Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  The last belt was passed, flashing through the smoke; the chief sachem of the Cayugas rose to receive it, a tall, withered man of the Wolf tribe, painted and draped in scarlet. His dim, wrinkled eyes peered at me through the smoke.

  For a long time the silence was broken only by the rustling flames between us; then the old man placed the belt at his feet, straightened up, and spoke feebly:

  “Brother: It is to be known that the Six Nations never meet in council when mourning, until some brother speaks as you have spoken.

  “Brother: We mourn great men dead. Our Father, through you, our Elder Brother, has purified our fires, our throats, our eyes. Where the dead sat among us, three tribes have you raised up.

  “Brother: Listen attentively!”

  Behind him from the great painted lodge nine Indian boys entered the fire-circle and stood proudly with folded arms and heads erect. And the old sachem, in his scarlet robes, laid his shaking hand on each youth as he passed, always turning his aged eyes to peer at me as he repeated in his feeble, cracked voice of a child:

  “We acquaint you that one of our sachems, called Quider, 187 is dead; we raise up this boy in his place and give him the same name.”

  And, after each boy had been named from one of the dead Cayugas, he gave me a string of wampum to confirm it, while the chant of condolence rose from the seated chiefs and sachems, a never-ending repetition of brave histories, and prophecy of brave deeds from the beginning of all things through the stilled centuries into the far future locked in silence.

  Hour after hour I stood with bent head and arms folded on my breast. Sometimes I prayed as I stood, that evil be averted from these wards of our King; sometimes I grew hot with anger at the men who could so vilely misuse them.

  Dreaming there amid the scented birch-smoke, the chant intoning with the mourning pines, sombre visions took shape within my brain. I could not lay these ghosts, awful spectres of ruin and death crowding around a pallid, flabby, toothless creature of silks and laces, my Lord Dunmore, smirking at Terror wearing the merciless mask of Butler.

  Around me the ceremony of condolence seemed to change to the sinister and grotesque Honnonouaroria or Dream Feast, with its naked demons hurling fire-brands; I swayed where I stood, then stumbled back out of the scented smoke which had nigh stupefied me. I opened my eyes dizzily. My ears were ringing with the interminable chant:

  “Sah-e-ho-na,

  Sah-e-ho-na.”

  I crossed my arms and waited, careful to keep out of the sweet smoke which had stolen away my senses and set me dreaming of horrors.

  The sun hung above the pines; a slender purple cloud belted it, a celestial belt in pledge of promised storms, gathering somewhere beyond the world’s green rim.

  I watched the cloud growing; the sun died out through a golden smother from which plumes of vapour swept over the heavens, thickening till all the sky was covered with painted fleece. And, as I watched the storm’s banners hanging from midheaven, the chant ended, and, in silence, three chiefs arose and moved towards me through the smoke. One by one they 188 spoke to me, naming themselves: Yellow Hand, Tamarack, the ancient sachem robed in scarlet, and lastly the war-chief, Sowanowane.

  It was Tamarack who continued:

  “Brother: We have heard. The Three Ensigns of our nation have heard.”

  (A belt.)

  “Brother: We all bear patiently this great wrong done us by Colonel Cresap. We are patient because Sir William asks it of us. But under these tall pines around us lie hatchets, buried deep among the pine-trees’ roots. See, brother! Our hands are clean. We have not dug in the earth for hatchets.”

  (A belt of seven.)

  “Brother: We pray that our elder cousin, Lord Dunmore, will remove from us his agent Greathouse. We pray that no more spirits be sold to the Cayugas. We pray this because we cannot resist an offered cup. We pray this because we drink — and die. It is death to us, death to our children, death to our nation.”

  (A black belt.)

  “Brother: Bear our belts to our Father, Sir William Johnson, and to our elder cousin, Lord Dunmore. Intercede with them that they may heed our prayers.”

  (A bunch of three.)

  “Brother: Depart in health and honour, bearing these sacred belts of peace—”

  A frightful scream cut him short; scream after scream arose from the hidden lodges.

  The assembly, gathered at the sanctuary of the council-fire, rose in a body, blankets falling to the ground, paralyzed, silent, while the horrid screaming rose to an awful, long-drawn shriek.

  Somebody was coming — somebody plodding heavily, shrieking at every step, nearer, nearer — an old woman who staggered out into the circle of the council, dragging the limp body of a young girl.

  “Nine!” she gasped. “Nine slain at dawn by Greathouse! Nine of the family of Logan! Look, you wise men and sachems! Look at Logan’s child! Dead! Slain by Greathouse! Nine! Mother and children lie by the road, slain 189 as they slept; slain, sleeping the poisoned sleep of Greathouse! Dead! Dead! Dead!”

  Stupidly the sachems stared at the naked corpse, flung on the blankets at their feet. The scented smoke curled over the murdered child, blowing east and south.

  Dry-eyed, sick with horror, I moved forward, and the stir seemed to arouse the sachems. One by one they looked down at the dead, then turned their flashing eyes on me. I strove to speak; I could not utter a sound.

  The old sachem bent slowly and took a handful of ashes from the cold embers. Then, rubbing them on his face, he flung down every belt I had given him and signed to me to do the same with the belts delivered to me.

  When I had dropped the last belt, Yellow Hand made a sign, and every chief, save Sowanowane, the war-chief, covered his head with his blanket. I fixed my eyes on the war-chief, dreading lest he hurl a red belt at my feet. But he only bent his head, bidding me depart with a gesture. And I went, stunned by the calamity that had come as lightning to blast the work I had done.

  As I dragged myself back, heart-broken, leaden-footed, behind me I heard the death-wail rising in the forest, the horrid screaming of women, the fierce yelps of the young men, the thump! thump! thump! of the drum, dry and sharp as a squirrel’s barking.

  Utterly overwhelmed by the catastrophe, I wandered aimlessly into the forest and sat down. Hour after hour I sat there, and my shocked senses strove only to find some way to avert the consequences of the deed wrought by Greathouse. But the awful work had been done; the Gordian knot cut; my Lord Dunmore’s war had begun at last, in deference to my Lord Dunmore’s desires, and in accordance with his plans. Now, Cresap must fight; now, the Six Nations would rise to avenge the Cayugas on the colonies; now, the King of England would have the savage allies he desired so ardently, and the foul pact would be sealed with the blood of Logan’s children!

  “Never, by God’s grace!” I cried out, in my agony; and I stumbled to my feet, my head burning and throbbing as though it would burst. The woods had grown dim; the day 190 was already near its end — this bloody day! this sad day which had dawned so hopefully for all! Suddenly I began running through the forest, gnashing my teeth and cursing the King whom such servants as Dunmore served.

  “Faster, oh, faster,” I muttered, as I ran; “faster to slay this devil, Butler, who has counselled Greathouse to this deed!”

  Again and again I stumbled and fell, but rose, not feeling the bruises, crazed to do vengeance on the wicked men who outraged God by living. But truly, vengeance is the Lord’s, and He alone may repay, nor was I the instrument He chose for His wrath. Swiftly I ran, swifter ran His purpose; for, behold! a man rose up in my path and held me fast, a soldier, who shook me and shouted at me until my senses, which had sped before me with my vengeance, halted and returned. Presently I began to understand his words, and listened.

  “Are ye mad?” he repeated. “Can’t ye see the savages across the river following? The Cayugas are loose on the Ohio! It is war!”

  Other men crept up and dropped into cover behi
nd the trees around me; some were colonial soldiers, some farmers from the camp, some hunters in wool shirts and caps. All at once I saw Colonel Cresap come out into the trail close by, and, when he perceived me, he cried: “Logan’s children have been murdered by Greathouse! The Cayugas are swarming on the Ohio!”

  I hastened to his side and begged him to let me carry his promise to the Cayugas that Greathouse should be punished, and that his colonists would retire. He shook his head.

  “Greathouse has fled to Pittsburg,” he said. “I cannot retire with my people because they would not follow me. It is too late, Mr. Cardigan; Dunmore has sprung his trap. Ha! Look at that!” And he turned and shouted out an order to the soldiers around.

  A dozen savages, naked to the waist, were fording the Ohio between us and the settlement. Already the soldiers were running through the woods along the river to head them off, and Cresap started after them, calling back for those who remained to guard the trail in the rear. Then a rifle went 191 bang! among the trees; another report rang out, followed instantly by twenty more in a volley.

  Down a low oak ridge, close by, I saw an Indian tumbling like a stone till he fell with a splash into a mossy hollow full of rain-water and dead leaves. After him bounded a hunter in buckskins, long knife flashing.

  “Cresap!” I panted, “don’t let him take that scalp! Have your men gone mad? You can stop this war! It is not too late yet, but a scalp taken means war — God in heaven! a scalp means war to the death!”

  “Don’t touch that scalp!” roared Cresap, hurrying towards the ranger, who was kneeling on one knee beside the dead Cayuga. “Nathan Giles! Do you hear me? Let that scalp alone, you bloody fool!”

  It was too late; the ranger squatted, wrenching the scalp free with a ripping sound, just as Cresap ran up in a towering rage.

  “They take ours,” remonstrated the ranger, tying the ghastly trophy to his belt by its braided lock of hair; “I guess I have a right to scalp my own game!” he added, sullenly.

  Cresap turned to me with a gesture of despair.

  “You see,” he said; and walked slowly away towards the river, where the rifles were ringing out shot on shot across the shoals below the shallow camp-ford on the edge of the roaring riffles.

  So now, at last, Lord Dunmore’s war had begun without hope of mediation. Too late now for embassy of peace, too late for truce or promises or the arbitration of fair speech. There is nothing on earth to compensate for a scalp taken, save a scalp taken in return. I had failed — failed totally, and without hope of retrieving failure. The first attempt must be the last. A scalp had been taken. My mission was at an end.

  Ay, ended irrevocably now, for all around me firelocks and rifles were banging; the woods swam in smoke; the war-yelp sounded nearer and nearer; the white cross-belts of the soldiers glimmered through the trees.

  Too miserable to shun danger, I sat down on a stone in the trail, my head in my hands, rifle across my knees. Presently 192 a soldier who had been standing near me, firing across the river, fell down with a grunt and lay there flat on his back.

  I stared at him stupidly, not realizing that the man was dead, though out of his head crawled a sluggish, dark red stream, dropping steadily onto the withered leaves. It was only when a swift, dusky shape came creeping out of the brush towards the dead man that I came to my senses and dropped behind the stone I had been resting on, barely in time, too, for a bullet came smack! against my rock, and after it, bounding and yelping, flew an Indian. He was on me ere I could fire, one sinewy fist twisted in my hair, but his knife snapped off short on my rifle-stock, and together, over and over we rolled, down a ravine among the willows, clawing, clutching, strangling each other, till of a sudden my head struck a tree, crack! And I knew nothing after that until the cool rain beating in my face awoke me. I lay very still, listening.

  Somebody near by was trying to light a fire; I smelled the flint and the glowing tinder. Another odour hung heavily in the moist night air, the wild, rank scent of savage men, strong and unmistakable as the odour of a dog-fox in March.

  I began to move noiselessly, working my head around so that I might see. My head was aching heavily; I could scarce stir it. At length I raised myself on my hands, and saw the spark from a flint fly into a ball of dry moss and hang there like a fire-fly until the tiny circle of light spread slowly into a glow, ringed with little flames that ate their way through the tinder-moss.

  A tufted head bobbed down beside the flame; unseen lips blew the fire into a sudden blaze which brightened and flashed up, throwing ruddy shadows over bush and earth.

  Then I saw that I lay on a hill-top in the rain, with dark, shaggy bushes hedging me. And under every bush crouched an Indian, whose dusky, half-naked body glistened with paint, over which rain-drops stood in brilliant beads.

  Leggings, clouts, sporrans, and moccasins were soaked; the slippery, wet buckskins glistened like the hides of serpents; fringes, beaded belts, and sheaths shone as tinted frost sparkles at sunrise.

  In the luminous shadow of the bushes I saw brilliant eyes watching me as I dragged myself nearer the fire. The red embers’ glow fell on steel blades of hatchets, bathing them with blood-colour to the hilts.

  Once, when I attempted to sit up, an arm shot out of the shadow, making the sign for silence; and mechanically I repeated the signal and laid my head down again on the cool, wet ground.

  All night I lay, perfectly conscious, beside the Cayuga fire, yet not alarmed, although a prisoner.

  The Cayugas knew me as a belt-bearer from Sir William; they could not ill-treat me. Tamarack, Yellow Hand, and Sowanowane would vouch for me to this party of young men who had taken me. I had harmed none of them; I had barely defended my life when attacked.

  As I lay there on the windy hill-top, through the rain across the dim valley I could see the battle-lanthorns hanging on Cresap’s fort, and I could hear the preparations for a siege, the hammering and chopping and cries of teamsters, the rumble of wagons over the drawbridge, the distant challenge of guards, the murmur and dulled tumult of many people hastening urgent business.

  Beside me, on their haunches, crouched my captors, alert and curious, dressing their ears to the distant noises. There were eleven of them, young men with all their lives before them in which to win the eagle’s plume; eleven lithe, muscular young savages, stripped to the belt, well oiled, crowns shaved save for the lock, and every man freshly painted for war. All wore the Wolf.

  He who had taken me, now carried my pouch and powder-horn and bore my rifle. A scalp hung at his yellow girdle, doubtless the scalp of the soldier who had been shot beside me in the trail. I could smell the pomatum on the queue.

  I spoke to them calmly, and at first they seemed inclined to listen, appearing surprised at my knowledge of their tongue. But they would reply to none of my questions, and finally they silenced me with sullen threats, which, however, did not disturb me, as I knew their sachems must set me free.

  My head ached a great deal from the blow I had suffered; 194 I was willing enough to lie quietly and watch the lights in the fort through the slow veil of falling rain; and presently I fell asleep.

  The hot glare of a torch awoke me. All around me crowded masses of savages, young and old, women and youths and children. The woods vomited barbarians; they came in packs, moving swiftly, muttering to each other, and hastening as though on some pressing affair.

  Women near me were digging a hole, and presently came a strong young girl, bearing a post of buckeye, and set it heavily in the hole, fitting it while the others stamped in the mud around it with naked feet.

  The main crowd, however, had surged down into a hollow to the left, and, as I lay on the ground, watching the shadowy, retreating throng, of a sudden came three Indians driving before them a white man, arms tied, bloodless face stamped with horror indescribable.

  As he passed the fire where I lay, I thought his starting eyes met mine, but he staggered on without speaking, down into the darkness of the hollow. I knew him.
He was Nathan Giles, who had taken the first scalp in Lord Dunmore’s war.

  Shuddering, I sat up, turning my head towards the gloom below. There was not a sound. I waited, straining eyes and ears. My heart drummed on my ribs. I caught my breath and clinched my hands.

  Without the slightest warning, the black pit below burst out in a sheet of light, shining on a thousand motionless savages; and in the centre of the glare I saw a naked figure, bound to a tree, twisting through smoke-shot flames.

  For a second only the scene wavered before me; then I gripped my temples and pressed my face down into the cool, wet grass. Awful cries rang in my ears; the garrison at the fort heard them, too, for they fired a cannon, and I heard distant drums beating to arms.

  “Thus you are to die,” repeated the Indians beside me. “Thus you will die here on this hill at dawn. Thus you will suffer in plain view of the fort! This for the death of Logan’s children!”

  And one to another they said: “He is weeping. He is a woman. He will weep thus when he burns.”

  I heard them, but what they said left my mind numbed and cold. For me there was no meaning in their words; none at all. My ears shrank from the awful cries, now piercing the very clouds above me, hell’s own solo accompanied by the ceaseless, solemn murmur of the rain.

  Into my nostrils crept the stench of burnt flesh; it grew stronger and stronger. Silence fell, soothed by the whispering rain; then out of the night came the dull noise of many people stirring. They were coming!

  As I rose, a Cayuga youth seized me and threw me heavily against the post I had seen the woman embed in the mud. I fought and strained and writhed, but they tied me, bracing me up stiff against the wet stake, trussed like a fowl for basting.

  Around me the crowd was thickening; hundreds of tongues loaded me with insults; thrice a young girl reached out and struck me in the face.

  They had begun piling wood around my feet, and stuffing the spaces full of dry moss, but before the heap reached my knees they decided to face me towards the fort, so the work accomplished had to be undone, my bonds loosened and retied, and my body shifted to breast the south.