1.17. CHAPTER XVII
THE SACRIFICE
So far as the world knew, the Chief of the Long Knives
slept peacefully in his house. And such was his sense
of power that not even a sentry paced the street without.
For by these things is the Indian mind impressed. In the
tiny kitchen a dozen men and a boy tried to hush their
breathing, and sweltered. For it was very hot, and the
pent-up odor of past cookings was stifling to men used to
the open. In a corner, hooded under a box, was a lighted
lantern, and Tom McChesney stood ready to seize it at
the first alarm. On such occasions the current of time
runs sluggish. Thrice our muscles were startled into
tenseness by the baying of a hound, and once a cock crew
out of all season. For the night was cloudy and pitchy
black, and the dawn as far away as eternity.
Suddenly I knew that every man in the room was on
the alert, for the skilled frontiersman, when watchful, has a
sixth sense. None of them might have told you what he had
heard. The next sound was the faint creaking of Colonel
Clark's door as it opened. Wrapping a blanket around
the lantern, Tom led the way, and we massed ourselves
behind the front door. Another breathing space, and
then the war-cry of the Puans broke hideously on the night,
and children woke, crying, from their sleep. In two
bounds our little detachment was in the street, the fire
spouting red from the Deckards, faint, shadowy forms
fading along the line of trees. After that an uproar of
awakening, cries here and there, a drum beating madly
for the militia. The dozen flung themselves across the
stream, I hot in their wake, through Mr. Brady's gate,
which was open; and there was a scene of sweet tranquillity
under the lantern's rays,—the North Wind and his friends
wrapped in their blankets and sleeping the sleep of the
just.
“Damn the sly varmints,” cried Tom, and he turned
over the North Wind with his foot, as a log.
With a grunt of fury the Indian shed his blanket and
scrambled to his feet, and stood glaring at us through his
paint. But suddenly he met the fixed sternness of
Clark's gaze, and his own shifted. By this time his
followers were up. The North Wind raised his hands to
heaven in token of his innocence, and then spread his
palms outward. Where was the proof?
“Look!” I cried, quivering with excitement; “look,
their leggings and moccasins are wet!”
“There's no devil if they beant!” said Tom, and there
was a murmur of approval from the other men.
“The boy is right,” said the Colonel, and turned to
Tom. “Sergeant, have the chiefs put in irons.” He
swung on his heel, and without more ado went back to
his house to bed. The North Wind and two others were
easily singled out as the leaders, and were straightway
escorted to the garrison house, their air of injured
innocence availing them not a whit. The militia was
dismissed, and the village was hushed once more.
But all night long the chiefs went to and fro, taking
counsel among themselves. What would the Chief of the
Pale Faces do?
The morning came with a cloudy, damp dawning.
Within a decent time (for the Indian is decorous) blanketed
deputations filled the archways under the trees and waited
there as the minutes ran into hours. The Chief of the
Long Knives surveyed the morning from his door-step, and
his eyes rested on a solemn figure at the gate. It was
the Hungry Wolf. Sorrow was in his voice, and he bore
messages from the twenty great chiefs who stood beyond.
They were come to express their abhorrence of the night's
doings, of which they were as innocent as the deer of the
forest.
“Let the Hungry Wolf tell the chiefs,” said Colonel
Clark, briefly, “that the council is the place for talk.”
And he went back into the house again.
Then he bade me run to Captain Bowman with an order
to bring the North Wind and his confederates to the
council field in irons.
The day followed the promise of the dawn. The
clouds hung low, and now and again great drops struck
the faces of the people in the field. And like the heavens,
the assembly itself was charged with we knew not what.
Was it peace or war? As before, a white man sat with
supreme indifference at a table, and in front of him three
most unhappy chiefs squatted in the grass, the shame of
their irons hidden under the blanket folds. Audacity is
truly a part of the equipment of genius. To have rescued
the North Wind and his friends would have been child's
play; to have retired from the council with threats of
war, as easy.
And yet they craved pardon.
One chief after another rose with dignity in the ring and
came to the table to plead. An argument deserving
mention was that the North Wind had desired to test the
friendship of the French for the Big Knives,—set forth
without a smile. To all pleaders Colonel Clark shook his
head. He, being a warrior, cared little whether such
people were friends or foes. He held them in the hollow
of his hand. And at length they came no more.
The very clouds seemed to hang motionless when he
rose to speak, and you who will may read in his memoir
what he said. The Hungry Wolf caught the spirit of it,
and was eloquent in his own tongue, and no word of it was
lost. First he told them of the causes of war, of the
thirteen council fires with the English, and in terms that
the Indian mind might grasp, and how their old father,
the French King, had joined the Big Knives in this righteous
fight.
“Warriors,” said he, “here is a bloody belt and a white
one; take which you choose. But behave like men.
Should it be the bloody path, you may leave this town in
safety to join the English, and we shall then see which of
us can stain our shirts with the most blood. But, should
it be the path of peace as brothers of the Big Knives and
of their friends the French, and then you go to your homes
and listen to the bad birds, you will then no longer deserve
to be called men and warriors,—but creatures of two
tongues, which ought to be destroyed. Let us then part
this evening in the hope that the Great Spirit will bring
us together again with the sun as brothers.”
So the council broke up. White man and red went
trooping into town, staring curiously at the guard which
was leading the North Wind and his friends to another
night of meditation. What their fate would be no man
knew. Many thought the tomahawk.
That night the citizens of the little village of Pain Court,
as St. Louis was called, might have seen the sky reddened
in the eastward. It was the loom of many fires at Cahokia,
and around them the chiefs of the forty tribes—all save
the three in durance vile—were gathered in solemn talk.
Would they take the bloody belt or the white one? No
man cared so little as the Pale Face Chief. When their
eyes were turned from the fitful blaze of the logs, the gala
light of many candles greeted them. And above the sound
of their own speeches rose the merrier note of the fiddle.
The garrison windows shone like lanterns, and behind these
Creole and backwoodsman swung the village ladies in the
gay French dances. The man at whose bidding this
merrymaking was held stood in a corner watching with
folded arms, and none to look at him might know that
he was playing for a stake.
The troubled fires of the Indians had died to embers
long before the candles were snuffed in the garrison house
and the music ceased.
The sun himself was pleased to hail that last morning of
the great council, and beamed with torrid tolerance upon
the ceremony of kindling the greatest of the fires. On
this morning Colonel Clark did not sit alone, but was
surrounded by men of weight,—by Monsieur Gratiot and
other citizens, Captain Bowman and the Spanish officers.
And when at length the brush crackled and the flames
caught the logs, three of the mightiest chiefs arose. The
greatest, victor in fifty tribal wars, held in his hand the
white belt of peace. The second bore a long-stemmed
pipe with a huge bowl. And after him, with measured
steps, a third came with a smoking censer,—the sacred
fire with which to kindle the pipe. Halting before Clark,
he first swung the censer to the heavens, then to the earth,
then to all the spirits of the air,—calling these to witness
that peace was come at last,—and finally to the Chief of
the Long Knives and to the gentlemen of dignity about
his person. Next the Indian turned, and spoke to his
brethren in measured, sonorous tones. He bade them
thank that Great Spirit who had cleared the sky and
opened their ears and hearts that they might receive the
truth,—who had laid bare to their understanding the lies
of the English. Even as these English had served the Big
Knives, so might they one day serve the Indians. Therefore
he commanded them to cast the tomahawk into the
river, and when they should return to their land to drive
the evil birds from it. And they must send their wise men
to Kaskaskia to hear the words of wisdom of the Great
White Chief, Clark. He thanked the Great Spirit for
this council fire which He had kindled at Cahokia.
Lifting the bowl of the censer, in the eyes of all the
people he drew in a long whiff to bear witness of peace.
After him the pipe went the interminable rounds of the
chiefs. Colonel Clark took it, and puffed; Captain Bowman
puffed,—everybody puffed.
“Davy must have a pull,” cried Tom; and even the
chiefs smiled as I coughed and sputtered, while my friends
roared with laughter. It gave me no great notion of the
fragrance of tobacco. And then came such a hand-shaking
and grunting as a man rarely sees in a lifetime.
There was but one disquieting question left: What was
to become of the North Wind and his friends? None
dared mention the matter at such a time. But at length,
as the day wore on to afternoon, the Colonel was seen to
speak quietly to Captain Bowman, and several backwoodsmen
went off toward the town. And presently a silence
fell on the company as they beheld the dejected three
crossing the field with a guard. They were led before
Clark, and when he saw them his face hardened to sternness.
“It is only women who watch to catch a bear sleeping,”
he said. “The Big Knives do not kill women. I shall give
you meat for your journey home, for women cannot hunt.
If you remain here, you shall be treated as squaws. Set
the women free.”
Tom McChesney cast off their irons. As for Clark, he
began to talk immediately with Monsieur Gratiot, as
though he had dismissed them from his mind. And their
agitation was a pitiful thing to see. In vain they pressed
about him, in vain they even pulled the fringe of his shirt
to gain his attention. And then they went about among
the other chiefs, but these dared not intercede. Uneasiness
was written on every man's face, and the talk went
haltingly. But Clark was serenity itself. At length with
a supreme effort they plucked up courage to come again to
the table, one holding out the belt of peace, and the other
the still smouldering pipe.
Clark paused in his talk. He took the belt, and flung
it away over the heads of those around him. He seized
the pipe, and taking up his sword from the table drew it,
and with one blow clave the stem in half. There was no
anger in either act, but much deliberation.
“The Big Knives,” he said scornfully, “do not treat
with women.”
The pleading began again, the Hungry Wolf interpreting
with tremors of earnestness. Their lives were spared,
but to what purpose, since the White Chief looked with
disfavor upon them? Let him know that bad men from
Michilimackinac put the deed into their hearts.
“When the Big Knives come upon such people in the
wilderness,” Clark answered, “they shoot them down that
they may not eat the deer. But they have never talked
of it.”
He turned from them once more; they went away in a
dejection to wring our compassion, and we thought the
matter ended at last. The sun was falling low, the people
beginning to move away, when, to the astonishment of all,
the culprits were seen coming back again. With them
were two young men of their own nation. The Indians
opened up a path for them to pass through, and they came
as men go to the grave. So mournful, so impressive withal,
that the crowd fell into silence again, and the Colonel
turned his eyes. The two young men sank down on the
ground before him and shrouded their heads in their
blankets.
“What is this?” Clark demanded.
The North Wind spoke in a voice of sorrow:—
“An atonement to the Great White Chief for the sins
of our nation. Perchance the Great Chief will deign to
strike a tomahawk into their heads, that our nation may
be saved in war by the Big Knives.” And the North
Wind held forth the pipe once more.
“I have nothing to say to you,” said Clark.
Still they stood irresolute, their minds now bereft of
expedients. And the young men sat motionless on the
ground. As Clark talked they peered out from under
their blankets, once, twice, thrice. He was still talking
to the wondering Monsieur Gratiot. But no other voice
was heard, and the eyes of all were turned on him in
amazement. But at last, when the drama had risen to the pitch
of unbearable suspense, he looked down upon the two
miserable pyramids at his feet, and touched them. The
blankets quivered.
“Stand up,” said the Colonel, “and uncover.”
They rose, cast the blankets from them, and stood with
a stoic dignity awaiting his pleasure. Wonderful, fine-limbed men they were, and for the first time Clark's eyes
were seen to kindle.
“I thank the Great Spirit,” said he, in a loud voice,
“that I have found men among your nation. That I have
at last discovered the real chiefs of your people. Had they
sent such as you to treat with me in the beginning all
might have been well. Go back to your people as their
chiefs, and tell them that through you the Big Knives
have granted peace to your nation.”
Stepping forward, he grasped them each by the hand,
and, despite training, joy shone in their faces, while a
long-drawn murmur arose from the assemblage. But
Clark did not stop there. He presented them to Captain
Bowman and to the French and Spanish gentlemen present,
and they were hailed by their own kind as chiefs of their
nation. To cap it all our troops, backwoodsmen and
Creole militia, paraded in line on the common, and fired a
salute in their honor.
Thus did Clark gain the friendship of the forty tribes
in the Northwest country.
