CHAPTER XVI
MONAPIKOT’S MESSAGE
Far into the night the war-dance continued. As men tired and dropped from the circle that revolved about the leaping fire, others took their places. Squaws, seated together near at hand, cried their warriors on to fresh exertions. Old men nodded and watched and grunted approval, their rheumy eyes brightening again with memories. Medicine men, wearing their choicest ornaments, hideously besmeared from forehead to ankle, capered and chanted like evil things seen in a dream. And beneath the songs and wild cries, the steady, unvarying tum-tum-tum of the drums sounded as sounds the beat of the waves under the tumult of the tempest.
David watched from afar. He had no taste for such ceremonies, nor any sympathy. He had grown to appreciate many attributes of the Indians; their bravery and hardihood, their honesty in their dealings with each other, their faithfulness in friendship; but this childish orgy by which they lashed themselves to a frenzy of bloodthirstiness, this recitation of boastful legends and vain threatenings, left him cold. To the Anglo-Saxon mind there was something akin to lunacy in such doings.
David wondered if Monapikot and his two unpleasing companions had left on their homeward journey. It seemed likely, although once, near the middle of the evening, he had thought that he had glimpsed the tall, straight form of the Pegan against the firelight. That Pikot should go without a few words of speech with him seemed strange. It would not have been impossible for the Indian to have spoken briefly under some pretext, and David felt resentful and sad because he had not done so. To-night it became easy once more to believe that his old friend had indeed turned traitor.
John had deserted his charge utterly and was prancing and bending and howling about the fire. Sequanawah had vanished, but whether he had left the village David did not know. Thoughts of escape came to him and he weighed the chances of success. Many times he had wondered whether by scaling the palisade wall he could evade the watchfulness of the sentries. Reaching the top of the wall would be no easy feat, for the smooth, peeled logs that formed it were a good twelve feet in height. Yet he had observed places where, he thought, he might take advantage of crevice and protrusion with hands and feet and so win the summit. Beyond the palisade lay a dry ditch of no great consequence. It would but increase his drop by another two or three feet. Surmounting the wall was, he believed, possible under favoring circumstances such as at present pertained, but the question was what would happen afterwards. He had learned long since that by night the village was well guarded. And he knew, too, that Metipom had ordained his death if captured outside the palisade. To-night it might be that, with every man of fighting age apparently taking part in the dance, the sentries had been withdrawn, but it would not do to count too much on that. On the other hand, the decision for war might well have caused them to increase their vigilance. In any case, David decided, action was best delayed until the village had quieted for the night and the exhausted Indians slept. A new moon hung in the western sky, giving a faint radiance where the ruddy light of the flames failed. In two hours, maybe, or three at the most, the moon would be below the elbow of the mountain and his chance of getting away unseen would be better.
After a while he lay down where he was, against the side of the wigwam, resolved to snatch what sleep he might before the time for action came, if come it should. For a time he lay and watched the silver stars and strove to close his ears to the throbbing of the drums and the howling of the Indians. Gradually sleep settled over his tired body and his breathing grew deep and slow. An hour of the hot, breathless night passed. Occasionally the sleeper stirred or moaned, but he did not wake. And so it was that he did not hear the faint, stealthy movements that might have attracted his attention had he been awake. From behind the wigwam they came, sounds like the soft squirming of a serpent across the tufts of sun-parched grass and through the low patches of briars, sounds no louder than a weasel might have made, and that, subdued by the noise of the drums and the dancers, might well have escaped any save the keenest ears. Behind the wigwam, away from the dancing, flickering light of the fire, the darkness was not black, but yet was deep enough to render uncertain the shadow that lay upon the ground there and moved slowly nearer and nearer. Then, presently, the moving shadow merged with that of the lodge and the faint sounds ceased.
David came slowly awake, floating to consciousness across the margin of sleep as a swimmer floats to shore. Something had summoned him, but he knew not what. Above the stars still twinkled in a sky that was like a close-hanging curtain of warm purple-black velvet. The slender moon had halved the distance to the dark fringe of forest and crags that marked the edge of the mountain. But the uncanny beat of the drums and thud of feet and howling of voices still went on. David blinked and yawned, vaguely disturbed, and then listened acutely. From the half-darkness came a sibilant voice:
“David!”
With a quick leap of his pulse the boy answered:
“I am here! Who speaks my name?”
“Monapikot.”
“Monapikot!” There was no disguising the gladness he felt.
“Aye, Noawama. Speak softly. Are you outside?”
“Aye, Straight Arrow. And you? I do not see you.”
“I, too. Go inside the wigwam and lie close to the wall at its back and farthest from the fire. I have many things to say and there is little time.”
David obeyed. At the nearer lodge an elderly squaw sat motionless by the doorway, a child slumbering against her knees. None others were near. Placing himself so that his lips were close to the rancid-smelling skins of the wigwam, David said: “I am here, Pikot.”
“Good,” replied the other softly. “Listen well, David. When the moon is behind the hill we start our journey back to the southward, and ere that much must be said. You did well to seem not to know me when I came, but what happened after was child’s foolishness, David, and might have cost me my life.”
“I am sorry,” said David humbly. “And yet, my friend, I scarce knew what to think. Nor do I yet.” He paused, seeking to ask a question and yet at a loss for words to clothe it in. At last: “Is—is all well?” he faltered.
“Aye. I bring you greetings from your father. In this way matters stand, David. The Wachoosett sachem demands the release of his son as the price of your return, but so skillfully has he spoken that none dare say for certain that he holds you captive. It is, he says, Manitou who will bring you back safe to your home so soon as he is pleased by the release of Nausauwah. He talked slyly of knowing your place of captivity by reason of a vision, and so well did he play the fox that your father and Master Vernham returned not knowing whether he told the truth or not.”
“Then my father did come for me, Pikot?” asked David eagerly.
“Aye, with Master William Vernham and Obid, the servant, and Captain Consadine, of the Military at Newtowne.”
“And an Indian, Pikot. Was it you?”
“Nay; I was to the south and knew naught of your going until later. The guide was Tanopet.”
“Tanopet!”
“Aye. But we waste time that stands not still. Your father and Master Vernham and others have sought to secure the release of Nausauwah, but with no avail. Promises have been made, but naught is done. The war against Philip engages much attention and all else, it seems, must wait. But if they do not give the Indian his freedom, neither do they bring him to trial, and until then you are safe, David.”
“Safe! Then you did not come to rescue me, Pikot?”
“Not yet. Other duties lie before me, Noawama, that I cannot tell of. But keep a brave heart and a still tongue. Soon I will come again.”
“My father? And Obid?”
“Well, David. Your father troubles over your prisonment and that there is naught he can yet do to end it. But now that the Wachoosetts go upon the war-path, that is changed, and fear of offending them will no longer hold him back. While Woosonametipom was still at peace with the English, the Council at Boston would not allow aught that might seem unfriendly.”
“But how comes it that you are here on such a strange mission, Straight Arrow? I never thought to see you inciting our enemies against us. If you came not to seek me, I do not understand.”
“Said I that I did not come seeking you, David? Nay, I but said that not yet could I deliver you from the sachem. Larger matters come first. As for the company I keep, heed it not. Who visits the wolf must wear fur. Trust me, Noawama, as your people do.”
“I do trust you, Straight Arrow. Tell me how goes the war with King Philip?”
“Well and ill. The Narragansetts have joined with him, as have a few of the Nipmucks living to the south, but the Mohegans have sent warriors to our aid led by Oneko, son of Uncas. Of late Philip was driven into a swamp beside the Taunton River and, had the English attacked with skill as well as bravery and pressed close, he would have been there and then destroyed. But, seeking to starve him out, they withdrew all but a few soldiers, and he soon found canoes and slipped away across the river and into the Nipmuck country where he daily gathers more warriors to his cause.”
“It would seem that some one blundered,” mused David.
“Aye,” agreed Pikot grimly. “And the blunder may cost dear, for now Philip no longer has the sea at his back, but may come and go as he chooses, with the forests to lurk in. But it grows late, Noawama, and I must be away. Keep a brave heart and put your trust in God.”
“And you will come soon again, Straight Arrow?”
“Aye, but when I know not. Perchance some day when on the trail you will find me beside you. Then make no sign, but let believe that we are strangers, David.”
“On the trail said you?”
“Aye, for Woosonametipom goes to join Philip and in the morning the village will be vanished.”
“And I? Think you—”
“The sachem will take you with him, since he may not leave you behind. Be cautious, my brother, and guard your tongue, for now all are hot with the lust for battle and their hands are near their knives.”
“I thought of seeking escape over the wall, Pikot. Once in the forest—”
“Nay, for the village is well guarded and the trail southward swarms with enemies. Try it not. Do the sachem’s bidding and leave the matter of your escape to your friends. We will not fail you. Farewell, Noawama.”
“Farewell, Monapikot. I pray you give my love to my father if you meet him and tell him that all is well with me. Bid him not to trouble for me. And so to Obid. Farewell!”
When the Pegan went, David could not tell, for no sound came to him, but when, after a moment, David called softly again, there was no answer.
Comforted, and with much to think on, David stretched himself on his bed. The revelry was dying out, and so the fire, and although the village did not gain its usual quiet that night, but was ever filled with murmurings and movements, the drums ceased before long and the war-chants ended. And David, lighter of heart than in many a day, soon dropped to sleep again.