The Hidden Children, Robert W. Chambers [e book reader free .txt] 📗

had never before seen there—something unnatural that altered him altogether, as death alters the features, leaving them strangely unfamiliar. And even as I looked, the expression passed. He lifted his eyes to mine, and even smiled.

"There is," he said, "a viewless farm which companions even the swiftest on the last long trail, a phantom-pilot which leads only toward that Shadowed Valley of endless rest. In my ears all day—close, close to my ear, I have heard the whisper of this unseen ghost—everywhere I have heard it, amid the din of the artillery, on windy hill-tops, in the long silence of the forest, through the noise of torrents in lost ravines, by flowing rivers sparkling in the sun—everywhere my pilot whispers to me. I can not escape, Loskiel; whatever trail I take, that is the trail; whichever way I turn, that is the way. And ever my phantom pilots me—forward or back, aside or around—it is all one to him and to me, for at the end of every trail I take, nearer and nearer draw I to mine end."

I had heard of premonitions before a battle; had known officers and soldiers to utter them—brave men, too, yet obsessed by the conviction of their approaching death. Sometimes they die; sometimes escape, and the premonition ends forever. But until the moment of peril is passed, or they fall as they had foretold, no argument will move them, no assurance cheer them. But our corps had been in many battles during the last three years, and I had never before seen Boyd this way.

He said, brooding on his rifle:

"The one true passion of my life has been Lana Helmer. It began ignobly; it continues through all this pain and bewilderment, a pure, clean current, running to the deep, still sea of dreams.... There it is lost; I follow it no further.... And were I here today as upright and as stainless as are you, Loskiel, still I could follow it no further than that sea of dreams. Nor would my viewless pilot lead me elsewhere than to the destiny of silence that awaits me; and none the less would I hear his whisper in my ears.... My race is run."

I said: "Is it vain to appeal to your reason when your heart is heavy?"

"Had I another chance," he said, "I would lighten the load of sin I bear—the heavy load I bear with me into the unknown."

"God gives us all our chance."

"He gave me my last chance at Tioga Fort. And I cursed it in my heart and put it aside."

"One day you will return,"

"Never again, Loskiel.... I am no coward. I dare face the wrath to come. It is not that; but—I am sorry I did not spare when I might have been more generous.... The little thing was ignorant.... Doves mate like that.... And somewhere—somehow—I shall be required to answer for it all—shall be condemned to make amends.... I wonder how the dead make their amends?... For me to burn in hell avails her nothing.... If she thought it she would weep uncomforted.... No; there is a justice. But how it operates I shall never understand until it summons me to hear my sentence."

"You will return and do what a contrite heart bids you to do," I said.

"If that might be," he said gently, "that would I do—for the child's sake and for hers."

"Good God!" I said under my breath.

"Did you not surmise it?"

"No."

"Well, then, now you know how deeply I am damned.... God gave me a last chance. There was a chaplain at the fort."

"Kirkland."

"Yes, Gann went forward.... But—God's grace was not within me.... And to see her angered me—that and the blinding hurt I had when Lana left—heart-broken, wretched, still loving me, but consigning me to my duty.... So I denied her at the bridge.... And from that moment has my unseen pilot walked beside me, and I know he leads me swiftly to my end."

I raised my troubled eyes and glanced toward my Indians. They had stripped great squares of bark from half a dozen trees, and were busily painting upon them, in red and blue, insulting signs and symbols—a dead tree-cat, scalped, and full of arrows; a snake severed into sections; a Seneca tied to a post and a broken wampum belt at his feet. And on every tree they had also painted the symbol of their own clans and nation—pointed stones and the stars of the Pleiades; a witch-wolf and an enchanted bear; a yellow moth alighted on a white cross; a night-hawk, perfectly recognizable, soaring high above a sun, setting, bisecting the line of the horizon.

Every scalp taken was duly enumerated and painted there, together with every captured weapon. Such a gallery of art in the wilderness I had never before beheld.

Boyd's riflemen sat around, cross-legged on the moss, watching the Indians at their labour—all except Murphy and Elerson, who, true to their habits, had each selected a tree to decorate, and were hard at work with their hunting knives on the bark.

On Murphy's tree I read: "To hell with Walter Butler."

Elerson, who no doubt had scraped the outlines of this legend with his knife-point before Murphy carved it, had produced another message on his own tree, not a whit more complimentary: "Dam Butler, Brant, Hiakotoo, and McDonald for bloody rogues and murtherin' rascals all!"

They were ever like this, these two great overgrown boys, already celebrated so terribly in song and legend. And the rank and file of Morgan's resembled them—brave to a fault, innately lawless, of scant education save what the forest had taught them, headstrong, quick to anger, quick to forgive, violent in every emotion through the entire gamut from love to hatred.

Boyd rose, glanced quietly at me, then made his signal. And in a few moments the riflemen were on the trail again, spotting it wherever a new path led away, trotting steadily forward in single file, my Indians ranging wide on either flank.

Late in the afternoon we came to the height of land, where the little water-courses all ran north; and here we halted, dropped packs, and the men sat down while the Sagamore and I once more went forward to the headwaters of a stream, beside which the narrow and swampy trail ran due north. And here the nature of the country changed entirely, for beyond it was all one vast swamp, as still and dark as death.

A little way along this blackish stream Mayaro halted, and for a while stood motionless, his powerful arms folded, gazing straight in front of him with the half-closed eyes of a dreaming wolf.

Never had I looked upon so sinister a country or a swamp so vast and desolate. It seemed more black than dusky, and the gloom lay not in the obscure light of thick-set spruce, pine, and hemlock, but in the shaggy, monstrous, and forbidding growth which appeared to be soiled with some common dye, water, earth, tree-trunks, foliage—all wore the same inky livery, and seemed wrought of rusty iron, so still the huge trees stood, with every melancholy branch a-droop.

Sign of life there was none; the current of the narrow stream ran like smooth oil; nor was its motion visible where it wound between soft, black banks of depthless swamp through immemorial shadows.

The Mohican's voice came to me, low in the silence, sounding dull and remote; nor did his dreaming eyes move in their vague intensity.

"This is the land of Amochol," he said. "Here, through these viewless shades, his sway begins, as this stream begins, whose source is darkness and whose current moves slowly like thick blood. Here is the haunt of witch and sorcerer—of the hag Catrine, of the Wyoming Fiend, of Amochol—of Amochol! Here run the Andastes, hunting through the dusk like wolves and foxes—running, smelling, listening, ever hunting. Here slink the Cat-People under a moon which is hidden forever by this matted forest roof. This is the Dark Empire, O Loskiel! Behold!"

A slight shudder chilled me, but I said calmly enough:

"Where lies Catharines-town, O Sagamore?"

"This thick, dark stream runs through it."

"Through Catharines-town?"

"Aye."

"And then?"

"Along the vast chain of inland seas—first into the Lake of the Senecas, then to that of the Cayugas, fed by Owasco, by Onondaga, by Oneida, until it is called Oswego, and flows north by the great fort into the sea Ontario."

"And where lies Catharines-town?"

"Nine miles beyond us, northward."

"And the trail?"

"None, Loskiel, save for the maze of game trails where long leaps are made from tussock to swale, from root to rotting log across black pools of mud, and quivering quicksands whose depths are white as snow under the skin of mud, set with tarnished rainbow bubbles."

"But—those who come after us, Mayaro! The army—the wagons, horses, artillery, cattle—nay, the men themselves! How are they to pass?"

He pointed east, then west: "For six miles, flanking this swamp, run ridges of high hills northward. By these must the army march to Catharines-town, the pioneers opening a road for the artillery. This you shall make plain to Boyd presently, for he must march that way, marking plain the trail north on the eastern ridge of hills, then west. Thus shall Boyd move to cut off Amochol from the lake, while you and I and the Oneidas and the Yellow Moth must thread this swamp and comb it clean to head him from the rivers south of us."

"Is there a path along the ridge?"

"No path, Loskiel. So Boyd shall march by compass, slowly, seeking over the level way, and open woods, with the artillery and wagons ever in his thoughts. Six miles due north shall he march; then, where the hills end a swamp begins—thick, miry, set with maple, brier, and tamarack. But through this he must blaze his trail, and the pioneers who are to follow shall lay their wagon-path across felled trees, northward still, across the forests that border the flats of Catharines-town; and then, still northward for a mile; and so swing west, severing the lake trail. Thus we shall trap Amochol between us."

Slowly we walked back together to the height of land, where our little party lay looking down at the dark country below. I sat down beside Boyd, cleared from the soil the leaves for a little space, drew my knife, and with its point traced out the map.

He listened in silence, while I went over all that the Sagamore had taught me; and around us squatted our Indians, motionless, fiercely intent upon my every word and gesture.

"Today is Sunday," I said. "By this hour, Butler's people should be in headlong flight. Our army will not follow them at once, because it will take all day tomorrow for our men to destroy the corn along the Chemung. But on Tuesday our army will surely march, laying waste the Indian towns and fields. Therefore, giving them ample time for this, they should arrive at this spot on Wednesday."

"I have so calculated," said Boyd, listlessly.

"But Wednesday is the first day of September; and if we are to strike Amochol at all it must be done during the Onon-hou-aroria. And that ends on Tuesday. Therefore, must you move within the hour. And by tomorrow evening you shall have blazed your hill-trail and shall be lying with your men beside the stream and across the lake trail, north of Catharines-town."

He nodded.

"Tonight," said I, "I and my Indians lie here on this height of land, watching the swamp below, that nothing creep out of it. On Monday morning, we move through it, straight northward, following the stream, and by Monday night we scout to Catharines-town."

"That is clear," he said, lifting his handsome head from his hands. "And the signal should come from me. Listen, Loskiel; you shall expect that signal between midnight of Monday and dawn."

He rose, and I stood up; and for a moment we looked each other steadily in the eye. Then he smiled faintly, shaking his head:

"Not this time, Loskiel," he said in a low voice. "My spectral pilot gives no sign. Death lies beyond the fires of Catharines-town. I know, Loskiel—I know."

"I also," said I in a low voice, taking his outstretched hand, "for you shall live to make material amends as you have made them spiritually. Only the act of deep contrition lies between you and God's swift pardon. It were a sin to doubt it."

But he slowly shook his head, the faint smile lingering still. Then his grip closed suddenly on my hand, released it, and he swung on his heel.

"Attention!" he said crisply. "Sling packs! Fall in! Tr-r-rail arms! March!"

CHAPTER XVIII THE RITE OF THE HIDDEN CHILDREN

My Indians and I stood watching our riflemen as they swung to the east and trotted out of sight among the trees. Then, at a curt nod from me, the Indians lengthened their line, extending it westward along the height of land, and so spreading out that they entirely commanded