The Little Red Foot Part 33

[Footnote 9: Thank you.]

For it is not true that the Iroquois live perpetually in their paint; that they are cruel by nature, brutal, stern, and masters of silence; or that they stalk gloomily through life with hatchet ever loosened and no pursuit except war in their ferocious minds.

White men who have mistreated them see them so; but the real Iroquois, except the Senecas, who are different, are naturally a kindly, merry, and trustful people among themselves, not quarrelsome, not fierce, but like children, loving laughter and all things gay and bright and mischievous.

Their women, though sometimes broad in speech and jests, are more truly chaste in conduct than the women of any nation I ever heard of, except the Irish.

They have their fixed and honourable places in clan, nation, and Federal affairs.

Rank follows the female line; the son of a chief does not succeed to the antlers, but any of his mother's relatives may. And in the Great Rite of the Iroquois, which is as sacred to them as is our religion to us, and couched in poetry as beautiful as ever Homer sang, the most moving part of the ceremony concerns the Iroquois women,--the women of the Six Nations of the Long House, respected, honoured, and beloved.

We ate leisurely, feeling perfectly secure there in the starlight of the soft June night.

The Iroquois war-trail ran at our elbows, trodden a foot deep, hard as a sheep path, and from eighteen inches to two feet in width--a clean, firm, unbroken trail through a primeval wilderness, running mile after mile, mile after mile, over mountains, through valleys, by lonely lakes, along lost rivers, to the distant Canadas in the North.

On this trail, above us, two of my men lay watching, as I have said, which was merely a customary precaution, for we were far out of earshot of the Big Eddy, and even of our own sentries.

We were like one family eating together, and Silver and Luysnes jested and played pranks on each other, and de Golyer and Nick entered into gayest conversation with the Oneidas through their interpreter, the River-reed.

As for Nick, I saw him making calf's eyes at the lithe young sorceress, which I perceived displeased her not at all; yet she gaily divided herself between translating for the others and keeping up a lively repartee with Nick.

The Oneidas, now, had begun to shine up their war-hatchets, sitting cross-legged and contentedly rubbing up knife, axe, and rifle; and I was glad to see them so at home and so confident of our friendship.

Older men might not have been so easily won, but these untried young warriors seemed very children, and possessing the lovable qualities of children, being alternately grave and gay, serious and laughing, frank and impatient, yet caressing in speech and gesture.

From Kwiyeh, the Screech-owl, I had an account of how, burning for glory, these four youngsters had stolen away from Oneida Lake, and, painting themselves, had gone North of their own accord, to win fame for the Oneida nation, which for the greater part had espoused our cause.

He told me that they had seen Sir John pa.s.s, floundering madly northward and dragging three bra.s.s cannon; but explained navely that four Oneidas considered it unsafe to give battle to two hundred white men.

For a week, however, it appeared, they had hung on Sir John's flanks, skulking for a stray scalp; but it was evident that the Baronet's people were thoroughly frightened, and the heavy flank guards and the triple line of sentries by night made any hope of a stray scalp futile.

Then, it appeared, these four Oneidas gave up the quest and struck out for the Iroquois trail. And suddenly came upon nearly two score Mohawks, silently pa.s.sing southward, painted for war, oiled, shaved, and stripped, and evidently searching for Sir John, to aid and guide him in his flight to Canada.

Which proved to me the Baronet's baseness, because his flight was plainly a premeditated one, and the Mohawks could not have known of it unless Sir John had been in constant communication with Canada--a thing he had pledged his honour not to do.

Others around me, now, were listening to the burly young Oneida's account of their first war-path; and presently their young sorceress took up the tale in English and in Oneida, explaining with lively gestures to both red men and white.

"Not one of the Mohawks saw us," she said scornfully, "and when they made a camp and had sent their hunters out to kill game, we came so near that we could see their warriors curing and hooping the scalps they had taken and painting on every scalp the Little Red Foot[10]--even on the scalps of two little boys."

[Footnote 10: To show that the late owner of the scalp had died fighting bravely.]

Nick turned pale, but said nothing. A sickness came to my stomach and I spoke with difficulty.

"What were these scalps, little sister, which you saw the Mohawks curing?"

"White people's. Three were of men,--one very thin and gray; two were the glossy hair of women; and two the scalps of children----"

She flung back her blanket with a peculiarly graceful gesture:

"Be honoured, O white brothers, that these Mohawk dogs were forced to paint upon every scalp the Little Red Foot!"

After a silence: "Some poor settler's family," muttered Nick; and fell a-fiddling with his hatchet.

"All died fighting," I added in a dull voice.

Thiohero snapped her fingers and her dark eyes flamed.

"What are the Mohawks, after all!" she said in a tense voice. "Who are they, to paint for war without fire-right given them at Onondaga? What do they amount to, these Keepers of the Eastern Gate, since Sir William died?

"They have become outlaws and there is no honour among them!

"Their clan-right is destroyed and neither Wolf, Bear, nor Tortoise know them any longer. Nor does any ensign of my own clan of the Heron know these mad yellow wolves that howl and tear the Long House with their teeth to destroy it! Like carcajoux, they defile the Iroquois League and smother its fire in their filth! Dig up the ashes of Onondaga for any living ember, O you Oneidas! You shall find not one live spark! And this is what the Canienga have done to the Great Confederacy!"

Tahioni said, looking straight ahead of him: "The Great League of the Iroquois is broken. Skenandoa has said it, and he has painted his face scarlet! The Long House crumbles slowly to its fall.

"Those who should have guarded the Eastern Gate have broken it down.

Death to the Canienga!"

Kwiyeh lifted his right hand high in the starlight:

"Death to the Canienga! They have defiled Thendara. Spencer has said it.

They have spat upon the Fire at the Wood's Edge. They have hewn down the Great Tree. They have uncovered the war-axe which lay deep buried under the roots.

"Death to the Canienga!"

I turned to Thiohero: "O River-reed, my little sister! Oyaneh! Is it true that your great chief, Skenandoa, has put on red paint?"

She said calmly: "It is true, my brother. Skenandoa has painted himself in red. And when your General Herkimer rides into battle, on his right hand rides Skenandoa; and on his left hand rides Thomas Spencer, the Oneida interpreter!"[11]

[Footnote 11: This was a true prophecy for it happened later at Oriskany.]

Tahioni said solemnly: "And before them rides the Holder of Heaven. We Oneidas can not doubt it. Is it true, my sister?"

The girl answered: "The Holder of Heaven has flung a red wampum belt between Oneida and Canienga! Five more red belts remain in his hand.

They are so brightly red that even the Senecas can see the colour of these belts from the Western Gate of the Long House."

There was a silence; then I chose De Luysnes and Kwiyeh to relieve our sentinels, and went north with them along the starlit trail.

When I returned with Hanoteh and G.o.dfrey Shew, the Oneidas were still sitting up in their blankets, and the Frenchmen lay on theirs, listening to Nick, who had pulled his fife from his hunting shirt and was trilling the air of the Little Red Foot while Joe de Golyer sang the words of the endless and dreary ballad--old-time verses, concerning b.l.o.o.d.y deeds of the Shawanese, Western Lenape, and French in '56, when blood ran from every creek and man, woman and child went down to death fighting.

I hated the words, but the song had ever haunted me with its quaint and sad refrain:

"Lord Loudon he weareth a fine red coat, And red is his ladye's foot-mantelle; Red flyeth ye flagge from his pleasure-boat, And red is the wine he loves so well: But, oh! for the dead at Minden Town,-- Naked and b.l.o.o.d.y and black with soot, Where the Lenni-Lenape and the French came down To paint them all with the Little Red Foot!"

"For G.o.d's sake, quit thy piping, Nick," said I, "and let us sleep while we may, for we move again at dawn."

At which Nick obediently tucked away his fife, and de Golyer, who had a thin voice like a tree-cat, held his songful tongue; and presently we all lay flat and rolled us in our blankets.