Drums Along the Mohawk (46 page)

He went at a trot, for the trail was easy to follow, and a little past dawn he broke out on the edge of a steep ravine and looked down on her. She had fallen forward on the bank of a small stream.

The Indian ran down the bank, jumped the stream in a single leap, and stood beside her, fingering his hatchet. He had several ideas. He might shoot her—he hadn’t shot anything with his musket this trip—or he could bang her on the head and save the powder. He was still considering when Nancy looked up at him and screamed again, and he realized that she had not seen him at all or heard him either until that instant. Then he saw that she no longer saw him. She was unconscious. He caught her by the arm and hauled her out of the water and looked at her. He found out that she was in the act of giving birth.

He was very much puzzled. To find a woman like her there alone in such a case was extraordinary. It made him uneasy. He decided that he had better think things over before he killed her, so he dragged her over the ground to a clump of hemlock and built a fire. He left her on a slight incline, with her legs downward, and sat down himself with his back to her.

The light increased gradually while he sat before the fire. Birds moved in the branches. He heard their voices all through the woods and the smooth musical sliding of the water over a sunk log. While he watched the birds he took out of a pouch a piece of pemmican and began sucking and gnawing at it. He considered that his wife had died that winter and that he had no children and that he might get eight dollars for the torn scalp anyway. But he was not sure.

He seemed oblivious of the event taking place behind him. But suddenly his dark eyes were attracted by the flashing passage of a woodpecker. Black and white, and the red head like a traveling spark. A great twittering and fluttering broke out in a tree, and a moment later the woodpecker returned in hot pursuit of a female. The Indian grunted, relaxed, and went ahead with his chewing. He decided that she was a strong girl, or she would not have journeyed so far. And her light long hair and her blue eyes interested him; he was different from most Indians in his own town. He liked to live solitary and had a small log house on the outskirts of Deodesote village. He had never been markedly successful on a warpath. Two scalps and this woman prisoner might make him some reputation. If, now, he decided to marry her, it wouldn’t be necessary to give presents, either.

He waited complacently for the woman to finish the business.

When some poor order emerged from the flux of Nancy’s consciousness and she opened her eyes to the world before her, she saw the Indian sitting in sunlight before his fire with his blanket
drawn over his shoulders. The musket was leaning against the stub of a dead hemlock branch and the bow and quiver were hung beside it.

The sides of the Indian’s poll were shaved and the scalp lock was braided like some queer kind of handle to his head. One battered feather hung from it. He looked comical to her light-headed fancy, and she felt sorry for him, he was so dark and ugly. When she tried to speak, and he turned, she almost laughed at the way his face looked with smeared paint, white and vermilion, in stripes. She even remembered how it had terrified her when she saw it on the bank of the stream; then it had appeared like the arrival of the abomination itself. But now Nancy knew that she was alive.

To her awakening senses came the sound of the water in the stream, the birds’ voices, and the smell of smoke from the Indian’s fire. Her body felt torn and sore and exhausted, but it was alive. She met the Indian’s expressionless eyes with a slight smile; then struggled to sit up.

As she did so he rose to his feet and moved away from her. He went down the ravine to a piece of dry raised ground and started peeling sheaths of bark from a big hemlock. He used his hatchet and scalping knife together.

For a while Nancy watched him erecting a tiny bark shanty. Then she made her eyes look down at herself and at the small, soiled, male shape to which she had given birth. For a moment she was chilled by the old fear; but her movement upset the child so that it rolled over and bumped against her knee; and suddenly it opened its infinitely small mouth and gave a flat bawling wail.

It was alive. Nancy laughed. Then she picked up the baby and moved it into the sun and went down to the stream with unsteady steps and washed herself as well as she was able. While she was there she found her bundle, and, bringing it back, unwrapped it and took out the nightgown, which was of worn
flannel. In the dryest piece of this she could tear out, she wrapped the baby, after first wiping its body with the other portions.

When she was done, the Indian came back to her and said something she could not understand. He was a squat, slightly bow-legged man who did not quite come to her shoulder. He pointed to the shed he had made.

“Oh yes. Thank you very much.”

Nancy smiled wanly and managed to follow him. He did not offer to help her with the child or her belongings, but he put down his blanket for her.

He tapped himself on the chest.

“Gahota,” he said. “Gahota.”

Then he poked Nancy’s breast with his forefinger and stared at her. She giggled slightly. He poked again. Finally she understood.

“Oh, my name’s Nancy.”

He repeated it. Then he said, “Gahota.”

“Gahota,” said Nancy. The Indian smiled. Some of the paint cracked on his cheek. He watched her sit down on his blanket, put some more wood on the fire, took his bow, quiver, and musket, and disappeared into the woods.

Nancy sat still for a long time, holding the baby in her lap. Finally she lay down with it and slept.

It was nearly dusk when she smelled cookery and woke again. The Indian was squatting before the fire. He had fashioned a bark dish in which he was boiling some meat. Every now and then with a small ladle of birch bark he would skim off a wet mass of feathers. But as soon as he saw that Nancy was awake, he moved over and gave her the ladle, signing to her that it was time she assumed the woman’s job.

The two partridges boiling away in the soup smelled strong, for they had been immersed, feathers, entrails, and all; but Nancy was hungry. She skimmed with good will. When the two
carcasses fell apart she took the bark dish off the stones it rested on and set it between herself and Gahota. As she started to dip her ladle, the Indian took it from her hand.

He ate slowly and steadily until the soup was half gone. Then he shoved the vessel towards her and tossed the ladle in. Nancy was ravenous. While she was eating the baby began to cry. But she did not heed it until she had finished the soup. Twice she saw the Indian stare at the child, and the third time she reached for it and set it on her lap.

A little later in the evening she felt the milk filling her breasts. Clumsily she lifted the child. She caught Gahota’s eye. He looked contented now, indifferent. He had removed his shirt and was slowly rubbing his belly.

Nancy felt a great friendliness for this kind man.

“Will you help me find my brother?” she asked.

He did not turn his head, nor answer.

“My brother, Hon? Hon Yost Schuyler.”

He did not answer.

“I must find him,” said Nancy, with a slight panic. But the Indian continued to ignore her. She dropped the subject, for she thought obviously the poor heathen did not understand the English language. Besides she felt warm and soothed and preoccupied with the tugging at her breast. Almost as an afterthought she said companionably, “He lives at Niagara, you know.”

Gahota, whose name meant Log-in-the-Water, had been politely ignoring her bad manners in addressing him. But now he grunted.

“Deodesote,” he said flatly.

He did not look at Nancy. But Nancy nodded behind his funny back. She was contented for the first time in many months. Quite happy.

“Deodesote,” she repeated in a dutiful voice.

They started just at daybreak.

As the days of May went by, the settlers in German Flats became increasingly aware of the gradual closing in of the destructives. Captain Demooth was asking for volunteers to add to the Ranger service. He had been able to find only ten men willing to spend all their time in the woods. There had been thirty at first, but as the sun grew daily warmer, and the earth dried, many of them returned to work in their fields.

Gil was one of these. He knew that Mrs. McKlennar would have willingly found another man and taken care of Lana into the bargain; but the farm was on his mind. He had to see to the planting of the corn himself. When he was out with Joe and Adam, he found himself uneasy, after the first two days, to see how the wheat was growing.

“He ain’t nothing but a farming man,” Joe would say, disgustedly. They had set up a tiny lodge a few miles north of Edmeston, which was still inhabited by several Tory families. From the hillside, as he lay on his belly in the leaves, Gil could look down on the clearings and watch the small ploughings; the women putting in the hills of corn and squash and beans; the children fetching the cattle at dusk and dawn.

The children were the only people they had to be careful of. Sometimes the cattle strayed near the shanty and had to be driven off, though once or twice, before he did so, Gil took their kettle and filled it with fresh milk.

The other two would never allow Gil to make one of the
weekly solitary scouts to the southward. They said he had no sense in the woods; he would get killed surely. An Indian squaw could hear him coming half a mile. They made him stay at the lodge, and when they thought they had any news, he had to run up the back trail fifteen miles to the next station. There a man was always waiting to relay the word.

Gil was not as bad in the woods as they made him out to be. He became quieter as time went on, and they admitted that he was turning into a good runner—not in Adam’s class, of course, but better than middling. But he had no eye for things. He couldn’t tell what a crow or jay or kingfisher was chattering of. They said tolerantly that he would never learn.

There were odd times when he felt the lazy contentment creeping into him. When for days they just lay round on a hilltop, when the sun was hot and the sky dry, watching the tops of the trees to the south and particularly the east.

Once old Blue Back came into the camp. He had taken his wife on a spring tour to Unadilla to visit a Tuscarora family as soon as she had her planting done. He had left her there and struck north to give them the news.

They saw him sauntering up the hill, shifting his eyes left and right, looking everywhere but in their direction. Joe muttered, “The old twerp seen us a hundred yards back. He looked me right in the eye. Now he’s going to act surprised.”

He did.

He beamed all over and said “How” to all of them, shaking hands and holding his hat up to each in turn. He had not shaved his head. He looked greasy and brown and dirty and he smelled of fish. He said they had been curing bullheads for three days in his friend’s cabin. They had all the windows and doors closed to keep the smoke in the cabin. He said it got pretty hot, sometimes, so he came up to see how Joe Boleo was, and his friend, Gil Martin. He said an Indian couldn’t get any drink in
Unadilla or Oghkwaga either. The white men laid hold of all of it. He thought somebody up north might have a drink. He had a twitching in his right leg when he went without it too long himself. Did Joe ever have that?

Joe resignedly handed him a small swallow of rum and Blue Back sat down. He said he needed a new hat.

“Go to hell,” said Joe. “You can’t have mine.”

“Too big,” agreed Blue Back. “Yours too big.” He pointed at Helmer.

“What you going to do about that, Gil?”

Gil grinned and said he needed his own hat himself.

“Me make trade,” suggested Blue Back.

“No, thanks,” said Gil.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Joe.

The old Oneida sighed and said that Joseph Brant was in Unadilla. He was gathering the Indians. There were already about fifty whites under Captain Caldwell there, and quite a lot of runaway negroes. He hadn’t talked to Captain Caldwell himself, because he thought they might not be friends. But Captain Caldwell drank a great deal. All the white men drank a great deal. Sometimes it seemed to Blue Back that they were sick or afraid of the woods.

“Brant still there?”

Brant, said Blue Back, had gathered together about two hundred and taken the party eastward. But he was due to return soon. He had to meet with John Butler at Unadilla in the end of June.

Boleo whistled under his breath.

“Adam,” he said, “you better take a cut through Springfield and pass out a warning. They won’t pay no attention, though.”

“No,” said the Indian. He had been that way himself. People just kicked him out. He hadn’t even had a drink. He had only managed to steal a couple of young pigs.

“What did you do with them?” asked Adam hopefully.

It appeared that they were eaten.

Joe said, “When did Brant move out of Unadilla?”

A week ago, said Blue Back.

Joe swore. “Why didn’t you come here right away, you old timber beast?”

“No good.”

He’s right, thought Gil. The people wouldn’t move, now that crops were in the earth, and there were no troops to send to them. He looked at Joe. Joe was standing up and staring eastward.

“By God,” he said, “Brant’s on the loose already!”

Gil could not see the smoke for a long time. It was such a pale, frail, insubstantial thing, a mere mist in the sky.

“You better pull foot for home, Gil. Tell ’em Brant’s burning Springfield way. Me and Adam will make a scout, and Adam will come back here and I’ll report at Herkimer.”

They had their own path marked out. They did not use the old Iroquois trail. Their route lay along the ridges, above it, following deer runs.

Gil hit a steady pace. He was going all the way through to the forts. On such long running—even on this one, when he knew that the destructives were loose—he had a singular feeling of freedom. Often he thought that if he were making such a run with Adam, he would quite easily break off with the easy-going giant to a party with the Bowers girls. Adam had pestered him about it more than once when they were lying before their fire at night.