CHAPTER IV
THE SPOTTED ARROW
The rest of that day passed quickly and enjoyably, for Raph Elkins took David under his wing and, until it was time for the evening meal, the two lads viewed the town and loitered along the shore and wharves where many ships were at anchor. Fascinating odors filled their nostrils and romantic sights held them enthralled. Perhaps Raph was less engaged than David, for he was more accustomed to the shipping, but he enjoyed his cousin’s pleasure and through it found a new enthusiasm. To David the sea and the ships that sailed it had ever held a strong appeal, and secretly he entertained the longing that most boys have for the feel of a swaying deck and for all the exciting adventures that were supposed to befall—and frequently did—the hardy mariners of those days. Piracy was still a popular trade in southern waters, and Teach and Bradish and Bellamy, and even the renowned William Kidd, were names to bring a romantic flutter to the heart of a healthy lad. Whether, could he have had his way, David would have cast his lot with the privateers—who were but pirates under a more polite title—or with those who sought to suppress them, I do not know!
When they returned to the house, Master William Elkins had returned and they sat down to supper. David’s uncle was a somewhat pompous man of forty-odd, very proper as to dress and deportment, and who ruled his household with a stern hand. Yet withal he was kind of heart and secretly held David in much affection. Since his wife’s death the domestic affairs had been looked after by a certain Mistress Fairdaye, who occupied a position midway between that of servant and housewife, taking her meals with the family and ruling in her own realm quite as inflexbly as Master Elkins commanded over all. David often pitied Raph, for what between his father and Mistress Fairdaye he spent what seemed to the younger lad a very dreary and suppressed existence. But Raph appeared not to mind it. Indeed, unlike David, he had little of the adventurous in his makeup and restraint did not irk him. He was a rather thick-set youth, quiet in manner and even sober, having doubtless found little to make him otherwise in his staid life. Yet when David was about he could be quite lively and would enter into their mild adventures with a fair grace.
Supper was a serious affair at Master Elkins’s. After the blessing had been asked, they set to in a silence that was seldom broken until the meal was at an end. David, who had experienced too much excitement to be heartily hungry, was finished before the rest and thereafter amused himself by kicking Raph’s shins beneath the table, maintaining an innocence of countenance that threw no light on the squirmings of his cousin who, in an effort to avoid punishment, called down a reprimand from his father for his unseemly antics.
The rest of the evening was spent in conversation, David delivering some messages to his uncle from his father and recounting the warning given by Monapikot and, in return, listening to a lengthy discourse on the political affairs of the Colony, much of which he did not comprehend. It was decided, though, by Master Elkins that David was not to make the return journey alone, but that three of the town Indians should accompany him. David took no pleasure from the decision, for, as toilsome as the trip would have been, he had looked forward to it eagerly, anxious to put his strength and endurance to the test. But his uncle was not one to be disputed and David agreed to the arrangement with the best face he could. Bedtime came early, but, after he and Raph had put out the candle in the little sloping-roofed room at the top of the house, they talked for a long while. Even then it was Raph who first dropped off to slumber, and David lay for some time more quite wide awake in the darkness, watching through the little small-paned window the twinkling lights on the ships in the town cove.
His purchases were made by mid-morning and at a little after ten o’clock Raph accompanied him to Blackstone’s Point whither the porters from the stores had borne his goods and where three stolid and unattractive Indians were awaiting. Raph bade him farewell and repeated a promise to visit him in the summer, and the canoe, propelled by two of the savages, began its return voyage. Since but one of his copper-skinned companions carried a weapon, a battered flintlock, David could not see that he was much safer from attack by hostiles than if he had made the journey alone. The armed savage was known as Isaac Trot, whatever his real name may have been, and was an ancient, watery-eyed Massachusett, one of the few remaining remnants of that once numerous tribe. He squatted forward of David, his gun across his knees, and, save for a grunted word of direction to the paddlers, gave all his attention to his pipe.
At noon they stopped for dinner, by which time they had reached the rapids near Watertown. Going down David had shot the rapids without difficulty, no hard task in an empty canoe, but now it was necessary to carry, and so when the food had been eaten, the bundles were lifted from the craft and they set out by the well-trodden path that skirted the river. David shared the burdens, taking for his load a sack of wheat for seeding and his gun. Isaac shouldered the canoe and the other two Indians managed the rest. David, well aware of the Indian weakness for thievery, watched attentively, and yet, when the canoe was again loaded above the rapids, one package was missing. He faced Isaac sternly.
“There were eight pieces, Isaac,” he said. “Now there are but seven. Go back and catchum other piece.”
Isaac looked stupidly about the canoe and the ground, puffing leisurely on his pipe. At last: “No seeum,” he said stolidly.
“Go look,” commanded David. Then he pointed to the others. “You go look too. Catchum bundle or you catchum licking.”
Isaac shook his head. “Seven pieces,” he declared. “All there, master.”
“No, there were eight when we started,” replied the boy firmly. “You find the other one or you’ll go to jail, Isaac. All three go to jail. Quog quash! Hurry! ”
Isaac looked cunningly from David to the others, considering. But something in the boy’s face told him he had best produce the missing bundle, and with a grunt he turned back, followed by his companions. Five minutes later they returned, one of the paddlers bearing the bundle. No explanation was offered, nor did David expect any. The package, containing tobacco and cloth, was placed in the canoe and the journey began again. The river was full and the current swift, especially where the banks were close together as was frequently the case between the carry and the lake, and the Indians made slow progress. David had to acknowledge to himself that he would have found that return trip a hard task, and any lingering resentment felt toward his uncle disappeared. Had he been alone it would have taken him a good half-hour to have moved the goods over the carry, making no less than six trips, while the struggle against the current would doubtless have kept him from reaching home until well after darkness.
They met but three other voyagers on their journey and saw no Indians, friendly or hostile, and just at sunset pulled the canoe to shore and again shouldered the goods. David’s father was surprised at sight of the procession that came out of the woods toward the house, but, on hearing the boy’s story, agreed that Master Elkins had ordered wisely. The Indians were paid off and given food and tobacco and took themselves away again, while David, in spite of having done but little to earn his passage, fell to on his supper with noble hunger. As he ate—his father and Obid having already supped—he told of his meeting with Monapikot and of the latter’s news, and Master Lindall listened in all gravity and Obid Dawkin in unconcealed alarm.
“’Tis as I have told all along,” declared Obid, his thin voice more than ever like a rusted wheel in his excitement. “None is safe in his bed so long as these naked murderers be allowed to dwell in the same country ! Think you I shall stay here to have my scalp lifted? I give you notice, Master Lindall, that so soon as the porridge be cooked in the morning I take my departure. The dear Lord knows that ’tis little enough hair I have left at best, and that little I would keep, an it please Him! To-morrow morning, Master Lindall! Say not that I failed to give you full notice.”
“Be quiet a moment,” replied the master calmly. “I must think what best to do. Master Vernham should be acquainted with this so soon as may be, for if it prove true that this Wachoosett sachem means mischief ’tis Master Vernham chat, being nigher, they will first assail. Methinks I had best go over there at once and give him warning. You will go with me, Obid? ”
Nathan Lindall’s eyes twinkled. Obid turned a dour face toward him. “Not I, in sooth, master! The forest has no liking for me since I have heard David’s tale.”
“Then David shall come and you shall remain to guard the house. Perhaps that were better, for should the savages attack while we be gone you will be more able to cope with them than the lad.”
Obid’s dismay brought a chuckle from David. “Whether I go or stay,” he shrilled, “it seems I must be murdered, then! Nay, I will accompany you, for at least in the forest I may have a chance to save myself in flight, whereas an I bide here I must likely burn to death like a rabbit in a brush-heap! But in the morning, master—”
“Twice you have informed me of that, Obid. Get your hat and gun and let us be off, magpie. Mayhap if we haste we can be back before it be fully dark.”
Obid obeyed grumblingly, and soon they had set forth, leaving David to make fast the door and windows and await their return.
It would be untrue to say that David felt no uneasiness, but his uneasiness was not fear. Besides his own musket and the two that his father and Obid had taken with them there was a fourth at hand as well as a pistol that, although of uncertain accuracy, could be used if required, and against a few Indians armed only with bows and arrows he felt more than a match. Small openings at the level of a man’s head, and none so greatly above the level of David’s, pierced the four walls and from these at intervals the boy peered out. The house was set in a clearing of sufficient area to protect from sudden attack, and from the nearer forest an arrow would fall spent before it reached the dwelling. Even when darkness had settled, the stars gave enough light to have revealed to sharp eyes the presence of a skulking figure. Between watching, David replenished the fire and dipped into one of two books that he had brought back with him, but he was in no mind for settled reading and, when the better part of two hours had passed, heard not without relief the sound of his father’s voice at the edge of the wood.
“Master Vernham had already heard rumors of mischief against him,” said Nathan Lindall when he had entered, “and we might have spared ourselves the journey. He seems not concerned, but has agreed to observe caution. He thinks the threats came first from the Indians we drove away and are but repeated and adorned as tales ever are. Yet for my part, David, I am not so easy. ’Tis a time of unrest, and for a while it will be the part of wisdom to stray not far into the forest, and never unarmed. What say you, Obid?”
“I say naught, master. If you choose to bide here and be done to death, ’tis your own matter. But as for me, to-morrow morn I leave!”
“Then ’twere best you fortified yourself with sleep,” replied Nathan Lindall dryly, “for the journey is long.”
“Sleep, say you! Not a wink of sleep shall I have this night. If die I must ’twill be whilst I’m awake and command all my faculties.”
“Think you, Obid,” asked David slyly, “that being scalped be the more pleasant for missing no part of it?”
“Peace, David,” said his father. “’Tis not seemly to jest on so serious a matter. Be off to bed, lad.”
Once in the night David awoke and, listening to the hearty sounds that came from the farther end of the attic, smiled. “Faith,” he thought sleepily as he turned over, “if Obid be still awake he has not the sound of it!”
Perhaps sleep brought counsel to Obid, for in the morning there was no more talk of leaving; though, for that matter, neither Nathan Lindall nor David had taken the servant’s threat seriously. Whatever could be said of Obid, he was no coward, while, even if he had been, his devotion to his master would have proved stronger than his timidity. That day all three worked hard in the fields. Although their muskets were ever within reach, no incident caused any alarm. And when a second day had likewise passed uneventfully, even Obid Dawkin grudgingly allowed that maybe the danger was not so present as he had feared. But on the third morning there was another tale to tell when Obid, opening the door to fetch water from the well, dropped his pail and fell back with a groan that brought the others to his side. Obid, white-faced, pointed to the stone step outside. There in the first ray of sunlight lay an arrow wrapped about with the dried skin of a rattlesnake.