CHAPTER XVII.
STAMEN.
That knowledge of forest-craft, which enables the traveller to guidehis feet unerringly through pathless bush, was only in rare instancesacquired by the New World venturers, and then only after years of hardexperience. When Woodfield abandoned his captain to follow the careerof Hough he struck indeed in the right direction, but the native trailswere numerous, and along one of these the yeoman went astray. Byseeking to set himself right he became hopelessly lost in the labyrinthof the forest; and at last succumbed to weariness and stretched himselfto sleep upon a bed of moss, until a ray of sunlight stabbed throughthe dense roof of foliage and smote him across the eyes.
Woodfield arose and looked around in sore perplexity, knowing not whichway to turn. The globes of dew gleamed in opal tints upon the grass,the big robins passed wreathed in filmy gossamers, the earth smokedwith mist and thrilled with the voice of the glad west wind. But allthe beauty and peace of nature combined made no satisfying meal for anempty body. Trusting to Providence, Woodfield started out afresh, andwalked strongly for many hours, but always making direct north and awayfrom the camping-ground of the Iroquois, away from Couchicing and thelittle settlement upon its shore.
The yeoman tramped on, until exhaustion came upon him. All around thegreat white pines lifted two hundred feet in height, interspersed withdazzling spruce and gleaming poplars. He smoked to still the pain ofhunger, but the strong tobacco made him dazed. He staggered on, andpresently heard the voices of approaching men. The trail bent sharply.He passed on, with half-opened eyes and wildly throbbing brain, wentround the bend, and started suddenly as from an evil dream. Half-nakedbodies and painted faces closed round him in a clamorous ring; andWoodfield awoke fully to the knowledge that he had fallen into thehands of the Algonquins.
With an effort he drew himself upright, and gazed bravely at an oldwarrior with flowing hair, who nodded and smiled at him in a notunfriendly fashion.
"J'ai faim," the adventurer muttered, trusting that one at least of thebraves might understand the French language.
It was the wily old fox Oskelano who confronted the Englishman. Hestretched out his hand--the etiquette of handshaking he had acquiredfrom his visit to the fortress--and articulated with difficulty:
"You ... French?"
Woodfield grasped the brown hand and nodded violently.
"Necessity makes hypocrites of us all," he muttered for thesatisfaction of his stubborn English conscience.
Oskelano grinned amicably and gave an order to his men; and straightwaythe warriors closed round and escorted Woodfield to their camp, everystep widening the distance between him and his companions. They gavehim food and drink; they provided him with a shelter; they built asmoky fire before him to keep away the flies. Finally Oskelano himselfcame, accompanied by his brother, and the two squatted gravely at theentrance to the bower and scrutinised their captive with pride andinterest.
"Um," grunted Oskelano, after a long period of silence.
"Ho," muttered the weary Englishman with equal gravity.
The French vocabulary of the Algonquin chief did not extend beyond thesingle word _diable_, a word which he uttered constantly in hissubsequent efforts to converse with his guest, without anyunderstanding of its meaning, but believing, since he had heard itissue with frequency from the lips of the soldiers in the fortress,that it was an expression of possibilities. He endeavoured to conveyby means of gestures that it had come to his knowledge that theIroquois were about to attack the fortress at the instigation of theEnglish. His spies had seen a messenger bearing the symbol of theheadless bird. They had also observed the general movement eastward ofthe tribes. The gods had provided him with a rare opportunity forattacking his enemy. He was the friend of the great French people--heslapped his insidious old heart with his treacherous hand--he was eagerto fight for his allies, and in return he doubted not that the chieffar over seas, King Louis to wit, would graciously send to his goodAlgonquin friends many of the magic fire-tubes, with an abundant supplyof that unholy admixture of saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal whichpossessed such a wondrous property of exploding to the physicaldetriment of a foe.
"Diable?" he grunted, staring eagerly at Woodfield.
"Oui," answered the harassed Englishman, though in truth he hadunderstood nothing.
"Um," grunted Oskelano; and there the interview ended, with nothinggained on either side.
But as the chief returned to his skin-hut, his brother, a sachem wiserthan he, made the disquieting assertion: "The white stranger is not ofthe French tribe."
"How know you so?" cried the perturbed chief.
"He does not lift his hands, nor does he shake his shoulders when hespeaks. He sits without motion. He does not laugh. He is one of therace they call English."
Woodfield ate the strong bear-meat brought to his shelter by a silentgiant, and turned to compose himself for sleep; but the giant touchedhis shoulder and made a gesture which there was no mistaking. TheEnglishman rose, and immediately two other figures glided out of theforest and cut off his retreat.
They led him along a trail where the fireflies were beginning to lighttheir lamps, between the big trees, and out into short bush andsage-brush where the cranes swept overhead, crying mournfully.Rockland appeared presently, streaked granite overrun with poison-ivy.The captive noticed that the rock was fretted with caves.
Into one of these he was ushered by the custodians, who then gravelydivested him of his weapons. A fire was lighted near the mouth of thecave, and there the bronze guardians squatted, maintaining anintolerable silence throughout the night.
A change of sentries took place at daybreak; another at mid-day; athird the following nightfall. Food and drink were handed in to theprisoner; but the guards spoke never a word and made him no sign.
Another day went by, but as the time of evening drew near there camethe sound of camp-breaking down the wind. A host of armed men trampedbeside the cave. A group of doctors, attired in the fantastic mummeryof their craft, followed; and last of all came Oskelano and his brotherside by side.
Around a solitary poplar men were at work, chopping down the brush withtheir tomahawks. The guard stepped up upon either side of Woodfield,who watched these preparations with a prisoner's suspicions, and ledhim out to the cleared space.
"Um," grunted Oskelano, and shook hands amiably with his victim.
Then the men put aside their tomahawks and bound him to the poplar withropes of vegetable fibre. They piled the moss around him and flung thesagebrush atop. Others brought up pine branches and piled them waisthigh. Oskelano watched, his crafty face wrinkled with smiles.
At last the Englishman understood that he was about to be made asacrifice to the fierce Algonquin gods. He uttered no useless prayerand made no cry. "They have spared me the torture," he mutteredbravely. "Let me now show them how to die." As the silent and supplenatives worked around him, he recalled the tales that old men at homehad told him, of the Protestants who had died for their faith, laughingat the flames and bathing their hands in them. The last scene in thelife of the old vicar of Hadleigh had often as a boy moved him totears. He remembered how that the old man had lighted from his horseto dance on his way to the stake, and he recalled his noble words ofexplanation: "Now I know, Master Sheriff, I am almost at home." Thepassing into death through fire was merely a sting sudden and sharp.
Water was dashed over the fuel until the pile gleamed frostily in thefading rays. A fiery death for his captive was no part of Oskelano'splan. He had discovered that suffocation was more effective and lessrapid than the flames.
Tree and victim became soon hidden in a dense column of cloud, thedoctors resumed their march, the guard followed, the two sachemsbrought up the rear, discussing their proposed attack as indifferentlyas though that mighty pillar of smoke pouring upward in the stillevening air out of the plain of sage-brush had no existence in fact.
Well-laid as was the cruel Algonquin's plan, he had
not the wisdom toguard against that element of the improbable which rarely fails toenter into, and mar the working of, the best-contrived plot.
A maid had concealed herself in the bush until the camp became clear.Then she came forth and ran like the wind, but stopped upon the plainwith a cry of terror when she beheld an old man, who hobbled painfullythrough the brush. The ancient turned, suspicious of every sound, butwhen he saw the girl his dry face broke into a weird smile.
"Hasten, child," he quavered, leaning heavily upon his staff. "TheMother of God forgets not the good done by man or maid."
He dropped a knife at her feet. The girl caught it up and sped onwardlike a deer.
The old man was a Christian. The maid was heathen. Old mind and youngworking independently, the former actuated by the religion of altruism,the latter wrought upon by nature, had entertained in secret theself-same plan of rescuing the young Englishman from his terribleplight.