CHAPTER XVIII.
COMMITTAL.
While Woodfield was a prisoner in the camp of the Algonquins, hiscomrades, who had searched for him in vain, made their sad parting fromGeorge Flower upon the Windy Arm where the waters mourn for ever.
This promontory had been so named by the Indians because it thrustitself far out, like an arm, into Lake Couchicing, meeting the fullforce of every wind. It made a suitable spot, thought the survivors,for an Englishman's grave, being rough and rugged and strong to behold,like the man whom they had known and loved and lost.
When Hough had done droning his prayers, they heaped the soil into theform of a mound, which they covered with warm peat. While thusemployed they beheld Shuswap passing down to the beach, where a dozenlong canoes lay ready for a start. One, which was covered with greenbranches, had already been launched, and was rocking gently upon theshallows. The Englishmen hastened to complete their work, when theydiscovered that the sachem was awaiting them with impatience.
Then a mournful procession crossed glass-like Couchicing, headed by thesad canoe where boy and hound slept together as they had been wont todo at home. It reached the fringed shore opposite, amid the sorrowfulcries of the paddlers. The canoes were carried across the strip ofland and down again to the water where the country was in splendour.Here Nature struck no mourning note. Only a few stripped trees leaningout, held from falling by tougher comrades which supported them oneither side, spoke mutely of the presence of death after life; and evenso showed strong green saplings from some living nerve of thehalf-decayed roots to proclaim the final triumph of life over death.
So they continued, until wild islets stood out, their banks humped withbeaver mounds, and the lost waters began to shout with the mourners,and the swelling north wind shook the shore. The paddlers wrenched thecanoes round, chanting as they worked, and the whitecap waves slappedthe frail birch-bark sides.
No man stood beside young Richard's grave. A flock of noisy birdspecked amid the fresh-turned soil and flung themselves away before thecarriers. Sir Thomas took no part in these last rites. From thatpierced body of his son the jewel of great price had been snatched, andthe setting he left for others to handle.
The mother stood beside old Shuswap, her bosom heaving vengefully asthe warriors consigned her son to the ground. After the heathen riteshad been performed, Hough's stern voice repeated the prayers which hehad but recently offered over his brother of the sword, and when he haddone green branches were flung into the grave, then a weight of stones,and finally the rich, red clay stopped the mouth of earth which hadopened to devour her own. The Indians swept away, shouting a song ofwar. The waters raced on; and wind and rapids met below with the noiseof thunder.
Penfold walked among the trees; and there, scarce a stone's cast fromthe sounding water, he came upon the knight, huddled upon the stem of afallen pine, his hands spread out across his knees, his head down, andon the ground between his feet the two parts of a broken sword.
The old yeoman came near and wrecked the silence by a gruff word ofsympathy; but Sir Thomas did not look at him. Presently he made ablind movement and extended one lean arm towards the ground.
"If you would serve me, friend," he said in a hollow voice, "cast thesefragments into yonder water. My son, whom I should have trained as aman of peace, took that sword from my hand. My Richard's blood liesheavy on me now."
"Not so," said Penfold strongly. "The boy was his father's son. Wouldyou have seen him grow a weakling? Sons bred beside an enemy's campmust fight or be found unworthy of their name."
"The sword has fallen," said the knight. "Last night I had a dream."A shiver coursed through him. "Take up the sword with which I killedmy son and bury it in the water. I have sworn to lay hand on it nomore."
"I have lost a friend," muttered the yeoman. "One known to me byhearth and in field, at work and pleasure. I have buried him this dayin a strange land. I grow old, and my friends drop from me as acornsshed from the oak, but while my eye is steady and my arm strong I shallfight for England's empire over sea. Old age, when dotage grows, istime sufficient to mourn for friends. While strength remains a manmust work. Country, then friends, myself the last. 'Tis the motto ofthe Penfolds of County Berks."
"You have no flesh and blood to mourn."
"What is relationship if it be not friendship? Know you not that twobrothers may fall in hatred from one another, and yet either have afriend dear to his heart as his own soul? Our troubles we carry to ourpastor. Our highest love to the woman who stays for us on our waythrough life. Such friendship binds more firmly than any tie of blood."
"Speak not to me," cried the bitter man. "My ambition has fallen tothe ground."
"Stand by yonder mound," cried Penfold. "The boy shall speak."
"Vengeance shall not bring him back."
"Had you fallen he would have gone upon his way stronger than before."
"He was young and I grow old."
"Yet I am older far." And the yeoman shook himself like an old lion."There is work for me."
The knight lifted his head, and spoke more bitterly:
"Poison stirs in our English blood, driving us from home, leading usacross seas to fight unthanked for our country's cause. What gadfly ofmadness stings us on thus to build the foundations of Empire? Whathonour shall be rendered to pioneers? Who shall seek our graves andpause to say, 'Here lies one who fought to plant the red-cross flag inthe face of its enemies'? Fools, fools, fools! We forsake home andkindred in pursuit of a dream, rise up for our unrewarded effort, andfail. So we are gone and our deeds lie buried in our graves."
"One leaf makes not a summer," replied Penfold. "The one cannot bediscerned by the eye, and yet that one does its share in making thetree perfect. We also have our part to play. Our lives are obscure.Our deeds shall live, if not our names. Let others reap the harvest."
The knight rose, frowning at the sun-lit scene.
"There is a cave a league away," he said. "There sorrow and myselfshall dwell. Seek not to find me."
He placed a hand upon his breast.
"Something has broken there," he said; and then went with droopinghead, striking the trees in the blindness of his flight.
Hough stood low upon the shore between the islets. He heard thefootsteps of his captain, and spoke:
"See where our friend's wife goes. Closing her ears to my goodcounsel, she went into the hut, and returned with bow and arrows and aknife. These she placed in her canoe, and yonder she goes to find thetrack of that papist priest who has brought sorrow to us all."
"Said she as much?"
"Ay. 'Onawa, your sister, has brought this trouble upon you and us,'said I, as she pushed away. 'She it was who smote down George Flowerby treachery, and she it was who brought the Frenchman to ourhiding-place.'"
"Said she anything?"
"Never a word. But her eyes strained upon the knife."
Then the two lonely men returned to New Windsor, the slow day passed,and night enwrapped in cloud fell upon the land. The fires of theallied tribes spotted the forest with scarlet, and between the blacktrees the upright figures of warriors, fully painted and feathered,crossed as they threaded the mazes of the dance. Five thousandfighters were there gathered, the best and bravest of the Oneidas,Senacas, and Onandagas, mad to avenge their wrongs. Spies were postedat every point; a hundred watched the fortress, passing the word fromman to man. In a chain they stretched from the height above the riverto the council fire, where the nine sachems sat muttering in whispersand drawing omens from the flight of the smoke and the burning of thelogs.
"Shuswap, great chief of the Cayugas, the woman your daughter wouldspeak to you," a voice sounded.
"Let her come near," answered the old man.
His keen eyes distended. He had looked, prepared to behold his youngerdaughter, but instead his eyes fell upon Tuschota, her sister. Thefather noted her warlike bearing, the bow slung upon her shoulders, thearrows and knif
e thrust through her girdle. He saw also the sternnessof her countenance.
"What would you, daughter?"
"Where is Onawa, my sister?"
"I know not," said the sachem.
"Find her and bring her forth. She led hither the Frenchman who hasslain my son."
The sachems turned and their black eyes glittered upon her.
"It is false," cried Shuswap.
"She desires to win the French doctor for husband. She brought himtherefore to the lake that he might lie in wait to kill the Englishmen.One man Onawa killed with her own hand. My son is your son. Yourdaughter, my sister, must die."
She spoke, and passed away into the glow of the forest.
Shuswap dashed his grey head to the ground.
"She must die," muttered the counsellors.
The news travelled like an evil wind from fire to fire. All the tribesswore by their gods that the woman who had sought to betray them mustdie. Not till then might Shuswap lift up his head among them. Theydanced more cruelly, maddened by disgrace.
A runner came from the depths of the forest, spots of blood thrown fromhis flying heels. Three hours had he run at that speed. He passed thewarriors and their fires and reached the council. All the sachems saterect, save only old Shuswap, who lay forward, his head upon the dust.
"Oskelano comes upon us at the head of the tribes of the Algonquins,"spoke the messenger. "They carry the fire-tubes given them by theFrench."
The sachems sat like figures of stone.
"Which way do they come?" demanded Piscotasin, surnamed Son of theWeasel, the learned chief of the Oneidas.
"From the north."
"They shall find us ready."
The messenger passed back. Straightway the forest shivered with a wildcry for battle until the leaves were shed like rain.
There came another runner.
"A fire-float passes down the Father of Waters."
"It is well," said the Son of the Weasel. "It is the signal of thefriendly Dutch."
Thereupon commenced that great advance of the confederate tribes whichdescendants speak of to this day. The flower and strength of theIroquois, that great people which from time immemorial had ruled thenorth-eastern land from the coast to the chain of inland seas, went outto avenge their wrongs. The women rushed to find shelter from theirhereditary enemies the pitiless Algonquins. The army poured away in aroaring torrent, draining the forest, leaving the fires licking thesharp breeze with forked tongues, leaving only one man behind:
Old Shuswap, doubled in the dust.