CHAPTER IX
THE VILLAGE OF THE WACHOOSETTS
It was clear to him that, so long as the sachem’s son was neither harmed nor deported into slavery, his own safety was assured, but if the court in Boston presently put Nausauwah to trial and ordered him executed, which was not beyond the possibilities, or sent to the Indies, his life would not be worth a grain of corn. Therefore, thought the boy, it behooved him somehow to manage an escape before Nausauwah’s fate was decided. Fortunately, he believed, the troubles with King Philip might well delay the sitting of the court beyond its usual time.
Woosonametipom had made him hostage to ensure the safety of his son, but, lest he bring the English about his ears, was prepared to deny the fact: for which purpose he had invented the story that David had wandered to the Indian village and asked for food and shelter. Should David’s friends come there seeking him, which they would do of a surety, Metipom would either hide him and deny all knowledge of him or turn him over to the rescuers with the assertion that he had sought the Wachoosetts’ hospitality and had been cared for by them as a guest. Possibly they would say that he was ill or out of his mind and that they had healed him. It was not a likely story, nor would it be believed in the face of the boy’s denials, but it might serve its purpose of calming the Englishmen’s wrath. Moreover, without a doubt every inhabitant of the village would gravely testify to the truth of it. As David knew, the Indians were poor liars, trusting far less to plausibility than to dogged persistence. The story might well answer Metipom’s purpose and “save his face.”
But David did not believe that the sachem would give him up on demand, for in such case he would have gained nothing and would have antagonized the English. It was far more likely that he would deny any knowledge of him and yet subtly contrive to let the seekers understand that, when Nausauwah was returned safely to his tribe, David Lindall would reappear. No matter how strong their suspicions might be, David’s friends would hesitate to wreak vengeance without some proof. Doubtless Metipom would invite them to search the village and question his men, which, with David well hidden in the forest and the inhabitants told what answers to give, would lead to nothing. Thus he reasoned, knowing much of Indian ways and character both from personal experience and hearsay, and reasoned well as events proved.
In the end it appeared clear to him that if he was to escape from his captors, it must be by efforts of his own; that help from outside was not to be depended on. It might be that the authorities in Boston would decide to release Nausauwah in exchange for David. Doubtless Master Vernham, who was not without influence in the town, would use his good offices. And there was Uncle William, as well: and perhaps others. And yet David knew how firm those Puritans stood for Law and Justice, and it might well be that their consciences would sternly refuse such a compromise. Such a solution of his difficulties was, he concluded, more than uncertain.
Remained, therefore, first of all, to study well his prison and acquaint himself with the manner in which it was guarded, for which purpose it would be well to seem reconciled to his fate, maintaining a cheerful countenance and making friends as he might. By such means he might allay suspicion and gain added liberty. And having reached this sensible decision, David closed his eyes and went to sleep.
When he awoke the sun was past the meridian and the shadows had begun to lengthen. The wigwam was hot and breathless and he was parched with thirst. At the entrance he almost stepped on a young Indian half asleep there, his naked body, heavily smeared with oil, glistening in the hot sunlight. He was a comely, well-proportioned youth, in age perhaps twenty, with a rather livelier expression than common to his people.
He grunted as David’s foot encountered him and looked up inquiringly. “What um want?” he asked.
“Water,” David answered. The Indian seemed not to know the word and so David said, “Nippe,” although not certain that it would be more successful, since the Nipmuck equivalent of “water” varied in different localities, as did many other words. But the youth understood and sprang to his moccasined feet.
“You come,” he said, and led the way past many wigwams to where a spring issued forth from beneath a granite ledge. A rude box of small logs, barked and chinked with clay, had been laid about the mouth of the spring so that the water was held ere it trickled away in a little runnel across the gently sloping ground. As there was no vessel to drink from, David knelt and dipped his mouth to the pool and drank deeply, though the water was lukewarm from standing in the sun. When he had finished, feeling vastly refreshed, the Indian took his place. But instead of following David’s method, he scooped the water up in his right hand and bore it to his lips, and did it so quickly and deftly that scarcely a drop was wasted. Whereupon David attempted the same trick and failed, the water running down over his wrist ere he could get his mouth to his palm. There was a grunt from the Indian and David saw that the latter was greatly amused.
“You show how,” laughed David.
The Indian youth smiled broadly and obeyed, and after several attempts David at length succeeded in mastering the trick fairly well, and his instructor applauded with many nods and said, “Good! Good!”
David moved away and, observing that the Indian did not accompany him, said, “You come.” The young brave bowed and fell in behind. “What name you?” David asked.
“John.”
“John? Have you no Indian name?” The other seemed not to understand the question, and later David found that his attendant’s knowledge of English was very limited. “You got more name?” he asked.
“Me John,” repeated the Indian.
“John—what?”
The other shook his head and David gave up.
The village was quiet, even the dogs being for the most part fast asleep in the shade of the wigwams. Here and there a squaw or a maiden sat at the entrance of a lodge preparing food or working with cloth or buckskin. Few men were in sight, for the Indians chose to sleep in the heat of the day, or, failing sleep, to lie still within the wigwams and smoke their pipes. As he made a circuit of the village, David observed well. He judged that the ground within the palisade might well be an acre and a half in extent. It did not form any approach to a true circle, but adjusted itself to the shape of the sloping plateau. Before it, as David recalled, lay a hillside of grass and thicket and then the forest. Back of it, as he could see, the side of the mountain sloped more steeply, strewn with ledges and rocks, but the forest did not begin again for some distance, perhaps an eighth of a mile. It seemed to him that, while the fort might be well enough disposed against attack by savages, an enemy armed with muskets could do no little damage from the edge of the forest above, although the distance was too great to permit of accurate shooting. The palisade was high and strong, the top of each log being sharply pointed. A few peep-holes, no larger than one might speed an arrow or thrust a spear through, had been left at certain places in the English fashion. Two platforms of saplings lashed together with strips of hide or twisted roots offered posts of observation above the wall. The gate or door was narrow and was closed by a roughly-hewn barricade of oak planks so heavy that David doubted the ability of fewer than three men to move it into place.
The sachem’s wigwam stood by itself near the center of the enclosure and was larger than any other and more elaborately adorned with pictures and hieroglyphics in red and brown and black pigments. Before the door two poles were set in the ground from each of which depended objects that aroused the boy’s curiosity. Nearing them, he saw that the right-hand pole held a dead owl suspended by a cord from one foot and that the other was decorated with a bunch of rushes tied about with a strip of blue cotton cloth through which was thrust a long white feather.
He turned to John and pointed. “What for?” he asked.
“Medicine,” was the reply.
What virtue lay in either a dead owl or a bunch of marsh rushes, David was at a loss to know, but Indian “medicine” as interpreted by the powwows was a thing beyond understanding.
There seemed to be about fifty wigwams within the fort, and later David estimated the inhabitants to be approximately two hundred in number, of which fully half were women and children below the fighting age. As Indian villages went, this one of the Wachoosetts’ was well-ordered and fairly clean. There was apparently no system in the disposition of the lodges, every one building where it pleased him. So far as guarding against attack went, David could not see that any precaution was being taken. But in this he was wrong, as he afterwards discovered.
It took but a short time to make a circuit of the village during which he saw few inhabitants and occasioned no apparent interest in any. Returning to his own abode for want of a better place, he found a shaded space on one side and seated himself, motioning John to do likewise. During his trip of inspection he had held little conversation with the Indian, for it is difficult to talk comfortably with a companion who insists on walking squarely behind you, and all David’s scheming had failed to induce John to walk elsewhere than behind. Now, however, David began the self-imposed task of improving himself in the Nipmuck language.
Pointing to his hand, he asked: “What name?”
“Nitchicke,” replied John.
Then David pointed to his arm.
“Napet.” The Indian understood the game now and became interested, and presently he was in turn asking, “What name?”
His efforts to pronounce the English words were doubtless no more amusing than David’s attempts at the Indian, but David thought them so! John took no offense at the other’s laughter, but sometimes smiled widely himself when his tongue refused to conform to the demands of an L or an R. David did not continue too long at the lesson, preferring to memorize a few words thoroughly rather than to half-learn a great many. But the sun had lengthened its shadows much and the intense heat of the early afternoon was gone by the time he dismissed his school. John disappeared amidst the wigwams across the enclosure, and David, setting in mental array the few facts he had gleaned from his journey of the fort, set his mind to fashioning a means of escape. But he did not look for success at the first attempt, nor did he win it. The problem was not one to be lightly solved, if at all, and in any event he must first determine how closely he was guarded at night.
The village became awake again as the afternoon drew to its end. Hunters departed through the gate, women and children went to seek berries and fruits, dogs aroused themselves and prowled for food, large boys squatted in circles and played their strange games, younger ones romped boisterously, dodging in and out from the lodges with mocking cries. Sometimes a papoose whimpered hungrily, but for the most part the little creamy-skinned, big-eyed babies were as silent as though Nature had denied them tongues. Smoke began to appear above the tops of the wigwams, ascending straight in air like blue pencils of vapor. More often, though, the evening fires were built in front of the wigwam doors. Women, young and old, busied themselves with the stone or metal pots in which nearly everything was cooked. At the nearer wigwam an older squaw was cutting a piece of blood-dripping flesh into thin strips, chanting a song softly as she worked. Her fire was no more than a few small fagots enclosed between two flat stones that supported the iron kettle. The strips of meat were dropped into the kettle as cut and to David they looked far from appetizing. He presumed that there was water in the pot, and after a while, as he watched idly, a faint steam arose from it and proved him right. The squaw went into the wigwam and presently returned holding something that looked like gray meal in her cupped hands. This she dropped slowly into the kettle, afterwards stirring it with her wooden spoon. That done, she brought forth two stones, one flat with a hollowed space in one surface and the other somewhat pear-shaped and smaller. Into the hollow of the larger stone she dropped a few kernels of corn, taken from a leather pouch, and began to crush them, holding the pear-shaped stone by its smaller end and dropping it on the grain with a circular movement of her thin brown wrist. When the corn was broken to her liking, she scooped it forth onto a piece of birch bark and dipped again into the pouch.
While she was so occupied, a rather stout Indian emerged from the wigwam, stretching and yawning, and, after blinking a moment at the sun, seated himself with his back to a lodge-pole and leisurely filled the small bowl of his long blue-clay pipe. When it was ready he spoke to the woman and she, leaving her rude mortar and pestle, picked a hot coal from the fire with her bare fingers and gave it to him. Unconcernedly he took it from her, though it glowed so brightly that David could see it in the sunlight, and held it to the pipe-bowl. Then, emitting streamers of smoke from his nostrils, he tossed the ember aside and settled himself contentedly. He smoked in the manner of his people, taking but one inhalation at a time and expelling it slowly, meanwhile holding the pipe away as though it had no more interest for him. Often a full minute elapsed between puffs, and David wondered that the pipe did not go out. The smoker was elderly and David guessed that he was lazy as well.
The ancient crone who had prepared David’s breakfast for him now came waddling to the wigwam bearing a birchen tray whereon lay a piece of meat and some dried beans. The meat looked to be three or four ribs of some small animal, and David, knowing that the Indians were more partial than averse to dogs as food, shuddered and resolved to touch none of the meat until he had learned its kind. The old woman stopped where he sat and lowered the tray for his inspection, muttering a word or two of gibberish in a husky, whining voice. David looked, inwardly revolted, and nodded. There was, he knew, no use in asking her what sort of flesh it was, since she knew no word of English and his own knowledge of Nipmuck was not yet equal to comprehending what she might reply. Perhaps, too, he feared that reply might be “Awnam,” which he believed to signify “dog.” She disappeared inside with her treasures, and presently he heard the faint crackling of the wood as the flames took hold. How she had started the fire he could not imagine, for there had seemed to be only lifeless embers there before her coming, and she had surely not brought fire with her.
Meanwhile his neighbors were partaking of their meal. The stout Indian held a pointed stick in his hand and with it speared the strips of half-cooked meat from the kettle which the squaw had placed before him where he sat. From the kettle the meat went straight to his mouth, dripping upon him, whereupon, having laid aside his pipe, he used his hands to tear it apart or thrust it in. A few feet away the squaw sat on her heels, silently watchful. Occasionally, and only occasionally, the man, having drawn forth a strip of meat whose looks he did not favor, held it forth to the woman and she seized it from the end of the stick and transferred it quickly and hungrily to her mouth. Once the morsel dropped from the point of the stick to the earth, but she showed no hesitation, rescuing it and not tarrying to see that it was clean ere she ate it. Between mouthfuls of meat they partook of the cracked corn. David, although no stranger to Indian manners, turned his eyes away in distaste.
About the village many other families were eating or preparing to eat, although as many more had evidently no thought for food. At the Natick village the Praying Indians had for some years conformed roughly to the English fashion of eating meals at regular and prescribed intervals, but the native custom of eating when hungry still held here. For that reason, so long as he remained, David could always, no matter at what time of day or early evening, find some one preparing food or consuming it. The Nipmucks were not great flesh-eaters, especially in the summer, he found, preferring vegetables and grains and fruits with an occasional meal of fish. As time wore on he discovered that his own food came from the sachem’s stores and that it was evidently chosen for him with regard to the Indian’s notion of what the white man preferred. Thus he was served with meat always once a day, although he would more often have chosen to do without it, and fish was frequent. Also a certain regularity was observed by his ancient handmaiden, his morning meal being prepared for him ere he was more than half awake—indeed, it was often the fumes of the fire or the moving about of the squaw that aroused him—and the evening meal coming at about five in the afternoon. Not infrequently at first he grew hungry long before the second meal appeared, missing the hearty midday dinner to which he was accustomed, but before long he grew used to the new arrangement. Had he sought food at such times as he wished it, he would not have had far to seek, for the Indian, whatever faults he had, was never inhospitable. To tarry near where a family was eating was sufficient to draw an invitation, as David discovered one day. On that occasion, although he had no stomach for it, he partook of a loathsome stew of doubtful ingredients rather than seem discourteous, for it was his effort to make as many friends as he might.
This evening, ere his meal was ready for him, John returned, and to him David put the question: “What meat does the squaw cook?” After some difficulty John was made to understand and he went inside and spoke to the squaw. When he returned he said, “Squaw say ‘pequas.’”
“Pequas” meant fox, and David considered the matter for a minute. He had heard of foxes being eaten by the Indians: even on occasion by the English settlers, though not from choice; but it seemed to him that to have turned up his nose at dog-meat and now approve of fox-meat was foolish, for, save that one ran wild and other was tame, there could be little to choose between them. As a result of his cogitation, he ate little supper, for the half-boiled beans were both few and wretched. John ate the meat without demur.
Later they talked again as the darkness crept up the mountain and the scattered fires made orange-hued glows about the village. The talk was halting, however, and difficult, and before long David went to his hard couch and John, drawing his skin cloak about his bronze shoulders, squatted without the doorway and smoked. David’s thoughts that night were wistful of home and his father, but not for long since sleep soon came to his still wearied body.