Part 33 (1/2)

[Footnote 9: Thank you.]

For it is not true that the Iroquois live perpetually in their paint; that they are cruel by nature, brutal, stern, and masters of silence; or that they stalk gloomily through life with hatchet ever loosened and no pursuit except war in their ferocious minds.

White men who have mistreated them see them so; but the real Iroquois, except the Senecas, who are different, are naturally a kindly, merry, and trustful people among themselves, not quarrelsome, not fierce, but like children, loving laughter and all things gay and bright and mischievous.

Their women, though sometimes broad in speech and jests, are more truly chaste in conduct than the women of any nation I ever heard of, except the Irish.

They have their fixed and honourable places in clan, nation, and Federal affairs.

Rank follows the female line; the son of a chief does not succeed to the antlers, but any of his mother's relatives may. And in the Great Rite of the Iroquois, which is as sacred to them as is our religion to us, and couched in poetry as beautiful as ever Homer sang, the most moving part of the ceremony concerns the Iroquois women,--the women of the Six Nations of the Long House, respected, honoured, and beloved.

We ate leisurely, feeling perfectly secure there in the starlight of the soft June night.

The Iroquois war-trail ran at our elbows, trodden a foot deep, hard as a sheep path, and from eighteen inches to two feet in width--a clean, firm, unbroken trail through a primeval wilderness, running mile after mile, mile after mile, over mountains, through valleys, by lonely lakes, along lost rivers, to the distant Canadas in the North.

On this trail, above us, two of my men lay watching, as I have said, which was merely a customary precaution, for we were far out of earshot of the Big Eddy, and even of our own sentries.

We were like one family eating together, and Silver and Luysnes jested and played pranks on each other, and de Golyer and Nick entered into gayest conversation with the Oneidas through their interpreter, the River-reed.

As for Nick, I saw him making calf's eyes at the lithe young sorceress, which I perceived displeased her not at all; yet she gaily divided herself between translating for the others and keeping up a lively repartee with Nick.

The Oneidas, now, had begun to s.h.i.+ne up their war-hatchets, sitting cross-legged and contentedly rubbing up knife, axe, and rifle; and I was glad to see them so at home and so confident of our friends.h.i.+p.

Older men might not have been so easily won, but these untried young warriors seemed very children, and possessing the lovable qualities of children, being alternately grave and gay, serious and laughing, frank and impatient, yet caressing in speech and gesture.

From Kwiyeh, the Screech-owl, I had an account of how, burning for glory, these four youngsters had stolen away from Oneida Lake, and, painting themselves, had gone North of their own accord, to win fame for the Oneida nation, which for the greater part had espoused our cause.

He told me that they had seen Sir John pa.s.s, floundering madly northward and dragging three bra.s.s cannon; but explained navely that four Oneidas considered it unsafe to give battle to two hundred white men.

For a week, however, it appeared, they had hung on Sir John's flanks, skulking for a stray scalp; but it was evident that the Baronet's people were thoroughly frightened, and the heavy flank guards and the triple line of sentries by night made any hope of a stray scalp futile.

Then, it appeared, these four Oneidas gave up the quest and struck out for the Iroquois trail. And suddenly came upon nearly two score Mohawks, silently pa.s.sing southward, painted for war, oiled, shaved, and stripped, and evidently searching for Sir John, to aid and guide him in his flight to Canada.

Which proved to me the Baronet's baseness, because his flight was plainly a premeditated one, and the Mohawks could not have known of it unless Sir John had been in constant communication with Canada--a thing he had pledged his honour not to do.

Others around me, now, were listening to the burly young Oneida's account of their first war-path; and presently their young sorceress took up the tale in English and in Oneida, explaining with lively gestures to both red men and white.

”Not one of the Mohawks saw us,” she said scornfully, ”and when they made a camp and had sent their hunters out to kill game, we came so near that we could see their warriors curing and hooping the scalps they had taken and painting on every scalp the Little Red Foot[10]--even on the scalps of two little boys.”

[Footnote 10: To show that the late owner of the scalp had died fighting bravely.]

Nick turned pale, but said nothing. A sickness came to my stomach and I spoke with difficulty.

”What were these scalps, little sister, which you saw the Mohawks curing?”

”White people's. Three were of men,--one very thin and gray; two were the glossy hair of women; and two the scalps of children----”

She flung back her blanket with a peculiarly graceful gesture:

”Be honoured, O white brothers, that these Mohawk dogs were forced to paint upon every scalp the Little Red Foot!”