Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “This is true, because I knew them both — both of these Contrecoeur captains. And the picture she showed to me was that of the officer in the Regiment de la Reine.

  “I saw that regiment die almost to a man. I saw Dieskau fall; I saw that gay young officer, de Contrecoeur, who had nicknamed himself Jean Coeur, laugh at our Iroquois as he stood almost alone — almost the last man living, among his fallen white-coats.

  “And I saw him dead, Loskiel — the smile still on his dead lips, and his eyes still open and clear and seeming to laugh up at the white clouds sailing, which he could not see.

  “That was the man she showed me painted on polished bone.”

  “And — her mother?” I asked.

  “I can only guess, Loskiel, for I never saw her. But I believe she must have been with the army. Somehow, Sir William’s Senecas got hold of her and took her to Catharines-town. And if the little Lois was born there or at Yndaia, or perhaps among the Lakes before the mother was made prisoner, I do not know. Only this I gather, that when the Cats of Amochol heard there was a child, they demanded it for a sacrifice. And there must have been some Seneca there — doubtless some adopted Seneca of a birth more civilized — who told the mother, and who was persuaded by her to make of it a Hidden One.

  “How long it lay concealed, and in whose care, how can I know? But it is certain that Amochol learned that it had been hidden, and sent his Cat-People out to prowl and watch. Then, doubtless did the mother send it from her by the faithful one whose bark letter was found by the new foster-parents when they found the little Lois.

  “And this is how it has happened, brother. And that the Cat-People now know she is alive, and who she is, does not amaze me. For they are sorcerers, and if one of them did not steal after the messenger when he left Yndaia with the poor mother’s yearly gift of moccasins, then it was discovered by witchcraft.”

  “For Amochol never forgets. And whom the Red Priest chooses for his altar sooner or later will surely die there, unless the Sorcerer dies first and his Cat-People are slain and skinned, and the vile altar is destroyed among the ashes of its accursed fire!”

  “Then, with the help of an outraged God, these righteous things shall come to pass!” I said between clenched teeth.

  The Sagamore sat with his crested head bowed. And if he were in ghostly communication with the Mighty Dead I do not know, for I heard him breathe the name of Tamanund, and then remain silent as though listening for an answer.

  I had been asleep but a few moments, it seemed to me, when the Grey-Feather awoke me for my turn at guard duty; and the Mohican and I rose from our blankets, reprimed our rifles, crept out from under the laurel and across the shadowy rock-strewn knoll to our posts.

  The rocky slope below us was almost clear to the river, save for a bush or two.

  Nothing stirred, no animals, not a leaf. And after a while the profound stillness began to affect me, partly because the day had been one to try my nerves, partly because the silence was uncanny, even to me. And I knew how dread of the supernatural had already tampered with the steadiness of my red comrades — men who were otherwise utterly fearless; and I dreaded the effect on the Mohican, whose mind now was surcharged with hideous and goblin superstitions.

  In the night silence of a forest, always there are faint sounds to be heard which, if emphasizing the stillness, somehow soften it too. Leaves fall, unseen, whispering downward from high trees, and settling among their dead fellows with a faintly comfortable rustle. Small animals move in the dark, passing and repassing warily; one hears the high feathered ruffling and the plaint of sleepy birds; breezes play with the young leaves; water murmurs.

  But here there was no single sound to mitigate the stillness; and, had I dared in my mossy nest behind the rocks, I would have contrived same slight stirring sound, merely to make the silence more endurable.

  I could see the river, but could not hear it. From where I lay, close to the ground, the trees stood out in shadowy clusters against the vague and hazy mist that spread low over the water.

  And, as I lay watching it, without the slightest warning, a head was lifted from behind a bush. It was the head of a wolf in silhouette against the water.

  Curiously I watched it; and as I looked, from another bush another head was lifted — the round, flattened head and tasselled ears of the great grey lynx. And before I could realize the strangeness of their proximity to each other, these two heads were joined by a third — the snarling features of a wolverine.

  Then a startling and incredible thing happened; the head of the big timber-wolf rose still higher, little by little, slowly, stealthily, above the bush. And I saw to my horror that it had the body of a man. And, already overstrained as I was, it was a mercy that I did not faint where I lay behind my rock, so ghastly did this monstrous vision seem to me.

  CHAPTER XIV

  NAI TIOGA!

  How my proper senses resisted the swoon that threatened them I do not know; but when the lynx, too, lifted a menacing and flattened head on human shoulders; and when the wolverine also stood out in human-like shadow against the foggy water, I knew that these ghostly things that stirred my hair were no hobgoblins at all, but living men. And the clogged current of my blood flowed free again, and the sweat on my skin cooled.

  The furry ears of the wolf-man, pricked up against the vaguely lustrous background of the river, fascinated me. For all the world those pointed ears seemed to be listening. But I knew they were dead and dried; that a man’s eyes were gazing through the sightless sockets of the beast.

  From somewhere in the darkness the Mohican came gliding on his belly over the velvet carpet of the moss.

  “Andastes,” he whispered scornfully; “they wear the heads of the beasts whose courage they lack. Fling a stone among them and they will scatter.”

  As I felt around me in the darkness for a fragment of loose rock, the Mohican arrested my arm.

  “Wait, Loskiel. The Andastes hang on the heels of fiercer prowlers, smelling about dead bones like foxes after a battle. Real men can not be far away.”

  We lay watching the strange and grotesque creatures in the starlight; and truly they seemed to smell their way as beasts smell; and they were as light-footed and as noiseless, slinking from bush to bush, lurking motionless in shadows, nosing, listening, prowling on velvet pads to the very edges of our rock escarpment.

  “They have the noses of wild things,” whispered the Mohican uneasily. “Somewhere they have found something that belongs to one of us, and, having once smelled it, have followed.”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Do you believe they found the charred fragments of my pouch-flap? Could they scent my scorched thrums from where I now lie? Only a hound could do that! It is not given to men to scent a trail as beasts scent it running perdu.”

  The Mohican said softly:

  “Men of the settlement detect no odour where those of the open perceive a multitude of pungent smells.”

  “That is true,” I said.

  “It is true, Loskiel. As a dog scents water in a wilderness and comes to it from afar, so can I also. Like a dog, too, can I wind the hidden partridge brood — though never the nesting hen — nor can a mink do that much either. But keen as the perfume of a bee-tree, and certain as the rank smell of a dog-fox in March — which even a white man can detect — are the odours of the wilderness to him whose only home it is. And even as a lad, and for the sport of it, have I followed and found by its scent alone the great night-butterfly, marked brown and crimson, and larger than a little bat, whose head bears tiny ferns, and whose wings are painted with the four quarters of the moon. Like crushed sumac is the odour of it, and in winter it hides in a bag of silk.”

  I nodded, my eyes following the cautious movements of the Andastes below; and again and again I saw their heads thrown buck, noses to the stars, as though sniffing and endeavouring to wind us. And to me it was horrid and unhuman.

  For an hour they were around the river edge and the foot
of the hillock, trotting silently and uneasily hither and thither, always seemingly at fault. Then, apparently made bold by finding no trace of what they hunted, they ranged this way and that at a sort of gallop, and we could even hear their fierce and whining speech as they huddled a moment to take counsel.

  Suddenly their movements ceased, and I clutched the Mohican’s arm, as a swift file of shadows passed in silhouette along the river’s brink, one after another moving west — fifteen ghostly figures dimly seem but unmistakable.

  “Senecas,” breathed the Mohican.

  The war party defiled at a trot, disappearing against the fringing gloom. And after them loped the Andastes pack, scurrying, hurrying, running into thickets and out again, but ever hastening along the flanks of their silent and murderous masters, who seemed to notice them not at all.

  When they had gone, the Mohican aroused the Oneidas, and all night long we lay there behind the rocks, rifles in rest, watching the river.

  What we awaited came with the dawn, and, in the first grey pallour of the breaking day, we saw their advanced guard; Cayugas and Senecas of the fierce war-chief Hiokatoo, every Indian stripped, oiled, head shaved, and body painted for war; first a single Cayuga, scouting swiftly; then three furtive Senecas, then six, then a dozen, followed by their main body.

  Doubtless they had depended on the Andastes and advanced guard of Senecas for flankers, for the main body passed without even a glance up at the hilly ground where we lay watching them.

  Then there was a break in the line, an interval of many minutes before their pack horses appeared, escorted by green-coated soldiers.

  And in the ghostly light of dawn, I saw Sir John Johnson riding at the head of his men, his pale hair unpowdered, his heavy, colourless face sunk on his breast. After him, in double file, marched his regiment of Greens; then came more Indians — Owagas, I think — then that shameless villain, McDonald, in bonnet and tartan, and the heavy claymore a-swing on his saddle-bow, and his blue-eyed Indians swarming in the rear.

  Lord, what a crew! And as though that were not enough to affront the rising sun, comes riding young Walter Butler, in his funereal cloak, white as a corpse under the black disorder of his hair, and staring at nothing like a damned man. On his horse’s heels his ruffianly Rangers marched in careless disorder but with powerful, swinging strides that set their slanting muskets gleaming like ripples glinting athwart a windy pond, and their canteens all a-bobbing.

  Then, hunched on his horse, rode old John Butler — squat, swarthy, weather-roughened, balancing on his saddle with the grace of a chopping block; and after him more Rangers crowding close behind.

  Behind these, quite alone, stalked an Indian swathed in a scarlet blanket edged with gold, on which a silver gorget glittered. He seemed scarce darker than I in colour; and if he wore paint I saw none. There was only a scarlet band of cloth around his temples, and the flight-feather of the white-crested eagle set there low above the left ear and slanting backward.

  “Brant!” I whispered to the Sagamore; and I saw him stiffen to very stone beside me; and heard his teeth grate in his jaws.

  Then, last of all, came the Keepers of the Eastern Gate, the flower of the warriors of the Long House — the Mohawks.

  They passed in the barbaric magnificence of paint and feather and shining steel, a hundred lithe, light-stepping warriors, rifles swinging a-trail, and gorgeous beaded sporrans tossing at every stride.

  An interval, then the first wary figure of the lurking rear-guard, another, half a dozen, smooth-bore rifles at a ready, scanning river and thicket. Every one of them looked up at our craggy knoll as they glided along its base; two hesitated, ran half way up over the rock escarpment, loitered for a few moments, then slunk off, hastening to join their fellows.

  After a long while a single Seneca came speeding, and disappeared in the wake of the others.

  The motley Army of the West had passed.

  And it was a terrible and an infamous sight to me, who had known these men under other circumstances to see the remnant of the landed gentry of Tryon County now riding the wilderness like very vagabonds, squired by a grotesque horde of bloody renegades.

  To what a doleful pass had these gentlemen come, who lately had so lorded it among us — these proud and testy autocrats of County Tryon, with their vast estates, their baronial halls, their servants, henchmen, tenantry, armed retainers, slaves?

  Where were all these people now? Where were their ladies in their London silks and powder? Where were their mistresses, their distinguished guests? Where was my Lord Dunmore now — the great Murray, Earl of Dunmore and Brent Meester to unhappy Norfolk! And, alas, where was the great and good Sir William — and where was Sir William’s friend, Lady Grant, and the fearless Duchess of Gordon, and the dark and lovely Lady Johnson, and the pretty ladies of Guy Johnson, of Colonel Butler, of Colonel Claus? Where was Sir John’s pitifully youthful and unfortunate lady, and her handsome brother, crippled at Oriskany, and the gentle, dark-eyed sister of Walter Butler, and his haughty mother? All either dead or prisoners, or homeless refugees, or exiles living on the scant bounty of the Government they had suffered for so loyally.

  The merciless Committee of Sequestration had seized Johnson Hall, Fort Johnson, Guy Park, Butlersbury; Fish House was burned; Summer House Point lay in ashes, and the charming town built by Sir William was now a rebel garrison, and the jail he erected was their citadel, flying a flag that he had never heard of when he died.

  All was gone — gone the kilted Highlanders from the guard house at the Hall; gone the Royal Americans with all their bugle-horns and clarions and scarlet pageantry; gone the many feathered chieftains who had gathered so often at Guy Park, or the Fort, or the Hall. Mansions, lands, families, servants, all were scattered and vanished; and of all that Tryon County glory only these harassed and haggard horsemen remained, haunting the forest purlieus of their former kingdoms with hatred in their hearts, and their hands red with murder. Truly, the Red Beast we hunted these three years through was a most poisonous thing, that it should belch forth such pests as Lord George Germaine, and Loring, and Cunningham, and turn the baronets and gentry of County Tryon into murdering and misshapen ghouls!

  When the sun rose we slung pack and pulled foot. And all that day we travelled without mischance; and the next day it was the same, encountering nothing more menacing than peeled and painted trees, where some scouting war-party of the enemy had written threats and boasts, warning the “Boston people” away from the grizzly fastnesses of the dread Long House, and promising a horrid vengeance for every mile of the Dark Empire we profaned.

  And so, toward sundown, the first picket of General Sullivan’s army challenged us; and my Indians shouted: “Nai Tioga!” And presently we heard the evening gun very near.

  Signs of their occupation became more frequent every minute now; there were batteaux and rafts being unloaded at landing places, heavily guarded by Continental soldiery; canoes at carrying places, brush huts erected along the trail, felled trees, bushes cut and lying in piles, roads being widened and cleared, and men everywhere going cheerily about their various affairs.

  We encountered the cattle-guard near to a natural meadow along a tiny binikill, and they gave us an account of how Brant had fallen upon Minisink and had slain more than a hundred of our people along the Delaware and Neversink. And I saw my Indians listening with grim countenances while their eyes glowed like coals. As soon as we forded the river, we passed a part of Colonel Proctor’s artillery, parleyed in a clearing, where a fine block-fort was being erected; and there were many regimental wagons and officers’ horses and batt-horses and cattle to be seen there, and great piles of stores in barrels, sacks, skins, and willow baskets.

  As we passed the tents of a foot regiment, the 3rd New Hampshire Line, one of their six Ensigns, Bradbury Richards, recognized me and came across the road to shake my hand, and to inform me that a small scout was to go out to reconnoitre the Indian town of Chemung; and that we would doubtless marc
h thither on the morrow.

  With Richards came also my old friend Ezra Buell, lately lieutenant in my own regiment, but now a captain in the 3rd New York Continentals, and a nephew of that Ezra Buell who ran the Stanwix survey in ‘69 and married a pretty Esaurora girl while marking the Treaty Line.

  “Well!” says Ezra, shaking my hand, and: “How are you lazy people up the river, and what are you doing there?”

  “Damming the lake,” said I, “whilst you damn us for making you wait.”

  Bradbury Richards laughed, saying that they themselves had but just come up, admitting, however, that there had been some little cursing concerning our delay.

  “It has been that way with us, too,” said I, “but it is the rebel ‘Grants’ we curse, and the Ethan Allens and John Starks, and treacherous Green Mountain Boy’s, who would shoot us in the backs or make a dicker with Sir Henry sooner than lift a finger to obey the laws of the State they are betraying.”

  “So hot and yet so young!” said Buell, laughing, “and after a long trail, too—” glancing at my Indians, “and another in view already! But you were ever an uncompromising youngster, Loskiel.”

  “Your regiment has marched for Canajoharie,” I said. “When do you go a-tagging after it?”

  “This evening with the headquarter’s guide, Heoikim, and the express rider, James Cooke. Lord, what a dreary business!”

  “Better learn the news we have concerning your back trail before you start. Ask Captain Franklin to mention it to the General.”

  “Certainly,” said Buell. “I would to God my regiment were ordered here with the rest of them, I’m that sick of the three forts and the scalping-party fighting on the Schoharie.”

  “It’s what you are likely to get for a long while yet,” said I. “And now will you or Richards guide me and my party to headquarters?”

  “Will you mess with us?” said Richards. “I’ll speak to Colonel Dearborn.”