because it was easier walking than along the beach. Pumpkin bounded forward, his nose to the ground and his tail alert. Suddenly they saw him stop and sniff, head raised and tail stiffened warningly. A low growl came next, and a shiver passed under the yellow fur along his back. Instantly Marguerite laid her finger to her lips and caught the two younger ones’ hands.

  “Quiet,” she whispered, “there may be danger.”

  A year before they might have run or cried out, but they had learned better now. With the wariness of the woods they drew together in silence. They were almost within sight of the cove. The dog’s head was turned questioningly in that direction even before there came a sound of pebbles striking one against another. Marguerite felt her throat tighten. A chill ran along her spine as she listened with the children’s warm bodies pressing close.

  “Injuns,” she heard Jacob whisper, and she knew that the same dread was on them all.

  “Stay here,” she whispered back, “and keep fast hold of Pumpkin, while I go to look.”

  They stared at her aghast, but she found herself slipping from their clinging hands. Dropping on her knees she began to wriggle towards the bluff above the cove. She knew the scraggling trees at the edge would shield her from sight, and she made for a gap between the spruces. Sharp twigs and roots tore at her hair and face, scratching her bare arms and legs as she crept along by inches.

  “Quiet. Quiet. Quiet,” something seemed to be saying over and over within her, but perhaps it was only the beating of her own heart as she went.

  And now another sound came to her from the woods—a long-drawn call, birdlike, yet human. She shivered to hear it, but still she crept on. Twice the call came, and twice it was answered from the cove below. She was close enough now to peer over the edge. It seemed, in that moment of time that she crouched there, as if the cove were alive with moving brown bodies. Several canoes were beached and others gliding in. She caught the flash of dipping paddles and the brightness of blankets. After that she waited for nothing but sped back to the children.

  They were standing where she had left them in a scared little group with Pumpkin held firmly in their midst. His eyes rolled uneasily though he did not bark. It was as if he sensed the nearness of old enemies, whining in soft distrust.

  “Watch every step,” warned Marguerite. “Do not let a twig snap.”

  Without a word they followed her, taking care to set their bare feet on the moss, avoiding roots and fallen branches. Susan stumbled, breaking the precious egg, but still they hurried on. Once again the queer call was thrown out on the air behind them. It seemed they would never reach the log house, but at last they came out of the woods into the clearing. The sight of the brown logs, the broad doorstep, and the smoke at the chimney gave Marguerite a sense of security, for a moment only.

  Dolly met them at the door with her finger to her lips.

  “He’s just got to sleep in there,” she told them. “Take care not to wake him—”

  Then her face grew pale as she saw their faces and guessed the truth.

  “Injuns—in the cove!” they gasped. “They didn’t see us, not yet!”

  Without a word she dragged them all into the house and barred the door and the inside shutters. Then they drew together, taking counsel in frightened whispers.

  “Shall we get down the musket?” asked Susan.

  “What’s the good?” answered her mother. “There’s not more ’n a charge or two o’ powder left, an’ I’m a poor hand at firin’. How many of ’em did you reckon there was, Maggie?”

  “I do not know,” she told her, “but many in the cove where we go for clams. They were building a fire, and there are more in the woods because they answered the call.

  As she spoke a thought flashed into her mind. It was almost as if she had not thought at all; as if the words she heard herself saying were unknown to her.

  “Maybe they have not come to harm us,” she said. “Maybe if I went down to them with food they would not scalp us or burn the house.”

  Dolly protested and the children clung to her crying, but she kept repeating the idea over and over. Now that it had come she grew more sure of herself. She put aside the children’s hands and moved over to the cupboard. First she lifted out the remaining bag of parched corn, and then as she took up the keg of maple syrup she felt Dolly’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Have you lost your wits?” she heard her saying.

  She shook her head and wiggled away. A queer sense of power possessed her, even when Dolly caught her once more by the shoulders and began to shake her fiercely.

  “You put those things down!” she ordered. “Do you hear what I say?”

  Marguerite shook herself free of the older woman. She stood facing her with the remnants of their food at her feet and a grim determination about her lips.

  “I am going down there,” she said steadily. “If they have come to kill us they will take the things anyway.” The clearness with which she spoke amazed her as much as the others.

  The children stared at her dully, and even Dolly stood still and unprotesting. Joel groaned from the next room, and she returned to his side.

  Marguerite caught up the corn and ran to unbolt the door. “Children,” she said with her hand on the latch, “you do what I tell you, no matter what.”

  “Yes, Maggie,” they piped faintly.

  She signaled them to tie Pumpkin fast inside and then to help her set the food on the doorstep. In silence they did her bidding, their eyes large with terrified curiosity.

  The sun, which had for so long been trying to burn away the fog, had at last succeeded in breaking through. Already the mists were dividing, with blue water and sky showing in ever-widening gaps. The pointed
tops of the highest trees on Sunday Island rose sharply out of the blowing gray. An hour ago they would have hailed this so joyfully, but now there was no time for rejoicing. Even then a dark figure was moving from tree to tree.

  With the fleetness of a shadow it came on toward them, and then all the trees seemed alive with other lean, swift figures. From the house Pumpkin let forth a long, deep wail, and the children shrank together by the doorstep.

  “Allons,” Marguerite told herself, “one must appear brave.”

  After that she was aware only of brown hands into which she doled the corn. She dared not look at the faces above them. She must only watch the kernels, to make them fill all the hands held out to her. But the bag was empty and still they reached out. The hands were plucking at her skirt, insistent and terrifying.

  She wrenched herself free and reached for the syrup bucket and wooden spoon. Dipping this in she brought it up sticky and golden, holding it out with a gesture that brought them clustering like bees round a hive. There would not be enough for all. Of that she was certain as she stood aside watching them jostle and snatch for a taste of the sweet. It did not seem as if they could be real, and yet she knew they must be. There were some eight or ten of them, all tall, strong men, and doubtless more in the cove and woods. She steadied herself against the doorframe while she tried to think what to do next.

  “What’ll we do when it’s gone, Maggie?” the twins whispered, pressing close.

  She looked across to the Channel and Sunday Island, now clear of the fogbank. The Jordan house was plain once more in its green field, and her mind called up a momentary picture of Aunt Hepsa moving in safety about her kitchen or the weaving shed. Only if they saw the log house in flames would the Jordans know what had befallen their neighbors, and then it would be too late. As her eyes traveled sea and shore for some sign of help they lighted on the old pole on the point that Joel and Ira had used for hoisting heavier goods from the beach when they first landed. She remembered how the children had teased their mother to make a Maypole there.

  “A Maypole,” she said aloud, and the next moment she was making for the house and Dolly Sargent’s pine chest.

  The group about the syrup bucket was still busy licking and scraping. But she heard an ugly murmur as she passed. She could not tell what it meant, though she guessed that there was disagreement among them. She caught the flash of a hunting knife stuck in a leather belt and a hatchet in another. If these once came out and there was bloodshed—she shivered and hurried on.

  Dolly stood with the children at the door, ready to bar it at the first sign of attack. Marguerite pressed by them without a word and threw up the lid of the chest. The one remaining dower sheet of white linen lay there along with her length of red cloth from Abby Welles. She seized both and a knife and began hacking and tearing the cloth into long strips. Dolly cried out in dismay and started to go to her. But she dared not leave her place by the door. The linen was so firm and finely woven Marguerite had hard work to tear it to pieces. She clawed in frantic desperation till it yielded to her hands with a ripping noise. After that she waited for nothing but to catch up a hammer and some nails.

  “Come,” she said to the children, “we will have our Maypole now.”

  Already she was out of the door and beckoning to them with the torn strips of linen about her. Dolly called sharply to her to come back, and the children continued to peer at her fearfully, hanging back beside their mother.

  “Quick!” she commanded them, summoning all her power into her voice as she had forced it into her hands when the cloth had resisted her. “You must come!”

  She had no thought beyond time and those brown bodies in the dooryard, yet she found herself working with a strange sureness and speed. The pole had been a tree cut from the nearby woods and was thick and sturdy. Where its branches had been lopped, rough crotches gave her footing. By holding the nails between her teeth and keeping the cloth around her shoulders she was able to climb up. It was not far in actual feet, but no ladder had ever seemed higher. At last her fingers touched the top. She braced her bare feet more firmly in the crotches and called to Susan to climb up after her. Between them they managed to pound the nails into the wood and cloth. The linen strips fluttered limply in the spring breeze, some thin and frayed, others stouter and jaggedly torn, with the one red streamer, knotted in two places to make it long enough, showing like a scarlet thread. Even as she stood there below it Marguerite knew with a queer sense of wonder that there had never been such a Maypole raised before—not in the Old World nor the New.

  It was the last thought of which she was conscious. After that her mind was a confused jumble of pictures in which she saw herself moving as clearly as she saw the rest—the Indians and the children. She remembered the curiously peering black eyes under upstanding crests of hair; and the brightness of knife blades and hatchets all about her. She heard Patty cry out in terror at the touch of brown fingers, and she heard her own voice telling the child to be still.

  “Dance!” she cried to them sharply. “This way!”

  She caught at a streamer and began to go through the motions for them, moving it now under, now over, those beside her. One of the Indians grunted and tried to do likewise. The men’s hands were tugging at the strips of cloth now, and the children were hopping up and down between the brown bodies. It was not easy to hold the strands. Over and over again Marguerite must untangle these and show them how to weave the cloth over one another’s. Jacob and Patty were as awkward as the Indians, who moved round the pole holding fast to their ends of linen with expressions of curious wonder. They were like a lot of grown children pleased with a new game. When one tired, another would take his place, since there were more Indians than pieces of cloth. How the nails held was a marvel to Marguerite. By this time she had given up all idea of braiding the strands round the pole. All that mattered now was that they should continue about it from moment to moment.

  “We cannot stop,” she gasped to the children as she passed them in the dance. “Faster—see!”

  Her own breath came very short, and she could no longer feel her feet moving under her. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders, and she felt Grand’mère’s ring on its cord thumping, thumping under her cotton dress. Drops of sweat rose on her forehead. They ran down her face and into her eyes till she could not tell the children from the Indians moving about her. The sun on the water and the streamers made a dizzy blur.

  “I must go on, I must not stop,” she kept telling herself, though now she hardly remembered the reason why.

  And then there was a sound of ripping cloth and splintering wood, and she knew that the Maypole was toppling. The children’s voices were calling to her through a great buzzing and roaring in her head. She rubbed the wet out of her eyes and tried to go to them, but the Indians were in the way. They were struggling over the wreck of the Maypole. Knives flashed and there were shrill cries as they fought each other to get a piece of the cloth. Marguerite knew there was no time to lose, and she called to the children to follow her.

  She felt herself running with them towards the log house, when a tall brown figure rose up in her path. It was too late to turn back or hide. There was not even time enough to cry out a warning to the children. They crouched at her skirts. She could feel their hot, panting breath behind her, and she knew that they were all waiting for the blow to fall. Why was it so long in falling, she wondered?

  “Noël,” she heard a voice above her say quite clearly, and she looked up into a lean, coppery face with a ragged scar running along one cheek.

  Slowly the chill left her, and it no longer hurt to draw her breath.

  “Do not fear him,” she told the children. “He is a friend.”

  Even as she spoke she saw him point to Oncle Pierre’s gilt button, which he wore proudly among the fringes of his leather coat. He smiled at her and motioned toward the house, making her understand that they were to go back. Already he was moving off to join the others, and still Margueri
te had no breath left to say even a single “merci.”

  Telling their mother of it later in the log house, the twins insisted that Maggie and the strange Indian had talked together in French, but she had no recollection of any but his one word of greeting. Indeed she remembered far less than the children, who told how the other Indians had followed the scar-faced one off into the woods.

  “An’ they all had bits o’ the sheet,” Susan explained. “They must have tore it up into little pieces.”

  Marguerite listened to them dully from the corner where she had flung herself beside Pumpkin. The dog was licking her face, and she knew Dolly hovered between the two rooms, now going to Joel, who had hurt himself badly tearing off his bandages to try and get his musket when he heard the Indians, and now returning to make sure the children were safe again. She heard Dolly speak to her as well as the others, but their words went past her like falling rain. She was too spent to lay hold of their meaning. There seemed to be no feeling left in her—none at all.

  She did not even rouse herself when she heard the twins report that the Jordans’ dory was coming over from Sunday Island; and when Seth and Ethan appeared at the door she still did not stir from the floor. They had come because they had seen a flutter of white from the point. They had not been able to make it out, but they had guessed that something queer was going on. Their faces were grave as they went in to look at Joel’s crushed leg and listen to Dolly and the children.

  “You mean to tell me she went out there an’ passed food to those Injuns an’ then rigged that Maypole an’ got ’em dancin’ round it?” Seth Jordan’s voice came breaking through the haze that had settled over Marguerite.

  “Yes, she done it,” she heard Dolly’s voice making reply. “She saved us, all by herself.”

  “It’s a miracle—sure,” Seth was saying. “I guess there ain’t many girls would be so brave.”

  Marguerite shook off the heaviness long enough to answer them.

  “I did not feel brave,” she admitted from her corner.