Munroe Kirk
At War with Pontiac; Or, The Totem of the Bear: A Tale of Redcoat and Redskin
CHAPTER XXXI
PONTIAC RECOGNIZES THE TOTEM
The vexatious calm lasted for two days. During this time the schooner Gladwyn caught only such puffs of wind as carried her a few miles up the river, and left her again anchored in the very narrowest part of the channel, still some ten miles below the fort. No sign of human presence had been discovered by those on board, no sound came from the solemn forests. Shy water-fowl swam fearlessly on the unruffled current that gurgled against the schooner's bow, and for aught their senses could discover, her people might have been the sole occupants of that beautiful, treacherous wilderness.
At sunset the distant boom of a heavy gun cheered their hearts with the knowledge that Detroit still held out, and redoubled their desire to gain its safe haven after their tedious voyage. Officers and men walked the deck impatiently, and searched the sky for wind clouds, while the sailors whistled shrilly for a breeze. But none came and the night descended calm, dark, and still. As the slow hours dragged themselves away, the ship's company, weary of the monotony of their watch, sought their sleeping places, or found such scant comfort as the decks afforded, until of them all only the sentry was awake.
Still the schooner was not unprepared for an attack. Her broadside guns were loaded to the muzzle with grape and musket balls. Every man on board was armed, even as he slept, and her only danger lay in being boarded by an overwhelming number of the enemy, against whom the heavy guns would thus be rendered ineffective. But the night wore on, and he made no sign. The sentry relieved at midnight reported no cause for alarm. The one who went off duty two hours later gave a similar assurance of continued safety. His successor yawned sleepily as he paced to and fro, and shivered with the chill that had crept into the night. A slight mist was rising from the water, and through it even the black outline of the forest was undistinguishable. As nothing could be seen, the sentry gave over his pacing, and, leaning against the foremast, devoted himself to listening. He even closed his eyes to improve his hearing, and so stood halt musing, half dreaming of his distant English home, until, suddenly from out of the blackness, there rang a shout of warning. It was instantly followed by another, and a confused tumult on the water at no great distance.
As the startled sentry echoed the alarm and sprang to the bulwarks, he caught a glimpse of moving objects sweeping down on the slumbering vessel. In another minute the enemy would have swarmed irresistibly over her sides, and her fate would have been sealed. But, ere half that time had elapsed, there burst from her such a blaze of cannon and musketry that the night was illumined as though by a flash of lightning. The schooner trembled to her keel with the concussion. The advancing canoes were so torn and riddled, by the hail of grape and bullets, that several of them sank, a score of their occupants were killed, many more were wounded, and the survivors fled in consternation to the shore. From there, behind a breastwork of logs, they opened a harmless fire that was quickly silenced by the schooner's guns. Soon afterwards, a favoring breeze springing up, she weighed anchor and made her way in safety to the fort, to which she brought not only reinforcements of troops, but a supply of ammunition and provisions, without which the garrison must speedily have surrendered.
On the very night of all these happenings, the canoe containing Donald Hester and Paymaster Bullen entered the Detroit river, and began to stem its swift current, moving silently and in blackest shadows. Hoping to run the long gantlet of the channels, and reach the fort before daylight, they strained every nerve to the attainment of this purpose. They, too, had heard the defiant boom of the distant sunset gun, announcing to all the forest world that Detroit was still held for England's king, and the sound gave them a new courage.
They had paddled for hours, and knew that midnight must be long past, when, without the warning of sight or sound, they suddenly discovered their craft to be surrounded by moving shadows. These were canoes headed across the stream, and instantly Donald turned his craft in the same direction, as though it belonged to the ghostly fleet. It was a terrible situation, and one in which the slightest mistake would prove fatal. Donald noticed Bullen's start on the discovery of their danger, and blessed him for the coolness with which he continued the noiseless dip of his paddle. His hope was to work toward the outer edge of the fleet, and then slip away in the mist-clouds that were rising thinly from the water before the other side of the river should be reached. At the same time he wondered where these canoes could have come from, and what was the cause of their mysterious movements; for, thinking that the schooner he had seen two days before must long since have reached the fort, it did not occur to him that she could be the object of attraction.
Bullen was the first to see it. With a choking gasp he leaned back and whispered hoarsely, "The schooner! We must warn them!"
"Certainly," replied Donald, promptly, as though it were a matter of course that they should sacrifice themselves to save their friends. Then he raised a shout so loud and far-reaching that it seemed as though it must be heard even at the distant fort. It was instantly echoed by another from Bullen. Then an Indian canoe crashed into theirs, and in a moment they were struggling with half a dozen infuriated savages. Ere the struggle was concluded, there came a blaze of fire, a crash of thunder, the rending of wood, shrieks, and yells. To Donald also came oblivion; while Bullen first found himself in the water, then dragged from it into a canoe, and a moment later a helplessly bound captive at the mercy of an enraged foe.
The failure of his carefully planned attack on the schooner was a bitter blow to Pontiac, the haughty chieftain, who was striving to drive the red-coated invaders from the land still claimed by his people. The prize for which he had schemed and fought so long had been within his grasp only to be snatched away at the last moment. Already had his war-parties captured all the British posts west of the Niagara save only Detroit and Fort Pitt. Already was the crimson wave of war lapping the frontier settlements, and driving them back. Thus far his warriors had been everywhere victorious, and this was their first repulse. Could he have captured that schooner with all that it contained, and turned its guns against the slight defences of Detroit, that place must speedily have fallen. Then, with his entire force, he would have been free to sweep resistlessly down the Alleghany to lower the last English flag west of the mountains. But his certain victory had been turned into disaster by a cry of warning from the very midst of the attacking fleet. It was incredible! Who had uttered that cry? What had come over his warriors, that such a thing could be possible? In his rage, Pontiac ordered that the prisoners be securely guarded until he could invent some punishment adequate to their offence. Should they escape, it should be meted out to their guards. Then, too, let the warriors who had admitted those white men to their ranks look to themselves; for if any were found who had played traitor, their fate should be such that for generations the mere telling of it would chill the blood of all hearers. Thus spake Pontiac, and the forest warriors trembled before the wrath of their mighty chief.
On the following day he sat moodily in his lodge on a small island at the head of the river, whither he was accustomed to retreat for quiet and meditation. Only his favorite daughter was with him, and she was striving in vain to find words of comfort that should banish the dark cloud from his face. To this place, according to his order, were brought the prisoners who had defeated his plan of attack on the schooner, that he might pronounce judgment upon them. One lay on the ground before the entrance to the lodge, covered with blood and apparently lifeless, while the other, clad in a tattered blanket and tightly bound, stood dejectedly beside him.
"Why bring ye dead men to this place?" demanded Pontiac, spurning the prostrate form with his foot. "Take the scalp, and throw the body to the fishes."
"He is not dead. He still breathes," answered one of the warriors who had brought the prisoners.
"It matters not. Still do as I said."
As the warrior drew his scalping-knife and stooped to obey, the Indian girl, leaning forward to obtain a better view of him whose case was thus summarily disposed, uttered a cry of dismay, grasped the warrior's arm, and spoke a few hurried words to her father.
The great chief started, drew his own knife, and knelt beside the unconscious form. The other Indians imagined he was about to slay the youth with his own hand, and thus avenge the grievous injury inflicted upon their cause. Instead of so doing, Pontiac merely slit open the sleeve of Donald's hunting-shirt, and gazed intently for a moment at the mark thus disclosed. His stern face grew almost tender with the remembrance of the laughing child who had saved his own life so many years before. Then rising, and turning to his warriors, he said:—
"He is of the Totem of the Bear, and is sealed with the symbol of the magic circle. We may not kill him, for he is favored of the Great Spirit. Lift him within the lodge, and keep to yourselves the secret of his presence in this place.
"As for this other,"—here he gazed sternly at poor Bullen, who, while rejoicing that the mystical marking on his friend's arm seemed about to do him good service once more, wished he knew what was to be his own fate. "As for this other," repeated Pontiac, "this hairless dog of an Englishman, take him to the Ottawa village, and deliver him to the tormentors, nor ever let me set eyes on him again."
Thus saying, the chieftain, whose commands none dared disobey, entered the lodge whither Donald had been tenderly conveyed, and where the chief's daughter was already bathing his wounds.
Then the others seized the little paymaster, hurried him to the canoe in which he had been brought, and departed with all speed for the Ottawa village, which was located near the river bank some two miles above the fort. Here the arrival of the prisoner, and the announcement of the sentence passed upon him, was received with yells of approval and every manifestation of savage joy. But there were some who shook their heads dubiously. They were of the war-party recently returned from Presque Isle; and, recalling the marvellous things done by this white medicine man, they were still fearful of his power. The majority, however, paid slight attention to these croakers, and the work of preparation for the forthcoming spectacle was pushed with eager haste.
CHAPTER XXXII
LAST CRUISE OF THE PAYMASTER'S TUB
While the preparations for Paymaster Bullen's martyrdom were in progress, his bonds were removed, and he was supplied with food that he might gain strength the longer to endure the proposed torture. He was allowed to sit in the shade of a tree, where he was guarded by two stalwart warriors, not so much to prevent his escape, as to restrain the inquisitive spectators who thronged about him. These were roused to such a pitch of fury at the sight of one who had frustrated their long-cherished plan for capturing the schooner, that, had they been allowed, they would have torn him in pieces. Many of these were women, who mocked at and reviled the unfortunate Englishman, screaming like so many furies, spitting at him, and gloating over his miserable plight, as is the custom of a certain grade of womankind all over the world. Inspired by the example of their elders, a swarm of impish children added their shrill cries to the tumult, let fly an occasional blunt-headed arrow at the helpless captive, or darted between the legs of the guards in their efforts to strike him. Finally the exasperated warriors turned on this petty rabble and with stern words bade them begone.
Others came for a look at the prisoner while he ate, and among them he recognized the Zebra. This man he addressed in English, asking him what was to be his fate, but the Indian only laughed and turned away. Then came the young warrior whom he and Donald had thrown overboard a few nights before, other members of the party with which he had travelled to Presque Isle, and still others whom he recognized, until it seemed as though every Indian he had ever seen had come to witness his execution.
He knew it was to be an execution, and that he had naught in prospect save death; but he hoped this might come speedily, and that in whatever shape it approached, he might be given strength to meet it as became one of his race and position. He had heard his branch of the service spoken of lightly because physical courage was not supposed to be among its requirements. Now he was to be given the opportunity for proving that a staff officer could die as bravely as one of the line. If only they would not burn him to death, as had been threatened. It seemed as though he could bear anything else, but that was too horrible.
His melancholy reflections were interrupted by the passing of a noisy group surrounding two who bore some burden. As they neared him, Bullen saw with amazement that it was the bath-tub of which he had been so proud, which had been the source of so much pleasure, in which he had suffered, and the loss of which had been a source of genuine grief. It had evidently been retained by the Indians as a novel trophy, and was as evidently to be connected in some manner with his approaching fate. The tub was carried beyond his sight, and a few minutes later he was led to the end of a long, narrow lane, bordered by two living walls of human beings. Then he knew that he was to undergo the terrible ordeal of the gantlet, which had been so often described to him that he felt familiar with all its sickening details.
The entire population of the village was ranged in two parallel rows facing each other, and all were armed with sticks, clubs, dog-whips or some similar weapon with which to strike at the poor wretch who would be forced to run for his life down the dreary lane.
As Bullen faced this ordeal he recalled how other men had acted under similar circumstances. Some had been beaten to death ere completing half the course; while others had been so fleet of foot as to escape almost unhurt. One, he remembered, was a tall man of such strength and agility that he snatched a club from the nearest Indian at the moment of starting and brandished it with such effect as he ran that no one dared strike him.
But the paymaster was neither tall, nor strong, nor agile. He was short and stout. As for running, he had not done such a thing since he was a child, nor even then that he could remember. Now it would certainly kill him to run for even a short distance, while he would as certainly be killed if he did not run. The little man was in despair; it was so pitiful and mean a fate to be beaten to death with clubs like a mad dog—oh! if he only were one, how he would scatter that throng of howling savages. With this thought an inspiration came to him like a ray of sunlight piercing the blackness of a dungeon. He felt among the inner folds of his ragged blanket, withdrew a small object and thrust it into his mouth. A second later the blanket was snatched from his body leaving him clad only in a breech clout, and he was given a push into the lane as a hint that his time for running had come.
A hush of expectancy fell upon the eager throng, and each grasped his stick more firmly with the resolve to have at least one good cut at that bald-headed white man as he ran or staggered past. The first one on the right, who happened to be the Zebra, lifted a switch and struck the paymaster a smart though not a cruel blow across the shoulders as an intimation that the fun had begun.
The first one on the left, a burly black-browed giant who hated all white men with a bitter hatred, raised a heavy club with a vicious swing. Ere it could descend Bullen sprang at him and blew from his mouth a cloud of froth full in the giant's face. The latter staggered back, dropped his club, clapped both hands to his eyes and uttered a yell of terror. Then the little man folded his arms and walked composedly down the long lane, making a snarling, gurgling noise in his throat and frothing at the mouth as though he had indeed been smitten with the peculiar form of madness for which he had just wished.
A great fear fell on the assemblage as one and all recalled the tales of this white man's magic power. Not a hand was lifted against him as he passed, and the awe-stricken savages drew back at his approach as though he had been plague-stricken. So he made his unmolested way to the very end of the lane, his enemies parting before him, but crowding behind and following him with an eager curiosity.
At length he paused and gazed with mingled horror and rage at something that barred his further progress. On two logs, between which burned a small fire, was set his own bath-tub. The water with which it was half filled was just beginning to simmer, and near at hand was a pile of dry wood cut into short lengths. In an instant the awful meaning of these preparations flashed across his mind. They intended to boil him alive! For a moment he felt sick and dizzy. All things spun in a mad whirl before his blurred vision, and he feared his senses were departing. Recovering himself by a supreme effort of will, and animated by an access of fury, he sprang forward, overturned the tub, so that its contents were poured on the hissing flames, instantly extinguishing them, and hurled it to one side. Then clearing his mouth of the last of the frothy matter which had been produced by chewing a bit of soap, the little man turned and confronted his tormentors.
Angry murmurs rose among them and deepened into a confused clamor. Some were for killing him at once, but the majority dared not. Neither were they willing that he should go free, nor was one found bold enough to adopt him as husband, brother, or son, as by Indian custom any had the right to do who felt so inclined. The discussion was finally ended by the black-browed giant who had been the object of Bullen's attack and who still smarted from the indignity. Silencing the clamor, with an authoritative voice, he proposed a plan that was unanimously adopted.
A minute later another white man, whom to his amazement the paymaster recognized as his long lost "Tummas," was dragged and pushed through the throng. In his hands he bore several pots of paint and a number of rude brushes. Now he was ordered to begin work at once on his former master and decorate him in the highest style of savage art.
"Oh Lawk, Muster Bullen! To think we should never ha come to this," gasped the trembling man as he prepared to obey this mandate. "Hi opes has you won't lay it hup against me, sir, if Hi do as Hi'm bid: for if Hi don't jump spry the creeters will kill me, 'deed they will, sir."
"Tummas," answered the little man, severely, "since you seem to have accepted service with these heathen savages, it becomes you to do their bidding without hesitation; but I never expected to see a respectable English valet sink so low, I certainly never did."
"Oh Lawk, Muster Bullen! Hi opes, sir, as you don't think Hi've done such a think of my hown free will. No, sir. Hindeed Hi 'aven't: but Hi'm compelled, sir. Hi 'as to paint 'em and likewise shave their 'eads and look after their nasty 'air. Yes, sir, and many a think besides that you wouldn't believe. But some day Hi'll pizen 'em, sir, or spiflicate 'em in their sleep, the hopportunity for which is the honly pleasure in life Hi 'as to look forward to, sir."
As "Tummas" uttered these fierce words he drew several vicious streaks of red across the paymaster's body, for he was already hard at work at his unwelcome task.
So by the liberal application of pigments and feathers, poor Bullen was once more got up in savage guise. Then he was bound hand and foot so that he could not move, gagged so that he could utter no sound, placed in his once beloved, but now hated tub, borne to the water's edge, and set afloat on the swift current, followed by derisive yells from his enemies.
That same afternoon Major Gladwyn, who was standing on one of the water bastions of Fort Detroit, in company with a lady, descried a suspicious object floating down the river and called for a spy-glass. Gazing intently through it, he exclaimed: "Pon my soul, madam, I believe we are here just in time to interrupt another attempt of those villanous redskins to destroy my schooners. They have already tried fire-rafts and other infernal devices without number, but always at night. Now, if I'm not mistaken, they have the audacity to try again in broad daylight, thinking no doubt to catch us napping. But I'll teach them that we are wide awake at all hours. That is certainly an Indian in full paint and feathers, though what he is floating on I can't make out. Orderly, bring me my long range rifle—will you take this glass, madam, and watch the effect of my shot? It may prove interesting as well as pleasing after your recent terrible experience."
By the time Madam Rothsay succeeded in focusing the glass on the approaching object, Major Gladwyn was carefully sighting his rifle.
Suddenly she uttered a cry of dismay. "For Heaven's sake, don't fire, major! It is poor, dear Paymaster Bullen. At least that is his tub; and he was arrayed in that very same remarkable costume the last time I saw him."
"Impossible, madam! An officer in His Majesty's service!"
"Indeed, it is possible, major; and I beg you to send out a boat. Fill it with armed men, if you like; but I beg and implore you not to act hastily."
Only half convinced that he was acting prudently, Major Gladwyn yielded to Madam Rothsay's pleadings, and did as she suggested. To make sure that no mistakes were committed, he accompanied the boat, with his rifle, loaded and cocked, held ready for instant use.
A few minutes later, the tub with its helpless occupant was cautiously towed to the shore; but not until the gag was removed from his mouth, and they heard the little paymaster's fervent "Thank God!" could either the major or his soldiers believe that their prize was a white man.
As he landed and his bonds were loosed, the newcomer turned and thrust his hated tub out into the stream with such savage energy that the water poured over its side, it filled, and, with a gurgling rush of air-bubbles, sank beneath the swift current.
Then the little man's overtaxed strength gave way. He took a few uncertain steps, tried to apologize, reeled, and fell limply into the arms of the nearest bystander, who happened to be Madam Rothsay herself.
