CHAPTER XVI
WE SEEK THE INLANDERS
In the matter of fighting, I find small difference between white-menand red. Let the lust of conquest but burn, the justice of the quarrelreceives small thought. Your fire-eating prophet cares little for theright of the cause, provided the fighter come out conqueror; and many apoet praises only that right which is might over-trampling weakness. Ihave heard the withered hag of an Indian camp chant as spiritedwar-song as your minstrels of butchery; but the strange thing of it is,that the people, who have taken the sword in a wantonness of conquest,are the races that have been swept from the face of the earth like deadleaves before the winter blast; but the people, who have held immutablyby the power of right, which our Lord Christ set up, the meek and thepeace-makers and the children of God, these are they that inherit theearth.
Where are the tribes with whom Godefroy and Jack Battle and I wanderedin nomadic life over the northern wastes? Buried in oblivion black asnight, but for the lurid memories flashed down to you of latergenerations. Where are the Puritan folk, with their cast-iron, narrowcreeds damning all creation but themselves, with their foibles ofsnivelling to attest sanctity, with such a wolfish zeal to hound downdevils that they hounded innocents for witchcraft? Spreading over theface of the New World, making the desert to bloom and the waste placesfruitful gardens? And the reason for it all is simply this: Yourbutchering Indian, like your swashing cavalier, founded his _right_upon _might_; your Puritan, grim but faithful, to the outermost boundsof his tragic errors, founded his _might_ upon _right_.
We learn our hardest lessons from unlikeliest masters. This one cameto me from the Indians of the blood-dyed northern snows.
* * * * * *
"Don't show your faces till you have something to report about thosepirates, who led the Indians," was M. Radisson's last command, as wesallied from the New Englanders' fort with a firing of cannon andbeating of drums.
Godefroy, the trader, muttered under his breath that M. Radisson neednever fear eternal torment.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because, if he goes _there_," answered Godefroy, "he'll get the bettero' the Nick."
I think the fellow was smarting from recent punishment. He andAllemand, the drunken pilot, had been draining gin kegs on the sly andreplacing what they took with snow water. That last morning at prayersGodefroy, who was half-seas over, must yelp out a loud "Amen" in thewrong place. Without rising from his knees, or as much as changing histone, M. de Radisson brought the drunken knave such a cuff it flattenedhim to the floor.
Then prayers went on as before.
The Indians, whom we had nursed of their wounds, were to lead us to thetribe, one only being held by M. Radisson as hostage for safe conduct.In my mind, that trust to the Indians' honour was the single mistake M.Radisson made in the winter's campaign. In the first place, the Indianhas no honour. Why should he have, when his only standard of right isconquest? In the second place, kindness is regarded as weakness by theIndian. Why should it not be, when his only god is victory? In thethird place, the lust of blood, to kill, to butcher, to mutilate, stillsurged as hot in their veins as on the night when they had attempted toscale our walls. And again I ask why not, when the law of their lifewas to kill or to be killed? These questions I put to you because lifeput them to me. At the time my father died, the gentlemen of KingCharles's court were already affecting that refinement of philosophywhich justifies despotism. From justifying despotism, 'twas but a stepto justifying the wicked acts of tyranny; and from that, but anotherstep to thrusting God's laws aside as too obsolete for our clevercourtiers. "Give your unbroken colt tether enough to pull itself upwith one sharp fall," M. Radisson used to say, "and it will never runto the end of its line again."
The mind of Europe spun the tissue of foolish philosophy. The savageof the wilderness went the full tether; and I leave you to judgewhether the _might_ that is _right_ or the _right_ that is _might_ bethe better creed for a people.
But I do not mean to imply that M. Radisson did not understand thesavages better than any man of us in the fort. He risked three men aspawns in the game he was playing for mastery of the fur trade.Gamester of the wilderness as he was, Pierre Radisson was not the manto court a certain loss.
The Indians led us to the lodges of the hostiles safely enough; andtheir return gave us entrance if not welcome to the tepee village. Wehad entered a ravine and came on a cluster of wigwams to the lee sideof a bluff. Dusk hid our approach; and the absence of the dogs thatusually infest Indian camps told us that these fellows were marauders.Smoke curled up from the poles crisscrossed at the tepee forks, but wecould descry no figures against the tent-walls as in summer, for heavyskins of the chase overlaid the parchment. All was silence but in onewigwam. This was an enormous structure, built on poles long as a mast,with moose-hides scattered so thickly upon it that not a glint offirelight came through except the red glow of smoke at the peak. Therewas a low hum of suppressed voices, then one voice alone in solemntones, then guttural grunts of applause.
"In council," whispered Godefroy, steering straight for the bearskinthat hung flapping across the entrance.
Bidding Jack Battle stand guard outside, we followed the Indians whohad led us from the fort. Lifting the tent-flap, we found ourselvesinside. A withered creature with snaky, tangled hair, toothless gums,eyes that burned like embers, and a haunched, shrivelled figure, stoodgesticulating and crooning over a low monotone in the centre of thelodge.
As we entered, the draught from the door sent a tongue of flame dartingto mid-air from the central fire, and scores of tawny faces with glanceintent on the speaker were etched against the dark. These were no campfamilies, but braves, deep in war council. The elder men sat withcrossed feet to the fore of the circle. The young braves were behind,kneeling, standing, and stretched full length. All were smoking theirlong-stemmed pipes and listening to the medicine-man, or seer, who wascrooning his low-toned chant. The air was black with smoke.
Always audacious, Godefroy, the trader, advanced boldly and sat down inthe circle. I kept back in shadow, for directly behind the Indianwizard was a figure lying face downward, chin resting in hand, whichsomehow reminded me of Le Borgne. The fellow rolled lazily over, gotto his knees, and stood up. Pushing the wizard aside, this Indianfaced the audience. It was Le Borgne, his foxy eye yellow as flame,teeth snapping, and a tongue running at such a pace that we couldscarce make out a word of his jargon.
"What does he say, Godefroy?"
"Sit down," whispered the trader, "you are safe."
This was what the Indian was saying as Godefroy muttered it over to me:
"Were the Indians fools and dogs to throw away two fish for the sake ofone? The French were friends of the Indians. Let the Indians find outwhat the French would give them for killing the English. He, LeBorgne, the one-eyed, was brave. He would go to the Frenchman's fortand spy out how strong they were. If the French gave them muskets forkilling the English, after the ships left in the spring the Indianscould attack the fort and kill the French. The great medicine-man, thewhite hunter, who lived under the earth, would supply them withmuskets----"
"He says the white hunter who lives under the earth is giving themmuskets to make war," whispered Godefroy. "That must be the pirate."
"Listen!"
"Let the braves prepare to meet the Indians of the Land of Little WhiteSticks, who were coming with furs for the white men--" Le Borgne wenton.
"Let the braves send their runners over the hills to the Little WhiteSticks sleeping in the sheltered valley. Let the braves creep throughthe mist of the morning like the lynx seeking the ermine. And when theLittle White Sticks were all asleep, the runners would shoot firearrows into the air and the braves would slay--slay--slay the men, whomight fight, the women, who might run to the whites for aid, and thechildren, who might live to tell tales."
"The devils!" says Godefroy under his breath.
A log
broke on the coals with a flare that painted Le Borgne's evilface fiery red; and the fellow gabbled on, with figure crouchingstealthily forward, foxy eye alight with evil, and teeth glistening.
"Let the braves seize the furs of the Little White Sticks, trade thefurs to the white-man for muskets, massacre the English, then when thegreat white chief's big canoes left, kill the Frenchmen of the fort."
"Ha," says Godefroy. "Jack's safe outside! We'll have a care to serveyou through the loop-holes, and trade you only broken muskets!"
A guttural grunt applauded Le Borgne's advice, and the crafty scoundrelcontinued: "The great medicine-man, the white hunter, who lived underthe earth, was their friend. Was he not here among them? Let thebraves hear what he advised."
The Indians grunted their approbation. Some one stirred the fire toflame. There was a shuffling movement among the figures in the dark.Involuntarily Godefroy and I had risen to our feet. Emerging from thedusk to the firelight was a white man, gaudily clothed in tunic ofscarlet with steel breastplates and gold lace enough for an ambassador.His face was hidden by Le Borgne's form. Godefroy pushed too farforward; for the next thing, a shout of rage rent the tent roof. LeBorgne was stamping out the fire. A red form with averted face racedround the lodge wall to gain the door. Then Godefroy and I werestanding weapons in hand, with the band of infuriated bravesbrandishing tomahawks about our heads. Le Borgne broke through thecircle and confronted us with his face agleam.
"Le Borgne, you rascal, is this a way to treat your friends?" Idemanded.
"What you--come for?" slowly snarled Le Borgne through set teeth.
"To bring back your wounded and for furs, you fool," cried Godefroy,"and if you don't call your braves off, you can sell no more pelts tothe French."
Le Borgne gabbled out something that drove the braves back.
"We have no furs yet," said he.
"But you will have them when you raid the Little White Sticks," ragedGodefroy, caring nothing for the harm his words might work if he savedhis own scalp.
Le Borgne drew off to confer with the braves. Then he came back andthere was a treacherous smile of welcome on his bronze face.
"The Indians thought the white-men spies from the Little White Sticks,"he explained in the mellow, rhythmic tones of the redman. "The Indianswere in war council. The Indians are friends of the French."
"Look out for him, Godefroy," said I.
"If the French are friends to the Indians, let the white-men come tobattle against the Little White Sticks," added Le Borgne.
"Tell him no! We'll wait here till they come back!"
"He says they are not coming back," answered Godefroy, "and hang me,Ramsay, an I'd not face an Indian massacre before I go backempty-handed to M. Radisson. We're in for it," says he, speakingEnglish too quick for Le Borgne's ear. "If we show the white feathernow, they'll finish us. They'll not harm us till they've done for theEnglish and got more muskets. And that red pirate is after these samefurs! Body o' me, an you hang back, scared o' battle, you'd best notcome to the wilderness."
"The white-men will go with the Indians, but the white-men will notfight with the Little Sticks," announced Godefroy to Le Borgne,proffering tobacco enough to pacify the tribe.
'Twas in vain that I expostulated against the risk of going far inlandwith hostiles, who had attacked the New England fort and were even nowplanning the slaughter of white-men. Inoffensiveness is the mostdeadly of offences with savagery, whether the savagery be of white menor red. Le Borgne had the insolence to ask why the tribe could not aseasily kill us where we were as farther inland; and we saw thatremonstrances were working the evil that we wished to avoid--increasingthe Indians' daring. After all, Godefroy was right. The man who fearsdeath should neither go to the wilderness nor launch his canoe above awhirlpool unless he is prepared to run the rapids. This New World hadnever been won from darkness if men had hung back from fear of spiltblood.
'Twas but a moment's work for the braves to deck out in war-gear.Faces were blackened with red streaks typifying wounds; bodies clad incaribou skins or ermine-pelts white as the snow to be crossed; quiversof barbed and poisonous arrows hanging over their backs in otter andbeaver skins; powder in buffalo-horns for those who had muskets;shields of toughened hide on one arm, and such a number of scalp-locksfringing every seam as told their own story of murderous foray. Whilethe land still smoked under morning frost and the stars yet prickedthrough the gray darkness, the warriors were far afield coasting thesnow-billows as on tireless wings. Up the swelling drifts water-wavedby wind like a rolling sea, down cliffs crumbling over with snowycornices, across the icy marshes swept glare by the gales, the bravespressed relentlessly on. Godefroy, Jack Battle, and I would have hungto the rear and slipped away if we could; but the fate of an old manwas warning enough. Muttering against the braves for embroilingthemselves in war without cause, he fell away from the marauders as ifto leave. Le Borgne's foxy eye saw the move. Turning, he rushed atthe old man with a hiss of air through his teeth like a whistlingarrow. His musket swung up. It clubbed down. There was a groan; andas we rounded a bluff at a pace that brought the air cutting in ourfaces, I saw the old man's body lying motionless on the snow.
If this was the beginning, what was the end?
Godefroy vowed that the man was only an Indian, and his death was nosin.
"The wolves would 'a' picked his bones soon anyway. He wore a score o'scalps at his belt. Pah, an we could get furs without any Indians, I'dsee all their skulls go!" snapped the trader.
"If killing's no murder, whose turn comes next?" asked Jack.
And that gave Godefroy pause.