University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE QUIVER OF ARROWS.

Yet, though buried in the thicket, the chief and his son did not
pass wholly from human sight. They had left the groups, European
and Indian alike, which had made the assemblage gathered
for the occasion. But other eyes than these were upon them.

Harry Calvert harbored in the very thicket to which they directed
their steps. From the edge of this thicket, approaching as
nearly as he might with safety, he had watched the whole proceedings.
Now, as the cassique and his son drew nigh, he receded
stealthily into yet deeper thickets, taking care not to lose them
from sight. Not that he felt much, or any curiosity, with regard
to their movements. In observing them, he simply obeyed those
instincts which had been habitually exercised by the life he led,
and the vigilance which its necessities had rendered natural to his
mind. He had been a warrior and hunter himself with the red
men, and knew much of their ways. It was only the habitual
employment of his wits, in the absence of every duty, that he
should fathom their purposes. He had a motive in this, by-the-way,
in consequence of what Gowdey had reported to him of the
doubtful fidelity of the red men in the precinct.

Cussoboe suspected no such surveillance. He led the boy into
the wood, never once looking behind him, and not doubting that

the son would follow. Having reached a supposed place of shelter
and security, he paused, and awaited the youth. The latter
drew nigh, and Calvert, from a clump of bushes, could behold the
scene, though too remote to gather what was spoken. He saw
that the cassique spoke with solemnity; that his action was imposing
and dignified. He saw his hands lifted to heaven at one
moment, and in the next laid on the young man's head.

The latter stood motionless and attentive. The father then
pointed to the settlement of the English cassique; and finally, unfolding
his robe, he produced a sheaf of arrows, which he numbered
with his fingers. From this sheaf he detached a single
shaft, snapped it in twain, and, this done, he looked about him
until he found a living tree which had a hollow in its trunk. Into
this hollow he thrust the sheaf with its remaining arrows, and
with his hatchet made a single stroke across the bark, on the side
of the tree opposite the cavity. The two then moved away together
to the edge of the wood. When there, they separated —
the boy taking his way to the settlement of his new employer, the
cassique skirting the opening, but keeping in the cover of the
thicket, until he had joined his followers a few hundred yards
below.

They had loaded themselves with his merchandise, the gifts of
the white man, and were now waiting for the coming of their superior,
as at an appointed place. In a short time they had disappeared
from the scene, moving away as calmly and indifferently
as if they had not left behind them the hope of the tribe; as if
heedless of the new toils to be forced upon him — his isolation
among foreigners — the tenderness of his youth — the temptations
and dangers to which he was exposed among those whom his
people, whatever the appearances they maintained, undoubtedly
regarded as their enemies.

Harry Calvert had been able to behold the scene already described;
and, though he heard not a syllable, he yet fully conceived
its purport. He waited in his hiding-place until the red
men were certainly gone, and at a distance, when he readvanced
to the edge of the opening, which revealed the new settlement,
and satisfied himself that all there were too much occupied to interfere
with his own actions. He returned to the thicket, found
the tree in which the sheaf of arrows had been deposited, and

drew it forth. He found it tied with the skin of the rattlesnake!

Such a quiver, so encircled, is, when formally despatched by
one tribe to another, a solemn declaration of war. And even
now, though unsent, it had a peculiar significance, which Calvert
well understood. He counted the arrows, and restored the sheaf
to its hiding-place. Then, gathering up the fragments of the shaft
which had been broken, he retired still deeper into the thickets,
till he reached a little branch, or brooklet, upon the banks of
which the canes or hollow reeds, of which the arrows were made,
grew abundantly. He gathered one of these, as nearly like, in
size and appearance, as possible, to the one which had been broken;
trimmed it with his knife to the same shape and measure,
and inserted it within the sheaf with the rest. This done, he resumed
his scrutiny of the plantation and settlements of his brother.

In this scrutiny, he consumed the better part of the day. He
noted all the bearings and relations of the several buildings, the
courses of the streams and woods around the place, and made
himself familiar with the various paths or avenues which seemed
to lead to and from it. For hours he watched the buildings from
such points as afforded him the best survey. He could distinguish
the workmen at their several tasks, and his brother among them.
He could see much — everything, indeed, which would have been
necessary had he been making a reconnaissance in contemplation
of assault.

But he was still unsatisfied. His eyes never once rested on
the object which was most precious to his sight — which he came
especially to see!

But there was one sight which worked keenly upon his sensibilities.
Toward sunset, he beheld the nurse, with the child, enter
the great grove of moss-bearded oaks — a Titan family, hoar with
eld, and with branches large as the shafts of other trees — which
ranged along one side of the whole settlement; a natural avenue
such as no prince of Europe might boast.

He could not doubt that this infant was the child of Olive. “It
should be mine! it should be mine!” was the half-choking murmur
from his lips. His first impulse was to dart forward and
tear the infant from the arms of its bearer. But with a shudder
he arrested himself, turned away for a moment, and then one big

tear rose into his eyes, and, slowly gathering, rolled down upon
his cheeks. He dashed it off hurriedly, as if ashamed of the momentary
weakness; and now continued to watch the infant, but
with a sterner feeling, deeply imbued with bitterness, which, however
brought no emotion into play upon his face. And thus he
watched, with a sort of stony stare, until child and nurse had disappeared.

With night he rode back to Gowdey's castle, at Oldtown on
the Ashley. Gowdey was in waiting for him. The old man had
shaken off his red companions in an hour after the embassage was
over. Calvert told him what he had seen, of the interview between
the chief and his son. He told him, also, what he had
done, in substituting a perfect for the broken arrow.

“Ah! captain, I see you knows the red devils as well as myself.
You 've got the count of their arrows, I hopes; for, jest as
sure as a gun, the day when that last arrow is broken is the day
for sudden mischief.”

“Yes; here 's a memorandum in pencil. Score it, Gowdey, in
fire-coal on your walls, so that you too shall remember. We
shall have to make our preparations against that day. I shall be
able to do something. That this chief, Cussoboe, means mischief,
there can be no doubt. That this boy is to be made an agent,
some way, in effecting some special and important object, against
a particular time, is equally beyond question. Now, what is he to
effect? Have you thought of that, Gowdey?”

“Well — no! I do n't really see. He 's so young — he 's not
more than sixteen, I reckon; and then he 's a sort of hostage, you
see.”

“An Indian boy at fifteen is five years older than a European
boy at the same age.”

“In the woods, he sartinly is.”

“And his life is in the woods only. What we call civilization
and society are here mere impertinences. The manhood of the
forests is the best manhood in the forests, and this boy is already
trained with a Spartan education.”

“I can't say, captain, that I altogether understand that `Spartan.'”

“Ah! true. Well, Gowdey, the Spartans were a sort of Indians
in their day, who trained their children to a hard life, in

order that they might be strong, selfish men. But this must not
divert us from what we were saying. This boy's tender years
make no difference in this matter. He will do what his father
requires. His father will not require him to do anything which
he is not able to do, provided he can bravely make the attempt,
and has the hardy courage to pursue it.”

“That 's true, sir.”

“Now, Gowdey, it is a mistake to suppose that the boy is in
the situation of a hostage. The very business for which my bro—
the cassique, I should say — employs him, gives him perfect liberty.
He ranges the woods at pleasure; is absent and returns
when he pleases; and, unless locked up, can execute any appointed
mischief that lies within his strength, courage, and opportunities.”

“That 's sart'inly true, your honor.”

“Now, the question occurs, what can the cassique, his father,
expect him to do, which he could not do himself? Nothing, unless
the boy, from peculiar opportunities allowed him by the situation
he holds, can obtain access to objects and places which his
father could have no pretence to seek.”

“That seems quite sensible, captain.”

“If, then, as we believe, these red men meditate treachery, the
objects with which this boy is put to Colonel Berkeley will be, to
gain some advantages which are desirable to the insurgents.
What are these objects? The boy has free access to the whole
domain of Colonel Berkeley. He may be able to open the gates
and doors at midnight; may be able to get possession of arms and
gunpowder—”

“Ah! that reminds me — that old rogue Cussoboe, though the
cassique gave him a smart chance of everything that he wanted,
he was not satisfied, and he asked for a gun for himself, one for
his brother, and one for the boy. He made quite an argyment to
the cassique, after them guns! 'T was lucky the colonel fought
shy of that, though he did n't actually refuse.”

“There, then, lies the danger. Now, Gowdey, in my examination
of the place to-day, I note that there is a strong log-house
without windows. It struck me, as you had already told me that
Colonel Berkeley had a large supply of guns and ammunition,
that this log-house was really the armory and magazine.”

“I know it is, captain.”

“I thought so, Gowdey. But now, mark you: this log-house,
or armory and magazine, is at least one hundred and fifty yards
from any of the other houses.”

“Yes, and he told me the reason for putting it so far off. It
was the danger from explosion.”

“I thought that likely. But, do you not see that, as there is
no covered way from the dwellings to the arsenal and magazine,
it would be impossible to get to it, from the houses, in the event
of a sudden assault? The red men have only to cover the space
between, and nobody can cross to get the weapons. The door,
too, of this log-house, though fastened by the best lock ever made
in Europe, I can blow open with a pistol — I can pry open with
an axe! It only needs a resolute and numerous enemy, and the
place is incapable of defence. To make it even partially secure,
there must be a covered way, a double row of pickets, from the
chief dwelling to the door of the armory, completely enclosing
that, and the houses must all be fenced in with pickets. This,
with the force which Colonel Berkeley can now muster, can all
be done in a few days. He must do it. You must see him, Gowdey,
to-morrow, and urge the matter upon him.”

“Lord love you, captain! he 'll never hear to me. He 's got a
notion, as I told you afore, that these red devils are real humans,
and never would do wrong ef they worn't pushed to the wall.
Now, ef you 'd see and talk to him—”

“Me! You forget, Gowdey, that I am not the man to let myself
be seen by one of the proprietors, or council, just at this
time.”

“But I do n't reckon he knows you.”

“I am bound to take for granted that he may know me, and to
keep out of his sight, for a time at least. I shall see — nay, seek
him — when the time comes, and it is proper to do so. I may say
to you that it is my purpose to seek him. I have something to
say to him which concerns us both very nearly.”

“Ah!—”

“Yes! But, in the meantime, we must not suffer him to be
murdered. You must see him, and warn him of his danger. Nobody
can do it better. I can understand that it will be difficult to
disabuse him of these notions of which you speak. He has a
hobby of philanthropy; and hobbies, unless well bridled, invariably

fling their riders. We must make him put a strong bit,
though for a season only, on that which he rides. You can do
this. You must go to him, and warn him of his danger. Tell
him that you know there is an insurrection of the red men on foot.
You do know it. I know it. You feel sure, from what you know
of the character and habits of this people — from what you yourself
have seen, and from what I have told you — that there is an
insurrection on foot.”

“I could swear it on Holy Writ.”

“Swear it to him, then! But beware how you offer to argue
with him, or give him the testimony upon which you ground your
convictions. He will never comprehend your proofs or mine.
He knows too little of the red men to understand the significance
of such actions as satisfy us of the danger. His very prejudices
will make him undervalue your arguments. But you can impress
him with your solemn asseverations. You have but to tell him
that you know the fact, but refuse to give your evidence. You
can easily find an excuse for being silent.”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Meanwhile, I will warn the governor, in person. You must
have an increase of force for your garrison — half a dozen stout
fellows at least, though twenty would not be too many. Can you
not pick up a score or two of brave fellows who can stand fire?”

“I reckon, captain, if I had the money. But the governor—”

“You shall have it! We must not wait upon governors and
councils: they move too slowly for this case. Before they could
organize a corps of rangers, there would be a hundred scalps
taken. Pick up a score or two of strong fellows within the next
three days. Get them into the block-house secretly. It is of the
first importance that your enemy should never know where you
are, or how strong you are. The red men probably know how
weak you are now. I have no doubt that you will have some of
them seeking to procure admission here, on some innocent pretence,
just to find out the weakness of the place.”

“They 've been at me already, hallooing to get in.”

“But only one has shown himself?”

“Only one — that 's sart'in; but I guessed as how there was
twenty others in the woods.”

“Well, do you get a score of stout fellows. I will provide
others, and will send over Jack Belcher to you to-morrow. I
want him here, and he can co-operate with you. How are you
off for weapons?”

“Enough for a few men only.”

“You shall have enough for a dozen; and what your governor
fails to do, I shall supply. You will communicate to him, however,
as if you knew nothing of me; and let him give you orders
for the men, if he will. That will guaranty their pay. But,
whether he gives you this guaranty or not, get the men, and I
will find the money for six months' pay. Contract for that time
at least. That will carry you through the harvest. In all probability,
Colonel Berkeley is himself the cause of this contemplated
insurrection.”

“As how, captain?”

“He has awakened the greed and appetite of the red men, by
the ostentatious exhibition of stores, which tempt their cupidity,
which they esteem beyond all things, and by the little prudence
with which he guards them. He has numerous cattle which
range all about him. He will awake some morning to find all
their throats cut, even before his own. I counted, in one enclosure,
not less than twenty-six of the finest Irish graziers—”

“By-the-way, captain, the very best sort of hogs for the swamp-ranges!
With their long legs, they do n't mind bog or distance;
and they 're sich gross feeders, that nothing comes amiss. But,
captain, you 're a most wonderful man. You 've seen to everything.”

“Ah, Gowdey, my seeing does n't take the mote out of my own
eyes!”

The sudden change in the voice of the speaker; the deep pathos
conveyed in those few allegoric words; the utter rejection,
in tone, manner, and thought, of that tribute to the vanity of the
superior, which the humble man probably designed — and innocently
too — to convey in his complimentary language — all combined
to reveal the presence of a great grief, perhaps an incurable
one, which hitherto Gowdey had never supposed to exist in the
heart of Calvert.

“Is it so, then, master?” said the former; and these insignificant
words, in themselves so meaningless, enforced by the tremulous

accents of the speaker, conveyed volumes of the most touching
sympathy.

“Master, is it so?” and, repeating the sentence, the old man
grasped the hand of the young one, and the big tears gathered in
his eye.

“It is so, Gowdey.”

“Then God forgive you, and give you peace, master!”

Master! How that word would revolt, at this day, the vanity
of inferiority! Yet it conveyed then, in the mouth of that speaker,
no degrading acknowledgment. It was simply the speech of
an honest affection, paying tribute to a noble superiority, that did
not suffer forfeiture of a perfect manhood in the indulgence of the
greatest of human griefs. It was a just tribute of an honest heart
to a genuine heroism.

“It is so, Gowdey!”

“And is there no help?”

“None! none!”

“O captain, have faith! Look up! that 's all that 's needful.
And you may even shut the eye when you 're a-lookin' up. The
faith is apt to see better when the eye is shut. It 's the faith that
cures the hurt, and gives sight to the blind man!”

“Enough, Gowdey! Let us sleep now. You must take me
across the river before the dawn.”