11 A Magic Flute

We lay down in the forest at sunrise and slept soundly, all but one man, who was relieved in turn by the others, and we did not approach the Miami village until late in the afternoon. This, comprising several hundred lodges and log-cabins, defended by a triple palisade, was pitched upon the banks and hills of the Wabash River, and around it were small fields, in which crops of maize and melons had been gathered before the frosts, but which stood bare now, forbidding our further approach, especially as various mangy curs, wonderfully keen of sight and scent, like all the Indian dogs, wandered about the open spaces.

We knew by the calm appearance of the village that the victorious warriors had not arrived yet, though they must be very near.

The sun was still an hour above the earth when we heard a high-pitched cry at our right—not a war-whoop, but a swelling shout of triumph, the signal that the warriors were approaching. It was answered from the village, and then the old men, the squaws, and the children, who had been left behind, came forth to meet the victors, silent at first while the warriors were shouting their own Indian whoop, and imitating, too, the howl of the wolf and the panther, and the growl of the bear. Then these non-combatants answered with a great cry of triumph, after which the squaws began to sing and dance their queer dance, which consists more in jumping up and down to the rhythm of a monotonous chant than anything else. But the song increased in volume when they saw what a magnificent spoil the victors were bringing, enough to stock the village more years than any of them would live.

When the warriors ceased the answering halloos, they marched in silence and with dignity between the applauding lines of squaws.

They crossed the fields and reached the outer palisade, where they fired their rifles in the air as the fine finish of the celebration. Then they went to the lodges with their spoil, while the old squaws sang the death song of those who had fallen, and the young women cooked venison and buffalo meat for the returned.

The singing and wailing of the squaws ceased after awhile, and the sun dropped low in the west. Osseo looked inquiringly at me.

“Has Lee a plan?” he asked.

“I have, Osseo,” I replied.

He asked no more, but stood waiting until in my own good time I should make it known.

I turned to De Chamillard.

“Will you play the flute again for us?” I asked.

He stared at me in surprise.

“You seem to have my flute upon your mind, Monsieur Lee,” he said. “Did I ever think that my poor music was to win such applause in these vast and lonely woods?”

“Will you play the flute for us again?” I repeated, “and play it not only like a musician, but also like the brave man that you are?”

He laughed.

“It shall not be said of Hector de Chamillard that he resisted such a flattering appeal as that,” he replied.

“Then give us your arms, take only your flute in your hand, and as you play it walk into that village like some pilgrim of old, seeking alms.”

“Monsieur Lee,” he replied, “I give you this credit: when you ask for a favour you make it a large one; you are not a small man in any particular.”

His tone was complimentary rather than accusing, but I hastened to explain.

“If you approach the village unarmed and playing your flute, the Indians will consider you insane,” I said. “Nothing else that you might do could shake them in this belief. Even Osseo, who has seen more of the white men than most Indians have, thought you mad when we approached your camp fire in the forest, and he thinks so yet—do you not, Osseo?”

Osseo nodded his head gravely.

“On my honour,” exclaimed De Chamillard, “I have never before been accused of madness.”

“It is not a discredit,” I continued, “and just now it may be of great service to us. Go among these Indians; you may enter wherever you wish, for, as one mad, you are, so they think, a special favourite of Manito, which is Indian for the Great Spirit, otherwise God. Find where Miss Carew is kept—we are sure that she is there; tell her to be of good heart, that her friends are by and will rescue her. To-morrow afternoon come back into the forest as near this point as you can. When you hear the cry of the whip-poor-will, walk toward the sound as quietly and secretly as possible. You will find us there, and then you may tell us all you have seen and heard.”

“Which means that I am to act like the woman in the Bible and spy out the land?”

“Even so.”

“Then I accept the proposal. If any man had told me yesterday that I would do such a thing, ‘Liar’ would have been the first word on my lips, and I would have defended the epithet; but to-day I do it. The De Chamillards were never practical people, which perhaps is the reason why I am here, a beggar, embarking upon such a venture. But it is well to risk one’s life even for the lady love of a new friend.”

I know that I flushed a little, because he laughed and looked at me with a twinkling eye.

“There is one promise I make you, Monsieur Lee,” he said, “and I make it on the oath of a De Chamillard.”

“What is that?”

“All our family love beauty, and women have been one of our weaknesses, but I pledge you my word that I will not seek to make love to the lady.”

“I have no claim upon her,” I said.

He laughed again.

“Perhaps not,” he said, “but you wish to have. No, I go only in behalf of my friend, not in my own.”

I could not help smiling at him, his fine-drawn point of honour, and his rising gaiety as he embarked upon this strange venture. I saw clearly that the errand appealed to a romantic and daring spirit. Chance had put in our hands the best man to carry it through.

He gave us his arms, took the flute in his hands, and entered the field that lay between us and the village.

“He is really mad,” said Winchester.

But I knew that in his English heart of hearts he thought all Frenchmen mad.

When De Chamillard had gone a few yards into the open he put the flute to his lips and began to play a chansonette, some pretty French tune, which I dare say had been heard in the halls of the Great and the Little Trianon, with small thought by any one that it would be repeated here in these wilds. He changed in a moment to an air of love and longing that moved us with its pathos.

He walked steadily on toward the village, and I knew that he was seen now by the warriors. One raised his rifle as if to take aim, but quickly dropped it, for when this warrior looked again he saw that the strange white man was in the keeping of Manito.

De Chamillard’s ancestors were Crusaders, I am sure, sent by the spirit of adventure as well as the love of Church to the Holy Land, as even from our covert we saw that he bore himself in the most jaunty manner; and I am equally certain, too, that his soul was in what he now did. The warriors, the women, and the children were coming forth in a great swarm, gazing at him with the most intense curiosity, and making no sound. Their opinion, as one knowing the Indian nature and the Indian manner could tell, was formed already. The Frenchman was to them a man blasted by a stroke of Manito’s lightning, and therefore under his protection. They made no further movement, but waited in front of the village as he advanced.

De Chamillard presently took the flute from his lips, and to our surprise began to sing with much expression in a clear, strong voice, evidently a voice that had been trained by good masters. This was his song:

I had heard the song before; I knew that its name was The Young Captive, and the fitness of it moved me. I thought not then of De Chamillard, but of Rose Carew. He sang other verses, and then changed suddenly to a new song, an air with a hop and a skip and a jump and a merry note, and these were its words:

When he ceased the song he danced one or two steps, just the suggestion of a dance, and then, putting the flute to his lips, began to play again. I have always thought that De Chamillard, were it not for his birth, might have been an actor. In truth, he had the gifts. To fill such a rôle as the one he was playing now he did not have to act; he lived it; he was in very essence and being a child of God, as the Indians term it. He continued his steady progress until the crowd of savages closed behind him, and we saw him no more, although the notes of the flute still came to us faintly.

“I told you that he was really mad,” said Winchester. “He did not have to play the part.”

Even Osseo smiled. Then we withdrew farther into the forest, not caring to risk the notice of some stray warrior. Having nothing now to do but wait, we sought sleep again, wrapping ourselves in our blankets, with the exception of one who watched. A wise frontiersman always rests and sleeps when there is opportunity, knowing that it may not come again soon. We had a sufficient supply of jerked venison with us, and when we were hungry we ate. Thus the night and most of the next day passed, and when the sun dropped low Osseo imitated the cry of the whip-poor-will so perfectly that even I, with the experience of years in the woods, could not have told the difference.

“He will never come,” said the incredulous Winchester. “The Indians have burned him at the stake long before this.”

“The Indians have not burned him at the stake, and he will come,” was my rejoinder.

Osseo repeated his cry, all the time intently watching the forest in every direction, since others than the one wished might answer the whip-poor-will call. He put his ear to the earth presently, and when he rose again he said:

“The Man-who-blows-the-hollow-stick comes, and he is alone.”

Osseo once more gave the cry of the whip-poor-will, and then, waiting a little longer, we saw at a great distance the figure of De Chamillard advancing among the tree trunks. But we did not remain where we were until he could reach us; instead, we moved farther and farther to the right, continually drawing him after us with repetitions of the whip-poor-will cry. We adopted this course in order to be sure that no Indians were following the Frenchman, and at last, when we were convinced, we stopped. He came to us presently, flushed with exertion.

“I had begun to think that whip-poor-will was the most evasive bird that ever uttered his lonesome note,” he said. “Ma foi! but I have had a walk.”

“Have you seen her?” I cried.

“I have,” he said, “and on my honour, Monsieur Lee, it was only my promise to you that kept me from trying to make love to her, and I may say to you this very moment that I am sorry I gave the promise, although I think it would never have got further than an attempt.”

“What of her—the girl?”

“She is well, and she hopes again, since she has heard that her friends are near, seeking her rescue. But I will begin where the story does, and tell you the whole of it. When I left you, playing the flute and marching toward the village of the savages, I, the madman, the man who is in the keeping of God—as our Indian friend frankly puts it, and as our English friend secretly believes—began to feel the grandeur of my task, and my bosom swelled with inspiration—it is our French way sometimes; and I played the flute with a new mastery and sang French lyrics as I had never sung them before. The savages met me, and what you told me, Monsieur Lee, was even so; they deemed me perfectly mad, and I confirmed them in the belief, playing my flute at intervals and marching wherever my changeful mind might incline me, sometimes into the lodges of the warriors, where I helped myself once to a piece of most succulent venison, and none said me nay—just as if I was the Lord’s anointed, Louis of France, honouring one of his peasants by taking what he fancied from the contents of his cottage. It is a pleasant emotion, to feel that you may do as you choose and pay no price, and I continued in my lordly career.

“Two white men present—renegades, I suppose—seemed to suspect me, but they dared not molest me, as the chiefs sternly forbade any interference with my career. Moreover, my music pleased the savages, and I wandered about the village, looking with all my eyes and listening with all my ears—I know a little of the Miami dialect—learning presently that the captive lady was kept near the centre of the village in the largest hut until such time as the chief, Hoyoquim, her captor, could carry her to his own village. Meantime they were treating her with proper respect; and deeming it best not to proceed too rapidly, I lay down in the most comfortable wigwam that I could find and slept the night.

“I wandered about in the village a little while this morning, playing my flute at times, and at last undertook to enter the hut where the lady is imprisoned. The warrior on watch made no resistance, no more daring to lay a hand on me than if he were in truth a French peasant, and I the Lord’s anointed. There I found the maiden in great grief, and near unto despair, but her spirits rose wonderfully when I told her that her friends were near, particularly when I mentioned you. Truly she has a courage! ‘Is Mr. Lee out there in the woods?’ she asked, and you alone she called by name. ‘He is,’ I answered; ‘and he will not go away without you.’ ‘Nor will he,’ added she, very low and under her breath, although I heard her. She was much excited at first, but after that she was quite calm, and seemed to contemplate the future with more confidence than I can. When I came away I asked if she had any message to send, and she said only, ‘Tell Mr. Lee that I have the utmost faith in him,’ and so I relate it, although it seems to me that she might also have faith in messieurs the red gentleman, the English gentleman, and the French gentleman.”

I thanked De Chamillard briefly for his achievement, feeling that he, like Winchester, would not care to listen to many words of gratitude, and then Winchester spoke.

“It is now my turn to go among the savages, Lee,” he said. “I am of a nation that is not at war with them, and they will not harm me. Moreover, I am a fur-trader, and I know the chief, Hoyoquim, who is not without certain chivalrous instincts. It may be that he will take ransom for Miss Carew, and I can offer it.”

I pondered awhile over his suggestion, and then I decided to improve upon it. I had feared at first that Winchester’s presence with our army might involve him too in the Indian hatred, but since he was without apprehension on the point, it was not for me to imagine dangers for him, when the fate of Rose Carew perhaps depended upon his help.

“See Hoyoquim or Little Turtle, if you are able,” I said, “and tell either that I wish to come with you and buy back Miss Carew. I know the Indian ways, and perhaps I can attract them with an offer. If they say that I may come in safety it will be even so, for they are men of honour.”

He departed at once upon his mission, and returned about midnight.

“The head chief, Little Turtle, is absent,” he said, “but the Wyandot, Hoyoquim, who captured Miss Carew, is in the village. He says that you can come with me under the white flag, so to speak, and talk about the girl. If you and he do not agree, you may return to the forest in peace.”

This was sufficient, and we prepared at once to enter the village, while Osseo and De Chamillard remained in the woods to await our return.

“If you do not return I shall go for you,” the Frenchman said. “Nom du chien, how could I desert so interesting a friend?”

It was just at sunrise that we approached the village, and the barking of many mangy curs warned the Indians of our approach. One of those horrible, weazened old squaws who are always on watch about the outskirts of an Indian encampment came forward to meet us, and she was followed presently by others. We held up our hands to show that we were peaceful, and I said in Miami:

“We come with a message to the great chief Hoyoquim.”

Then they conducted us to Hoyoquim, who received us beside the council fire, having made ready for our approach with all the formality practised by the Indians upon such occasions, and we, knowing that it was wisdom, paid heed to his ways.

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