The Little Red Foot Part 37

That was a wild brant chase indeed! And although there were good trackers among us, the fleeing Canienga took to the mountain streams and travelled so, wading northward mile after mile, which very perfectly covered their tracks, and finally left us travelling in circles near Silver Lake.

I now think St. Sacrament must have mirrored their canoes--G.o.d and they alone know the truth!--for I never heard of any other Mohawks, or any Englishmen at all, or Frenchmen for that matter, who ever have heard of this Mohawk war party coming south to meet and rescue Sir John.[12] Nor do our own records, except generally, mention our measures taken to stop the Sacandaga trail, or speak of the fight at the Big Eddy as a separate and distinct combat.

[Footnote 12: Years later, Thayendanegea made a reference to this attempt, but the inference was that he himself led the war party, which is not true, because Brant was then in England.]

It may be that this fight at the Big Eddy remained unnoticed because we sustained no losses. Also, we were losing our people all along the wilderness, from the ashes of Falmouth to the Ohio. I do not know. But my chiefest concern, then and later, was that the survivors among these Caniengas got clean away, which misfortune troubled my mind, although my Oneidas had a Dutch dozen of their scalps, all hooped and curing, when we limped into the Drowned Lands from our wild brant chase above.

Now, my orders being to stop the Sacandaga Trail, there seemed no better way than to cut this same trail with a ditch and plant in it a chevaux-de-frise; and then so dispose my men that even a scout might remain in touch by signal and be prepared to fall back behind this barrier if Sir John crept upon our settlements by stealth.

Fish House could provision us, or the Point, if necessary; and any scout of ours in the Drowned Lands ought to see smoke by day or fire by night from Maxon's nose to Mayfield.

My scout of four and I pa.s.sed in wearily between the rough, low redoubts at Fish House, after sunset, and gave an account to Peter Wayland, the captain commanding the post, that the northward war-trail was now clean as far as Silver Lake, and that I proposed to block it and watch it above and below.

Twilight was deepening when we came to John Howell's deserted log-house on the Vlaie, and heard the owls very mournful in the tamarack forests eastward.

A few rods farther on the hard ridge and one of my men challenged smartly. In thick darkness he led us over hard ground along the vast wastes of bushes and reeds, to where a new ditch had been dug down to the Vlaie Water.

Thence he guided us through our chevaux-de-frise; and I saw my own people lying in the shadowy gleam of a watch-fire; and an Oneida slowly moving around the smouldering coals, chanting the refrain of his first scalp-dance:

SCALP SONG

"Chiefs in your white plumes!

When your Tall Cloud glooms, And we Oneidas wonder To hear your thunder-- And the moon pales, And the Seven Dancers wear veils, Is it your rain that wails?

Is it the noise of hail?

Is it the rush of frightened deer That we Oneidas hear?"

And the others chanted in sombre answer:

"It is the weeping of the Mohawk Nation, Mourning amid their desolation, For the scalpless head Of each young warrior dead.

_A Voice from the Dark_

"It is the cry of their women, who bewail Their warriors dead, Not the east wind we hear!

It is the noise of their women, who rail At those who fled, Not whistling hail we hear!

It is the rush of feet that are afraid, Not the swift flight of deer!"

_Another Voice_

"Let them flee,--the East Gate Keepers-- Whose dead lie still as sleepers!

Let the Canienga fly before our wrath, Scatter like chaff, When we Oneidas laugh!

Koue!"

_Tahioni_

"Holder of Heaven, And every Chief named in the Great Rite!

Dancers Seven!

And the Eight Thunders plumed in white!

At dawn I was a young man, Who had seen no enemy die.

But my foe was a deer who ran, And I struck; and let him lie."

_The Screech-owl Dances_

"The Mohawk Nation has fled, But my war-axe sticks in its head!

Koue!"

_The Water-snake Dances_

"Let the Wild Goose keep to the skies!

Where the Brant alights, he dies!

Koue!"

_Thiohero, their Prophetess_

"The Lodge poles crack in the East!

The Long House falls.

Who calls the Condolence Feast?

Who calls?"

_She Dances Very Slowly_

"Who calls the Roll of the Dead?

Who opens the door?

The Fire in the West burns red, But our fire-place burns no more!

Thendara--Thendara no more!"

It was plain to me that my Indians meant to make a night of it--even those who, dog weary, had but now returned with me from the futile brant chase and sat eating their samp.

The French trappers squatted in a row, smoking their pipes and looking on with that odd sympathy for any savage rite, which, I think, partly explains French success among all Indians.

Firelight glimmered red on their weather-ravaged faces, on their gaudy fringes and moccasins.

Near them, lolling in the warm young gra.s.s, sprawled Nick and G.o.dfrey. I sat down by them, my back against a log. My Saguenay crept to my side. I gave him to eat, and, for my own supper, ate slowly a handful of parched corn, watching my young Oneidas around the fire, where they moved in their slow dance, singing and boasting of their first scalps taken.

The little maid of Askalege came and seated herself close to me on my right.

"I am weary," she murmured, letting her head fall back against the log.

"Tell me," said I in English, "is there any reason why this Saguenay, who has proved himself a real man and no wolf, should not sing his own scalp-song among our Oneidas?"

"None," she repeated. "The Yellow Leaf is a real man."

"Tell him so."