CHAPTER XX
DAVID BEARS A MESSAGE
“Noawama!”
“Pikot!” gasped David.
“Softly!” answered the voice of the Indian, now beside him. “Speak little and hearken much. There is little time for talk.” Monapikot’s knife slashed the thongs that held David, and then, as the boy would have fallen without their support, took him into his arms and laid him gently on the ground. “Rest,” he whispered, “for there is a journey before you. I will return after a minute.”
The Pegan stole away and David heard the murmuring of voices where Memecho lay. Presently both Indians were beside him and Monapikot lifted him to his feet. “Can you walk, David?” he asked.
David tried, but would have fallen save for the other’s hold on him. “Slowly,” bade the Pegan. “Put your weight on my shoulder and try again, Noawama.”
In this manner, with Memecho following, David left the marsh island. Gradually the use of his limbs returned to him, although each nerve and muscle ached intolerably and movement sent his head to spinning. But presently they were on dry ground in a forest of great trees widely spaced, and there they halted.
Monapikot spoke. “The garrison is in sore danger, my brothers, and aid must come soon. These plans had I made. Westward, at Hadley, are two English captains with many men. I meant to go thither and summon them. To the north and east is Major Willard, if report be true, by a place called Lancaster. To him would I have sent you, Memecho. But now I know not, for with your wound you are not fit to go.”
“I will try, Monapikot,” answered Memecho sturdily, but with a voice that told of suffering.
“Nay,” broke in David eagerly, “give me directions for the journey, Pikot! ’Tis but thirty miles and surely I can win there by dawn! My strength is already returned, Pikot. Memecho is not fit for the task. Say I may go! ”
“Aye, my brother, for I but waited for your word. Go, then, and when you have found this English major say to him that Monapikot of the Pegans bids him come in all haste. Say to him that the garrison at Brookfield numbers less than a hundred and is beseiged by four times that many. Say to him that the English may hold out until the day after the morrow, but no later, and that I go to Hadley to ask relief of Captain Lothrop. From the pond that lies a league north leads a stream and beside it runs the path you must follow. When you have traveled three leagues farther the stream will be a river. That is the Nashua, David, and it will bring you to Lancaster village. By day your journey may be made more short, but in darkness ’tis better to let the river show the way. Here is food, though scanty. Seek not to haste at first, Noawama, but let your strength return. Are you thirsty? ”
“Aye, my throat is parched, indeed, Straight Arrow.”
“Water you will find but a little way from here, but do not drink deeply. Take but enough to cool your throat. Go now, for time passes. Wait! Take this knife. I can offer no more.”
“But you, Pikot? Will you not need it?”
“Nay, I shall find another ere my journey is well begun,” replied the Pegan grimly. “Farewell, Noawama! God watch over you.”
“Farewell, Pikot. We shall meet again in two days!”
“Be it so. Come, Memecho.”
With a last glance toward the Indians in the starlight gloom of the forest, David turned and sought the trail. Slowly he went at first, for, despite his protestation to Pikot, his limbs were still unequal to their task. As the Indian had promised, his way crossed a small brook but a few rods beyond and the boy knelt and let the water dwell gratefully in his mouth, but, heeding Pikot’s warning, took but a swallow of it ere he arose and went on again. The path was ill-defined in the darkness and was seemingly little used, but only once did he wander from it and then speedily found it again. And so, his strength growing each moment, he came at last to the pond he sought.
It was small, and he had soon reached the upper end of it, from which led a quiet, meandering stream. On the western bank, a rude trail followed the brook on its northward flow. There was little water between the low banks, for the summer had been hot and dry, and for stretches David found the parched, sun-cracked margin of the stream offering better footing than the path. After an hour stream and trail both widened and bore eastward. The necessity for caution and the roughness of the path had thus far precluded speed, but now, when the brook had flowed into a second pond and emerged more worthy the name of river, David found himself able to take up the swinging trot he had learned from the savages. Unlike them, however, he could not maintain that pace for long, and soon he was obliged to fall back to a walk. During the first portion of his journey he rested frequently, throwing himself full-length on the ground and relaxing his tired body, but as time wore on his power of endurance seemed to grow rather than diminish and rest became less imperative until well toward the end. He kept eyes and ears constantly on guard, for this was a well-traveled path that he followed and at any moment he might encounter foes, and it was well that he did so, for, near midnight as he judged it to be, some sense, whether of sight or hearing he knew not, warned him of danger and he drew quickly aside into the thicket and crouched silently in the darkness. A moment later, with scarce a sound, the form of an Indian came into sight against the sky, traveling westward, the body bent forward and the arms trailing in the tireless trot of his kind. At intervals of a few paces four others followed. Unsuspecting and looking neither to left nor right, the savages passed swiftly along the trail and were gone. For some minutes David waited in concealment. Then he went on again.
That was not the only alarm, for an hour or so later, where the stream and path led through a long swamp of alder and willow and rustling cattail, a sudden floundering and splashing but a few yards distant brought his heart to his mouth and held him for a long moment motionless on the path. But this alarm presaged no danger, for the sound was only that of some huge animal, probably a moose, disturbed and in flight. Occasionally river and trail parted company, as when the former cut its way through a narrow gorge of slaty rock and the latter mounted a little hill where, against the starlight, laurel and sweet-fern grew abundantly. But always they came together again sooner or later, and never was he for more than a moment or two out of sound of the river’s murmur and gurgle. Weariness was claiming him now as, ahead of him, the night sky began to light above the mysterious hills. Slumber called him and it needed all his courage and determination to resist its alluring voice. Perhaps it was only the knowledge of what his mission meant to the beleaguered inhabitants of the garrison back there at Brookfield that kept him somehow on his aching feet to the end. The last three hours of that journey became a waking nightmare of which, afterwards, he could recall little beyond the sheer suffering that he underwent. Dawn came up slowly out of the east and found him skirting a great forest of pines and hemlocks. The gray lightness showed his uncertain sight a cluster of cabins that dotted the plain ahead. A rude stockade fort caught the first yellow glint of the sun on its newly peeled logs. The river turned and left him to struggle on by a side path through coarse grass and trailing briers that caught at his faltering feet and thrice sent him sprawling to the dewy earth. Each time it took great toll of his strength to lift himself again and stagger on. And then the log wall of a little house suddenly barred his way and in the midst of a great feeling of thankfulness he felt his way to the door and, dropping to the stone step below, beat weakly on the stout oak planks.
There they found him a minute or two later when, doubtfully, they unbarred the door and peered out. He was sound asleep then, but as willing hands lifted him across the threshold he awakened startledly.
“Major Willard?” he whispered. “I bring a message to him from Brookfield, He—is here?”
“Nay, but close by. Give me your message and I will bear it, lad.”
“Monapikot, the Pegan, bids him haste to Brookfield. The Indians have attacked. Many English are slain. The garrison is besieged—by four hundred or more. Philip leads them.” David’s voice faltered. “There is more, but I—forget!” His head fell back and he slept again.
An hour only they gave him, and then he awoke to find the small room with its homely and scanty furnishings, so like his own home, filled with grave-faced men. One in soldier’s accouterment sat on the edge of the pallet, a lean-countenanced man whose long, straight nose and wide-set eyes spoke courage and wisdom.
“Now, lad, your name and story, and quickly,” he said with kindly imperiousness.
David gathered his scattered faculties and answered, and while he spoke those who had gathered close to listen murmured their surprise, horror, indignation, and, when it had become evident that the boy on the pallet had traveled that trail in some ten hours, admiration.
“Well done, in sooth!” exclaimed Major Simon Willard heartily when David had ended. “You are a brave boy, David, and there is one not far who will be prouder of your courage than I! Bide you here and rest you, lad. Mistress Farwell will look to your wants and when we return you shall be sent safely to your home. Unless, mayhap, your father has other views. That we shall determine later.” He turned to the others and sprang to his feet. “You have heard, masters! To horse, then, and let us push forward, for the road is long and our presence is sore needed. I give you good-day, young sir!”
“Nay, sir, an it please you,” cried David, clutching at the Major’s doublet. “Take me with you, I beg. I can fight, sir! And I am well and strong again, now that I have slept.”
“Nay, my lad, methinks you have earned a season of rest as well as our gratitude. Bide you here. Doubtless Mistress Farwell will find you Christian apparel of sorts. And that were well since your present state is like to fright the maids out o’ their wits!”
The Major smiled and turned away. Already the room was empty save for a few, and through an open casement David could see the company preparing to mount.
“Sir, the odds be greatly against us at Brookfield, for Philip and the sagamores who fight with him have fully four hundred savages against much less than a hundred of the English, and I am no poor hand with a musket.” David interposed himself between the soldier and the door and spoke earnestly. “Every one who can fight will be needed, sir. I pray you provide me with a musket and let me return with you.”
Major Willard frowned. “’Tis plain your perseverance has survived the task you set it, David, but I doubt your father would look kindly on me were I to grant your request. Besides, horses are few—”
“I can go afoot,” exclaimed David eagerly.
“Nor am I certain that a musket could be found for you.”
“Then will I fight with bow and arrows, sir!”
Major Willard threw his hands apart and laughed shortly. “Do as you will. An you can fight as you argue ’twere a pity to leave you behind! But I take no blame, young sir, and so you must tell your father. And if he says you nay, count not on me for support. Now I will find if there be a horse for you. Mistress Farwell, give this lad food and speed him forth.”
“What meant he by my father saying me nay?” David asked himself as he drew a stool to the table and the food laid thereon by his hostess. “’Tis far from likely that he will know aught about it until I return home, by which time his yea or nay will matter little, methinks! ”
He ate quickly of the food, fearful lest the company be off without him, unconscious of the curious glances cast upon him by the children gathered without the open door. Nor, indeed, was he aware of their presence there until, thrust from behind, they flowed into the house. This small commotion drew his eyes from the window, and in the next instant he was on his feet, staring unbelievingly at the two men who came quickly through the portal.