CHAPTER XIV
EMISSARIES FROM KING PHILIP
A moment later he was doubting his senses. The visitors had disappeared into the sachem’s wigwam and the villagers had crowded in behind them or clustered about the doorway, and David was alone in the hot glare of the sun. Bewilderedly he passed the edge of the throng. From within the lodge came the murmur of a voice. Outside the crowd was talking in low tones. A perceptible atmosphere of excitement had pervaded the village. But David, seeking his own wigwam, gave little thought to that. If the Indian was, indeed, Pikot, why was he there, an emissary of the murderous King Philip? Had it come to pass, as Obid had long predicted, that Eliot’s Indians had forgot their teachings and returned to savagery? David could believe it of some, but never of Pikot! Besides, the look his friend had given him had said, “Caution!” If Pikot had really joined with Philip, he would have cared little whether David recognized him. What the look had conveyed to the boy was: “I am Pikot, your friend, but you must not know me. Whatever happens, we are strangers. Trust me!” David drew a deep breath and felt a lightening of the heart. Whatever Pikot’s secret might be, it was not a shameful one, he decided, and he would trust him. Indeed, it might well be that Straight Arrow was but playing a part in order to rescue his old friend. Perchance he had been dispatched hither by the Council at Boston. And yet, in spite of his resolve to be trustful, David revolted at the recollection of Pikot oiled and painted and bedecked for the warpath and serving as a messenger for that outlaw, Philip of Mount Hope.
Then a new thought came to him. Was it not possible that the embassy from Philip was but a pretense, a means of entering the Wachoosett village as friends? Maybe not only Pikot, but the two Indians with him, were there for no other purpose than to rescue him, David, from Metipom. And yet the boy’s knowledge of the Indians told him beyond doubt that neither of Pikot’s companions was Nipmuck, but, unless he was much mistaken, of King Philip’s own tribe.
His further ponderings were interrupted by a darkening of the entrance, and John entered.
“You come,” he said. “Great Sachem say it.”
Wondering, David followed John to the big wigwam. Shouldering his way through the throng without, John led David through the door and into the softer twilight of the lodge. Within was an unusual scene. Every available foot of space was occupied save in the very center, where, surrounded by all his counselors, the sachem sat with the three messengers from King Philip before him. Around this group, packed like fish in a hogshead, were the men of the village, or so many of them as were fortunate enough to enter. The sachem’s big green stone pipe had been smoked by the visitors and the chief and was now passing from hand to hand amongst the counselors. There was little talk going on, although occasionally Metipom addressed a question or a word to the guests and was briefly answered. David’s advent excited no attention, and, at a sign from John, he squatted at the edge of the circle. Through the smoke-hole above, the sun sent a long wand of golden radiance into the wigwam in which the blue haze of tobacco smoke wreathed and eddied. The place was intolerably hot and close. As he took his seat, David glanced surreptitiously at Monapikot. The Pegan was silent and straight and motionless, and if he knew of David’s entrance he made no sign. Between the guests and the sachem, on the rush mats there, lay the bundle they had brought. For some reason David’s eyes returned to it again and again in a fascination he could not have explained. After that first glance he avoided looking at Pikot lest sharp eyes should read his thoughts. At a little distance, through the smoke haze, he saw Sequanawah, and, in the background, the ancient Quinnapasso, the latter apparently taking advantage of the ceremonial silence to snatch a few winks of sleep. David, wondering for what reason he had been summoned, waited seemingly unperturbed, but secretly much concerned.
At last the peace pipe completed its journey and was returned to the sachem, who laid it carefully on the floor at his feet. Then he pointed to the spokesman of the embassy. “You talk,” he said.
Obediently the Indian arose, cast a slow look about the wigwam, and then, facing the sachem, spoke. Much of what he said was well beyond David’s understanding, for not only did he speak the native language, but he used many words having no place in the Nipmuck tongue. Nevertheless, the boy comprehended the tenor of what he said.
The spokesman’s name was Wissataumkin, and he proclaimed himself a Narragansett and one who stood close to his sachem, Quananchett, son of Miantunnomoh. With him, he said, were Tamanso, son of Nowapowett, and nephew of King Philip, and Wompatannawa, a Niantic captain. At the latter name he indicated Monapikot. The Great Sachem, King Philip, had sent them to tell his brothers, the Wachoosett people, how went his war against the English and for what reasons that war was being waged. Thereupon Wissataumkin told of Philip’s grievances against the colonists, and a very strong case indeed did he make. He accused the English of disregarding written treaties and of violating spoken promises. He referred to the execution of Poggapanossoo, otherwise Tobias, Philip’s counselor, and two others for the killing of John Sassamon. He said that since Philip had made war the English had preyed on women and children, arresting all they could lay hands on and taking them into captivity: and that unless their hand was stayed they would send them across the great water as slaves. Then he told of battles fought; of how Philip had met with and defeated many Englishmen at Pocasset, of the battle in the swamp beside the Taunton River where countless of the enemy had been slain, of his attack on Mendon and the ambush at Quaboag. According to the narrator, King Philip had been everywhere victorious and the English were in terror and in all places falling back on their forts. Before the leaves were off the trees, declared Wissataumkin, not one white man would be left. The Narragansetts and the Nipmucks to the south had joined with the Great Sachem Philip. Woosonametipom and his people were also Nipmucks, and now Philip bade them choose whether they would fight with him or against him. Soon the war would come to their country, and those who were not with Philip would be considered against him. What word should he carry back to his chief?
When Wissataumkin had ceased, Metipom, who had listened gravely and in silence, spoke. “What you say may be true, O Wissataumkin, but we have heard other tales. We have heard that the English have killed many of Philip’s warriors and taken many prisoners. We care little for the English, although we have long remained at peace with them. Nor is Philip’s quarrel our quarrel unless we make it so. We go not to war at any man’s ordering. Yet it seems that our people have been patient under many wrongs inflicted by these white-faces and it may be that, as you have said, the time has come to drive them forth from our fields and forests, that peace and prosperity may return once more to us. I, too, have suffered wrong, for these same English did seize my son, Nausauwah, for no cause and do now hold him prisoner in their town of Boston. And yet to take up Philip’s quarrel may not be wise, for the English fight with guns and we have but few, and against powder and lead the arrow is weak. I would take counsel, my brothers. By sunset you shall have my answer. Until then my house is yours, and all that is mine is for you to partake of.”
“I hear, O Sachem,” answered Wissataumkin. “May your council be wise. As to that Philip’s warriors have been killed and made prisoners, why, that is but an English lie. None dare stand but a moment’s time against him. In battle his enemies fall before him like rushes before the knife. His wigwams are decked with the heads of the foes. For token, O Woosonametipom, he sends you these gifts.”
He gestured to Tamanso and the latter drew his knife from his belt and cut the lashings about the bundle that lay before him. Slowly, dramatically, he unrolled the rush matting while all within the wigwam craned their heads to see. And then, gruesome and horrid, there lay to the gaze two dried and withered human heads.