“And now you know, you Mohican mongrel, why Amochol was at Otsego. His arm reaches even into the barracks of Clinton! Because to Atensi the sacrifice of these two would be grateful — the maiden Lois and your Loskiel. Only the pure and guarded pleasure her. And these two are Hidden Children. One has died. The other shall not escape us. She shall die strangled by Amochol upon his own altar!”
I sat up, sick with horror and surprise, and stared at the Mohican for an explanation. He and the Oneidas were now looking at me very gravely and in silence. And after a moment my head dropped.
I knew well enough what the brutal Erie meant by “Hidden Children.” But that I was one I never dreamed, nor had it occurred to me that Lois was one, in spite of her strange history. For among the Iroquois and their adopted captives there are both girls and boys who are spoken of as “Hidden Persons” or “Hidden Children.” They are called Ta-neh-u-weh-too, which means, “hidden in the husks,” like ears of corn.
And the reason is this: a mother, for one cause or another, or perhaps for none at all, decides to make of her unborn baby a Hidden Child. And so, when born, the child is instantly given to distant foster-parents, and by them hidden; and remains so concealed until adolescence. And, being considered from birth pure and unpolluted, a girl and a boy thus hidden are expected to marry, return to their people when informed by their foster-parents of the truth, and bring a fresh, innocent, and uncontaminated strain into their clan and tribe.
What the Erie said seemed to stun me. What did this foul creature know of me? What knowledge had this murdering beast of Lois? And Amochol — what in God’s name did the Red Sorcerer know of us, or of our history?
Even the horrid threat against Lois seemed so fantastic, so unreal, so meaningless, that at the moment, it did not impress me even with its unspeakable wickedness.
The Sagamore touched my arm as though with awe and pity, and I lifted my head.
“Is this true, brother?” he asked gently.
“I do not know if it is,” I said, dazed.
“Then — it is the truth.”
“Why do you say that, Mayaro?”
“I know it, now. I suspected it when your eyes first fell on the Ghost-bear rearing on my breast. I thought I knew you, there at Major Lockwood’s house in Poundridge. It was your name, Loskiel, and your knowledge of your red brothers, that stirred my suspicions. And when I learned that Guy Johnson had sheltered you, then I was surer still.”
“Who, then, am I?” I asked, bewildered.
The three Indians were staring at me as though that murderer aloft on his eyrie did not exist. I, too, had forgotten him for the moment; and it was only the loud explosion of his smooth-bore that shocked us to the instant necessity of the situation.
The bullet screamed through the leaves above us; we clapped our rifles to our cheeks, striving to glimpse him. Nothing moved on the rocky shelf.
“He fired to signal his friends,” whispered the Mohican. “He must believe them to be within hearing distance.”
I set my teeth and stared savagely at the cliff.
“If that is so,” said I, “we must leave him here and pull foot.”
There was a tense silence, then, as we rose, an infuriated yell burst from the Oneidas, and in their impotence they fired blindly at the cliff, awaking a very hell of echo.
Through the clattering confusion of the double discharge, the demoniac laughter of the Erie rang, and my Oneidas, retreating, hurled back insult and anathema, promising to return and annihilate every living sorcerer in the Dark Empire, including Amochol himself.
“Ha-e!” he shouted after us, giving the evil spirits’ cry. “Ha-e! Ha-ee!” From his shelf he cast a painted stick after us, which came hurtling down and landed in the water. And he screamed as he heard us threshing over the shallows: “Koue! Askennon eskatoniot!”
The thing he had cast after us was floating, slowly turning round and round in the water; and it seemed to be a stick something thicker than an arrow and as long, and painted in concentric rings of black, vermillion, and yellow.
Then, as we gave it wide berth, to our astonishment it suddenly crinkled up and was alive, and lifted a tiny, evil head from the water, running out at us a snake’s tongue that flickered.
That this was magic my Indians never doubted. They gave the thing one horrified glance, turned, and fairly leaped through the water till the shallow flood roared as though a herd of deer were passing over.
As for me, I ran, too, and felt curiously weak and shaken; though I suspected that this wriggling thing now swimming back to shore was the poison snake of the Ksaurora, and no Antouhonoran witchcraft at all, as I had seen skins of the brilliant and oddly marked little serpent at Guy Park, whither some wandering Southern Tuscaroras had brought them.
But the bestial creature of the cliff had now so inspired us all with loathing that it was as though our very breath was poisoned; and in swift and silent file we pushed forward, as if the very region — land, water, the air itself — had become impure, and we must rid ourselves of the place itself to breathe.
No war-party burning to distinguish itself ever travelled more swiftly. Sooner than I expected, we crossed the small creek which joins the river from the east, opposite the Old England District, and saw the ruins of Unadilla across the water.
Here was a known ford; and we crossed to Old Unadilla, where that pretty river and the Butternut run south into the broadening Susquehanna.
At this place we halted to eat; and I was of two minds whether to go by the West Branch of the Delaware, by Owaga and Ingaren across the Stanwix Treaty Line to Wyalusing, and from thence up the river to the Chemung and Tioga Point; or to risk the Chenango country and travel southwest by Owego, and so cutting off that great southern loop that the Susquehanna makes through the country of the Esaurora.
But when I asked the opinion of my Indians, they were of one mind against my two, saying that to follow the river was the easiest, swiftest, and safest course to Tioga Point.
They knew better than did I. This side of Tioga the Oneidas knew the ground as well as the Siwanois; but beyond, toward Catharines-town, only my Siwanois knew. Indeed, if my Oneidas remained with me at all beyond Tioga I might deem myself lucky, in such dread and detestation did they hold that gloomy region where the Wyoming Witch brooded her deadly crew, and where the Toad Woman, her horrible sister, fed the secret and midnight fires of hell with the Red Priest, Amochol.
A grey hawk was circling above us mewing. Truly, our nerves had been somewhat shattered, for as we rose and resumed pack and sack, a distant partridge drumming on his log startled us all; and it was as though we had thought to hear the witch-drums rolling at the Onon-hou-aroria, and the hawk mewing seemed like the Sorcerers calling “Hiou! Hiou! Hiou!” And the Unadilla made a clatter over its stones like the False-Faces rattling their wooden masks.
“Eheu!” sighed the pines above us as we sped on; and ever I thought of Okwencha and the Dead Hunter. And the upward roar of a partridge covey bursting in thunder through the river willows was like the flight of the hideous Flying Heads.
On we went, every sound and movement of the forest seeming to spur us forward and add flight-feathers to our speeding feet. For in my Indians, ascendant now, was the dull horror of the supernatural; and as for me my hatred of the Sorcerers was tightening every nerve to the point of breaking.
As I travelled that trail through the strange, eternal twilight of the great trees, I vowed to myself that Amochol should die; that the Sagamore and I would guide a thousand rifles to his pagan altar and lay this foul priesthood prone upon it as the last sacrifice.
Then I recalled the Black-Snake’s threat against Lois; and shuddered; then the astounding reason he had given for the Red Priest’s design upon us both set me dully wondering again.
Fear that his emissaries might penetrate our lines stirred me; and I remembered the moccasins she had received, and the messages sewed within them. If a red messenger had found her every year and had left at h
er door, unseen, a pair of moccasins, why might not an invisible assassin find her, too? Already, within our very encampment, she had received another pair of moccasins and a message entirely different from the customary one.
Whoever had brought it had come and gone unseen.
Distressed, perplexed, half sick with fear for her, I plodded on behind the Mohican, striving to drive from me the sombre thoughts assailing me, trying to reassure myself with the knowledge that she was safe at Otsego with her new friends, and that very shortly now she would be still safer in Albany, and under the shrewd and kindly eye of Mr. Hake.
The sun had set; the pallid daylight lingering along the forest edges by the river grew sickly and died. And after a little the Mohican halted on a hillock, and we cart our packs from us and peered around.
The forms of rocks took dim shape all about us, huge slabs and benches of stone, from which great bushes of laurel and rhododendron spread, forming beyond us an entangled and impenetrable jungle.
And under these we crawled and lay, listening for snakes. But there seemed to be none there, though our rocky fastness was a very likely place. And after we had eaten and emptied our canteens, the two Oneidas went out on guard to the eastern limit of the rocks; and the Sagamore and I lay on our sides, facing each other in the dark. And for a while we lay there, neither of us speaking. Finally I said under my breath:
“Then I am one of the Hidden People.”
“Yes, brother,” he replied very gently.
“Tell me why you believe this to be true. Tell me all you know.”
For a little while the Mohican lay there very silent, and I did not stir. And presently he said:
“It was in ‘57, Loskiel, when I first laid eyes on you.”
“What!”
“I am more than twice your age. You were then three years old.”
In my astonishment it occurred to me that instead of twenty-two I was now twenty-five years of age, if what the Mohican said were true.
“Listen, Loskiel, blood-brother of mine, for you shall hear the truth now — the truth which Guy Johnson never told you.
“It was in ‘57; Munro lay at Fort William Henry; Webb at Fort Edward; and Montcalm came down from the lakes with his white-coats and Hurons and shook his sword at Munro and spat upon Webb.
“Then came Sir William Johnson to Webb with half a thousand Iroquois. And because Sir William was the only white man we Delawares trusted, and in spite of his Iroquois, three Mohicans offered their services — the Great Serpent, young Uncas, and I, Mayaro, Sagamore of the Siwanois.”
He paused, then with infinite contempt:
“Webb was a coward. Nor could Sir William kick him forward. He lay shivering behind the guns at Edward; and Fort William Henry fell. And the white-coats could do nothing with their Hurons; the prisoners fell under their knives and hatchets — soldiers, women, little children.
“When Montcalm had gone, Webb let us loose. And, following the trail of murder, in a thicket among the rocks we came upon a young woman with a child, very weak from privation. Guy Johnson and I discovered them — he a mere youth at that time.
“And the young woman told him how it had been with her — that her husband and herself had been taken by the St. Regis three years before — that they had slain her husband but had offered her no violence; that her child had been born a few weeks later and that the St. Regis chief who took her had permitted her to make of it a Hidden Person.
“For three years the fierce St. Regis chief wooed her, offering her the first place in his lodge. For three years she refused him, living in a bush-hut alone with her child, outside the St. Regis village, fed by them, and her solitude respected. Then Munro came and his soldiers scattered the St. Regis and took her and her baby to the fort. And the St. Regis chief sent word that he would kill her if she ever married.”
So painfully intent was I on his every low-spoken word that I scarce dared breathe as the story of my mother slowly unfolded.
“Guy Johnson and I took the young woman and her child to Edward,” he said. “Her name was Marie Loskiel, and she told us that she was the widow of a Scotch fur trader, one Ian Loskiel, of Saint Sacrament.”
There was another silence, as though he were not willing to continue. Then in a quiet voice I bade him speak; and he spoke, very gravely:
“Your mother’s religion and Guy Johnson’s were different. If that were the reason she would not marry him I do not know. Only that when he went away, leaving her at Edward, they both wept. I was standing by his stirrup; I saw him — and her.
“And — he rode away, Loskiel.... Why she tried to follow him the next spring, I do not know.... Perhaps she found that love was stronger than religion.... And after all the only difference seemed to be that she prayed to the mother of the God he prayed to.... We spoke of it together, the Great Serpent, young Uncas, and I. And Uncas told us this. But the Serpent and I could make nothing of it.
“And while Guy Johnson was at Edward, only he and I and your mother ever saw or touched you.... And ever you were tracing with your baby fingers the great Ghost Bear rearing on my breast — —”
“Ah!” I exclaimed sharply. “That is what I have struggled to remember!”
He drew a deep, unsteady breath:
“Do you better understand our blood-brotherhood now, Loskiel?”
“I understand — profoundly.”
“That is well. That is as it should be, O my blood-brother, pure from birth, and at adolescence undefiled. Of such Hidden Ones were the White-Plumed Sagamores. Of such was Tamanund, the Silver-Plumed; and the great Uncas, with his snowy-winged and feathered head — Hidden People, Loskiel — without stain, without reproach.
“And as it was to be recorded on the eternal wampum, you were found at Guy Johnson’s landing place asleep beside a stranded St. Regis canoe; and your dead mother lay beside you with a half ounce ball through her heart. The St. Regis chief had spoken.”
“Why do you think he slew her?” I whispered.
“Strike flint. It is safe here.”
I drew myself to my elbow, struck fire and blew the tinder to a glow.
“This is yours,” he said. And laid in my hand a tiny, lacquered folder striped with the pattern of a Scotch tartan.
Wondering, I opened it. Within was a bit of wool in which still remained three rusted needles. And across the inside cover was written in faded ink:
“Marie Loskiel.”
“How came you by this?” I stammered, the quick tears blinding me.
“I took it from the St. Regis hunter whom Tahoontowhee slew.”
“Was he my mother’s murderer!”
“Who knows?” said the Sagamore softly. “Yet, this needle-book is a poor thing for an Indian to treasure — and carry in a pouch around his neck for twenty years.”
The glow-worm spark in my tinder grew dull and went out. For a long while I lay there, thinking, awed by the ways of God — so certain, so inscrutable. And understood how at the last all things must be revealed — even the momentary and lightest impulse, and every deepest and most secret thought.
Lying there, I asked of the Master of Life His compassion on us all, and said my tremulous and silent thanks to Him for the dear, sad secret that His mercy had revealed.
And, my lips resting on my mother’s needle-book, I thought of Lois, and how like mine in a measure was her strange history, not yet fully revealed.
“Sagamore, my elder brother?” I said at last.
“Mayaro listens.”
“How is it then with Lois de Contrecoeur that you already knew she was of the Hidden Children?”
“I knew it when I first laid eyes on her, Loskiel.”
“By what sign?”
“The moccasins. She lay under a cow-shed asleep in her red cloak, her head on her arms. Beside her the kerchief tied around her bundle lay unknotted, revealing the moccasins that lay within. I saw, and knew. And for that reason have I been her friend.”
“You told her this?”<
br />
“Why should I tell her?”
There was no answer to this. An Indian is an Indian.
I said after a moment:
“What mark is there on the moccasins that you knew them?”
“The wings, worked in white wampum. A mother makes a pair with wings each year for her Hidden One, so that they will bring her little child to her one day, swiftly and surely as the swallow that returns with spring.”
“Has she told you of these moccasins — how every year a pair of them is left for her, no matter where she may be lodged?”
“She has told me. She has shown me the letter on bark which was found with her; the relics of her father; this last pair of moccasins, and the new message written within. And she asked me to guide her to Catharines-town. And I have refused.
“No, Loskiel, I have never doubted that she was of the Hidden People. And for that reason have I been patient and kind when she has beset me with her pleading that I show to her the trail to Catharines-town.
“But I will not. For although in rifle dress she might go with us — nay, nor do I even doubt that she might endure the war-path as well as any stripling eager for honour and his first scalp taken — I will not have her blood upon my hands.
“For if she stir thither — if she venture within the Great Shadow — the ghouls of Amochol will know it. And they will take her and slay her on their altar, spite of us all — spite of you and me and your generals and colonels, and all your troops and riflemen — spite of your whole army and its mighty armament, I say it — I, a Siwanois Mohican of the Enchanted Clan. A Sagamore has spoken.”
Chill after chill crept over me so that I shook as I lay there in the darkness “Who is this maiden, Lois?” I asked.
“Do you not guess, Loskiel?”
“Vaguely.”
“Then listen, brother. Her grandfather was the great Jean Coeur who married the white daughter of the Chevalier de Clauzun. Her mother was Mlle. Jeanne Coeur; her father the young Vicomte de Contrecoeur, of the Regiment de la Reine — not that stupid Captain Contrecoeur of the regiment of Languedoc, who, had it depended on him, would never have ventured to attack Braddock at all.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 718