Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Where their pathway entered the alders, below the lane, they vanished from our sight; and, leaving Mount to watch I went back to the house, to search it thoroughly from cellar to the dark garret beneath the eaves.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon Sir George and Magdalen Brant had not returned. I called Mount into the house, and we cooked some eggs and johnny-cake to stay our stomachs. An hour later I sent Mount out to make a circle of a mile, strike the Iroquois trail and hang to it till dark, following any traveller, white or red, who might be likely to lead him towards the secret trysting-place of the False-Faces.

  Left alone at the house, I continued to rummage, finding nothing of importance, however; and towards dusk I came out to see if I might discover Sir George and Magdalen Brant. They were not in sight. I waited for a while, strolling about the deserted garden, where a few poppies turned their crimson disks towards the setting sun, and a peony lay dead and smelling rank, with the ants crawling all over it. In the mellow light the stillness was absolute, save when a distant white-throat’s silvery call, long drawn out, floated from the forest’s darkening edge.

  The melancholy of the deserted home oppressed me, as though I had wronged it; the sad little house seemed to be watching me out of its humble windows, like a patient dog awaiting another blow. Beacraft’s worn coat and threadbare vest, limp and musty as the garments of a dead man, hung on a peg behind the door. I searched the pockets with repugnance and found a few papers, which smelled like the covers of ancient books, memoranda of miserable little transactions — threepence paid for soling shoes, twopence here, a penny there; nothing more. I threw the papers on the grass, dipped up a bucket of well-water, and rinsed my fingers. And always the tenantless house watched me furtively from its humble windows.

  The sun’s brassy edge glittered above the blue chain of hills as I walked across the pasture towards the path that led winding among the alders to the brook below. I followed it in the deepening evening light and sat down on a log, watching the water swirling through the flat stepping-stones where trout were swarming, leaping for the tiny winged creatures that drifted across the dusky water. And as I sat there I became aware of sounds like voices; and at first, seeing no one, I thought the noises came from the low bubbling monotone of the stream. Then I heard a voice murmuring: “I will do what you ask me — I will do everything you desire.”

  Fearful of eavesdropping, I rose, peering ahead to make myself known, but saw nothing in the deepening dusk. On the point of calling, the words died on my lips as the same voice sounded again, close to me:

  “I pray you let me have my way. I will obey you. How can you doubt it? But I must obey in my own way.”

  And Sir George’s deep, pleasant voice answered: “There is danger to you in this. I could not endure that, Magdalen.”

  They were on a path parallel to the trail in which I stood, separated from me by a deep fringe of willow. I could not see them, though now they were slowly passing abreast of me.

  “What do you care for a maid you so easily persuade?” she asked, with a little laugh that rang pitifully false in the dusk.

  “It is her own merciful heart that persuades her,” he said, under his breath.

  “I think my heart is merciful,” she said— “more merciful than even I knew. The restless blood in me set me afire when I saw the wrong done to these patient people of the Long House.... And when they appealed to me I came here to justify them, and bid them stand for their own hearths.... And now you come, teaching me the truth concerning right and wrong, and how God views justice and injustice; and how this tempest, once loosened, can never be chained until innocent and guilty are alike ingulfed.... I am very young to know all these things without counsel.... I needed aid — and wisdom to teach me — your wisdom. Now, in my turn, I shall teach; but you must let me teach in my way. There is only one way that the Long House can be taught.... You do not believe it, but in this I am wiser than you — I know.”

  “Will you not tell me what you mean to do, Magdalen?”

  “No, Sir George.”

  “When will you tell me?”

  “Never. But you will know what I have done. You will see that I hold three nations back. What else can you ask? I shall obey you. What more is there?”

  Her voice lingered in the air like an echo of flowing water, then died away as they moved on, until nothing sounded in the forest stillness save the low ripple of the stream. An hour later I picked my way back to the house and saw Sir George standing in the starlight, and Mount beside him, pointing towards the east.

  “I’ve found the False-Faces’ trysting-place,” said Mount, eagerly, as I came up. “I circled and struck the main Iroquois trail half a mile yonder in the bottom land — a smooth, hard trail, worn a foot deep, sir. And first comes an Onondaga war-party, stripped and painted something sickening, and I dogged ’em till they turned off into the bush to shoot a doe full of arrows — though all had guns! — and left ’em eating. Then comes three painted devils, all hung about with witch-drums and rattles, and I tied to them. And, would you believe it, sir, they kept me on a fox-trot straight east, then south along a deer-path, till they struck the Kennyetto at that sulphur spring under the big cliff — you know, Sir George, where Klock’s old line cuts into the Mohawk country?”

  “I know,” said Sir George.

  Mount took off his cap and scratched his ear.

  “The forest is full of little heaps of flat stones. I could see my painted friends with the drums and rattles stop as they ran by, and each pull a flat stone from the river and add it to the nearest heap. Then they disappeared in the ravine — and I guess that settles it, Captain Ormond.”

  Sir George looked at me, nodding.

  “That settles it, Ormond,” he said.

  I bade Mount cook us something to eat. Sir George looked after him as he entered the house, then began a restless pacing to and fro, arms loosely clasped behind him.

  “About Magdalen Brant,” he said, abruptly. “She will not speak to the three nations for Butler’s party. The child had no idea of this wretched conspiracy to turn the savages loose in the valley. She thought our people meant to drive the Iroquois from their own lands — a black disgrace to us if we ever do!... They implored her to speak to them in council. Did you know they believe her to be inspired? Well, they do. When she was a child they got that notion, and Guy Johnson and Walter Butler have been lying to her and telling her what to say to the Oneidas and Onondagas.”

  He turned impatiently, pacing the yard, scowling, and gnawing his lip.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “She has gone to bed. She would eat nothing. We must take her back with us to Albany and summon the sachems of the three nations, with belts.”

  “Yes,” I said, slowly. “But before we leave I must see the False-Faces.”

  “Did Schuyler make that a point?”

  “Yes, Sir George.”

  “They say the False-Faces’ rites are terrific,” he muttered. “Thank God, that child will not be lured into those hideous orgies by Walter Butler!”

  We walked towards the house where Mount had prepared our food. I sat down on the door-step to eat my porridge and think of what lay before me and how best to accomplish it. And at first I was minded to send Sir George back with Magdalen Brant and take only Mount with me. But whether it was a craven dread of despatching to Dorothy the man she was pledged to wed, or whether a desire for his knowledge and experience prompted me to invite his attendance at the False-Faces’ rites, I do not know clearly, even now. He came out of the house presently, and I asked him if he would go with me.

  “One of us should stay here with Magdalen Brant,” he said, gravely.

  “Is she not safe here?” I asked.

  “You cannot leave a child like that absolutely alone,” he answered.

  “Then take her to Varicks’,” I said, sullenly. “If she remains here some of Butler’s men will be after her to attend the council.”

  “You wish m
e to go up-stairs and rouse her for a journey — now?”

  “Yes; it is best to get her into a safe place,” I muttered. “She may change her ideas, too, betwixt now and dawn.”

  He re-entered the house. I heard his spurs jingling on the stairway, then his voice, and a rapping at the door above.

  Jack Mount appeared, rifle in hand, wiping his mouth with his fingers; and together we paced the yard, waiting for Sir George and Magdalen Brant to set out before we struck the Iroquois trail.

  Suddenly Sir George’s heavy tread sounded on the stairs; he came to the door, looking about him, east and west. His features were pallid and set and seamed with stern lines; he laid an unsteady hand on my arm and drew me a pace aside.

  “Magdalen Brant is gone,” he said.

  “Gone!” I repeated. “Where?”

  “I don’t know!” he said, hoarsely.

  I stared at him in astonishment. Gone? Where? Into the tremendous blackness of this wilderness that menaced us on all sides like a sea? And they had thought to tame her like a land-blown gull among the poultry!

  “Those drops of Mohawk blood are not in her veins for nothing,” I said, bitterly. “Here is our first lesson.”

  He hung his head. She had lied to him with innocent, smooth face, as all such fifth-castes lie. No jewelled snake could shed her skin as deftly as this young maid had slipped from her shoulders the frail garment of civilization.

  The man beside me stood as though stunned. I was obliged to speak to him thrice ere he roused to follow Jack Mount, who, at a sign from me, had started across the dark hill-side to guide us to the trysting-place of the False-Faces’ clan.

  “Mount,” I whispered, as he lingered waiting for us at the stepping-stones in the dark, “some one has passed this trail since I stood here an hour ago.” And, bending down, I pointed to a high, flat stepping-stone, which glimmered wet in the pale light of the stars.

  Sir George drew his tinder-box, struck steel to flint, and lighted a short wax dip.

  “Here!” whispered Mount.

  On the edge of the sand the dip-light illuminated the small imprint of a woman’s shoe, pointing southeast.

  Magdalen Brant had heard the voices in the Long House.

  “The mischief is done,” said Sir George, steadily. “I take the blame and disgrace of this.”

  “No; I take it,” said I, sternly. “Step back, Sir George. Blow out that dip! Mount, can you find your way to that sulphur spring where the flat stones are piled in little heaps?”

  The big fellow laughed. As he strode forward into the depthless sea of darkness a whippoorwill called.

  “That’s Elerson, sir,” he said, and repeated the call twice.

  The rifleman appeared from the darkness, touching his cap to me. “The horses are safe, sir,” he said. “The General desires you to send your report through Sir George Covert and push forward with Mount to Stanwix.”

  He drew a sealed paper from his pouch and handed it to me, saying that I was to read it.

  Sir George lighted his dip once more. I broke the seal and read my orders under the feeble, flickering light:

  “TEMPORARY HEADQUARTERS,

  VARICK MANOR,

  June I, 1777.

  To Captain Ormond, on scout:

  Sir, — The General commanding this department desires you to employ all art and persuasion to induce the Oneidas, Tuscaroras, and Onondagas to remain quiet. Failing this, you are again reminded that the capture of Magdalen Brant is of the utmost importance. If possible, make Walter Butler also prisoner, and send him to Albany under charge of Timothy Murphy; but, above all, secure the person of Magdalen Brant and send her to Varick Manor under escort of Sir George Covert. If, for any reason, you find these orders impossible of execution, send your report of the False-Faces’ council through Sir George Covert, and push forward with the riflemen Mount, Murphy, and Elerson until you are in touch with Gansevoort’s outposts at Stanwix. Warn Colonel Gansevoort that Colonel Barry St. Leger has moved from Oswego, and order out a strong scout towards Fort Niagara. Although Congress authorizes the employment of friendly Oneidas as scouts, General Schuyler trusts that you will not avail yourself of this liberty. Noblesse oblige! The General directs you to return only when you have carried out these orders to the best of your ability. You will burn this paper before you set out for Stanwix. I am, sir,

  “Your most humble and obedient servant,

  “JOHN HARROW,

  Major and A.D.C. to the Major-General Commanding.

  (Signed) PHILIP SCHUYLER,

  Major-General Commanding the Department of the North.”

  Hot with mortification at the wretched muddle I had already made of my mission, I thrust the paper into my pouch and turned to Elerson.

  “You know Magdalen Brant?” I asked, impatiently.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There is a chance,” I said, “that she may return to that house on the hill behind us. If she comes back you will see that she does not leave the house until we return.”

  Sir George extinguished the dip once more. Mount turned and set off at a swinging pace along the invisible path; after him strode Sir George; I followed, brooding bitterly on my stupidity, and hopeless now of securing the prisoner in whose fragile hands the fate of the Northland lay.

  XV

  THE FALSE-FACES

  For a long time we had scented green birch smoke, and now, on hands and knees, we were crawling along the edge of a cliff, the roar of the river in our ears, when Mount suddenly flattened out and I heard him breathing heavily as I lay down close beside him.

  “Look!” he whispered, “the ravine is full of fire!”

  A dull-red glare grew from the depths of the ravine; crimson shadows shook across the wall of earth and rock. Above the roaring of the stream I heard an immense confused murmur and the smothered thumping rhythm of distant drumming.

  “Go on,” I whispered.

  Mount crawled forward, Sir George and I after him. The light below burned redder and redder on the cliff; sounds of voices grew more distinct; the dark stream sprang into view, crimson under the increasing furnace glow. Then, as we rounded a heavy jutting crag, a great light flared up almost in our faces, not out of the kindling ravine, but breaking forth among the huge pines on the cliffs.

  “Their council-fire!” panted Mount. “See them sitting there!”

  “Flatten out,” I whispered. “Follow me!” And I crawled straight towards the fire, where, ink-black against the ruddy conflagration, an enormous pine lay uprooted, smashed by lightning or tempest, I know not which.

  Into the dense shadows of the debris I crawled, Mount and Sir George following, and lay there in the dark, staring at the forbidden circle where the secret mysteries of the False-Faces had already begun.

  Three great fires roared, set at regular intervals in a cleared space, walled in by the huge black pines. At the foot of a tree sat a white man, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. The man was Walter Butler.

  On his right sat Brant, wrapped in a crimson blanket, his face painted black and scarlet. On his left knelt a ghastly figure wearing a scowling wooden mask painted yellow and black.

  Six separate groups of Indians surrounded the fires. They were sachems of the Six Nations, each sachem bearing in his hands the symbol of his nation and of his clan. All were wrapped in black-and-white blankets, and their faces were painted white above the upper lip as though they wore skin-tight masks.

  Three young girls, naked save for the beaded clout, and painted scarlet from brow to ankle, beat the witch-drums tump-a-tump! tump-a-tump! while a fourth stood, erect as a vermilion statue, holding a chain belt woven in black-and-white wampum.

  Behind these central figures the firelight fell on a solid semicircle of savages, crowns shaved, feathers aslant on the braided lock, and all oiled and painted for war.

  A chief, wrapped in a blue blanket, stepped out into the circle swinging the carcass of a white dog by the hind-legs. He tied it to a black-
birch sapling and left it dangling and turning round and round.

  “This for the Keepers of the Fires,” he said, in Tuscarora, and flung the dog’s entrails into the middle fire.

  Three young men sprang into the ring; each threw a log onto one of the fires.

  “The name of the Holder of the Heavens may now be spoken and heard without offence,” said an old sachem, rising. “Hark! brothers. Harken, O you wise men and sachems! The False-Faces are laughing in the ravine where the water is being painted with firelight. I acquaint you that the False-Faces are coming up out of the ravine!”

  The witch-drums boomed and rattled in the silence that followed his words. Far off I heard the sound of many voices laughing and talking all together; nearer, nearer, until, torch in hand, a hideously masked figure bounded into the circle, shaking out his bristling cloak of green reeds. Another followed, another, then three, then six, then a dozen, whirling their blazing torches; all horribly masked and smothered in coarse bunches of long, black hair, or cloaked with rustling river reeds.

  “Ha! Ah-weh-hot-kwah!

  Ha! Ah-weh-hah!

  Ha! The crimson flower!

  Ha! The flower!”

  they chanted, thronging around the central fire; then falling back in a half-circle, torches lifted, while the masked figures banked solidly behind, chanted monotonously:

  “Red fire burns on the maple!

  Red fire burns in the pines.

  The red flower to the maple!

  The red death to the pines!”

  At this two young girls, wearing white feathers and white weasel pelts dangling from shoulders to knees, entered the ring from opposite ends. Their arms were full of those spectral blossoms called “Ghost-corn,” and they strewed the flowers around the ring in silence. Then three maidens, glistening in cloaks of green pine-needles, slipped into the fire circle, throwing showers of violets and yellow moccasin flowers over the earth, calling out, amid laughter, “Moccasins for whippoorwills! Violets for the two heads entangled!” And, their arms empty of blossoms, they danced away, laughing while the False-Faces clattered their wooden masks and swung their torches till the flames whistled.