Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

Matthew realized he was expected to follow, or not, as he pleased, but that he would have to keep up regardless of his condition. He set off running after the elder, each stride a little explosion of pain all the way up to his knees.

The Indian ran without a backward glance, going between the burned remnants of cabins that perhaps had been torched by his own father. The other two and Greathouse were already out of sight. Matthew stumbled and staggered and kept upright by sheer willpower, which even so was not a bottomless commodity. He saw the elder leave the fort through another gaping vine-edged aperture in the wall, and then the man was gone into the dripping woods. Matthew continued after him, following what appeared to be a narrow trail into an otherwise impenetrable wilderness. Massive trees stood about, their branches interlocked seventy feet above the earth. Creepers as thick as anchor ropes hung down, it seemed, from the clouds. Dead leaves spun around Matthew in a chill breeze, and a judgment of crows flew past directing at him their silent appraisal. He felt an oppression upon him like the thumb of God. It was not just that Greathouse was gravely wounded, very likely near death. It was also that Slaughter had been loosed upon the world, and Matthew's silence-yes, and greed, call it what it was-had aided the monster's escape.

How could he live with that?

He was breathing hard after only three or four minutes, his legs leaden, the blood roaring in his head. It was impossible to see any of the Indians ahead of him for the thick foliage, and they were probably by now a half-mile in front. He was still running as fast as he was able, which was really not saying much, as he was hobbled by pain. But he kept going, marking the strides by how much they hurt. He must have lost his concentration, or his legs simply gave out, for suddenly he was off-balance and staggering and the stagger turned into a stumble that ended in a sprawl, his face skidding into wet leaves on the ground.

Matthew sat up, shaking his head to clear it of a gray haze. He saw a quick movement. There stood the elder Indian on the trail twenty or thirty feet away, seemingly appeared from among the trees. Up, the man motioned with his hands. Matthew nodded and got to his feet, a task that had a degree of suffering even Job might have appreciated. As soon as Matthew was up, the Indian turned away and began running again, and was out of sight before Matthew could get started.

Alternately running, limping and staggering, Matthew came out of the forest into a wide field of shoulder-high brown grass. Ahead of him, across the field a hundred yards or so, was a wall of cut logs similar to the wall of Fort Laurens, yet this one was in sturdy condition. A little pall of blue smoke hung in the air above it. As Matthew continued on, he heard from the field around him the cries of invisible sentinels, some mimicking the barking of dogs and others the cawing of crows. In another moment he knew that he was being accompanied, for he caught glimpses of the dark shapes of Indians loping along on either side of him amid the high grass. They barked and cawed and otherwise made high-pitched noises one to another, and Matthew thought there might have been five or six braves on either side. He might have been fearful at this presentation, but as he had no choice than to go forward, since certainly Greathouse had been brought this way, he dared not slow down nor show himself as anything less than able.

That was still fresh in his mind when the two braves coming up behind him at lightning speed grasped his arms, picked him up between them and carried him onward across the field with hardly a pause.

He was taken through an open gate. Surrounded on all sides by tattooed and feather-capped warriors, he was rushed across a bare dirt yard where small dogs, pigs and goats scattered out of the procession's path. Women with long glossy black hair, wearing leather skirts and waistcoat-like blouses decorated with brightly-colored beads and baubles, came forward chattering and calling out, most of them carrying or pulling young children, to see the new arrival. Some of the men had to holler and shove to keep the women away, as it appeared curiosity was as strong here as it might be toward a Japanese walking on Dock Street in New York. To their credit, the women shoved and hollered back, stating their rights in no uncertain terms. Children cried, dogs barked under Matthew's boots, which hung several inches off the ground, and goats ran wildly about butting anybody who got in the way. If Matthew had not been so desperate for Greathouse's life, this would have been the first act of a comic play, yet he feared the final act must surely be a tragedy. Through the feathered, tattooed and bangled throng Matthew caught sight of the dwellings that he knew the Indians called their 'longhouses', which were huge wooden barrel-roofed structures covered in sheets of bark. Some of these were well over a hundred feet long and twenty feet or so tall, and from openings in their roofs emanated the blue smoke of communal fires.

Matthew found himself directed toward one of the largest of the longhouses, and with a jumping and shouting mass of Indians at his back he was carried through curtains made of animal skins that covered its doorway. When his escorts abruptly halted and let him go he fell to his knees in the dirt.

The light was dim in here, the air smelling of pinewood smoke. The communal fire burned low, a pit of seething red embers. Suddenly a renewed shouting and calling in the Indian language erupted around him, and through the gloom Matthew saw first the glint of eyes. Converging on him from all sides, edging forward closer and closer, was a mob of men, women and children numbering too many to count. He was truly in another world now, as much as a being from another planet. Fear was driven deep into him at the sight of this multitude, but he had to stand up and assert himself, for in his experience Indians respected courage above all. But where was Greathouse? Here or in some other place? The mass of natives were ringing him, and some were daring to reach out as if to pluck at his clothes.

Matthew hauled himself to his feet, and shouted forcefully, 'Listen!'

His voice immediately silenced all others. The nearest Indians drew back, their eyes wide. Children scampered away to hide behind the legs of their mothers, and even the fiercest-looking braves stood motionless at the sound of a white man's tongue.

'Where's my friend?' Matthew called out. 'Ecouter! Ou es'tmon ami?' He got no answer. He looked around at the staring faces. 'Does anyone here speak English?' he demanded, as frustration got the better of him.

The silence stretched. And then from the back of the crowd came a single high-pitched voice chattering something that sounded like ha aka nu eeeegish!

In the next instant the place erupted into a storm of hilarity, and the laughter that burst forth might have lifted the roof up and whirled it away had it not been so securely fixed.

In this tumult of noise Matthew knew he was being mocked, that no one here spoke either English or French, and while he was standing at the center of a joke Greathouse was likely dying. Courage or not, tears sprang to his eyes, and as the Indians began to dance and caper around him and their laughter soared up with the smoke Matthew feared all was lost.

Fifteen

'Stop it!' Matthew shouted, as the merry carnival of Indians continued to careen around him. His face reddened with anger. He knew a little of the Dutch language from his work as a magistrate's clerk, so in desperation he tried that as well: 'Einde het!'

It made no difference, but only brought forth a fresh uproar of laughter. A brave of diminutive size suddenly leaped out of the throng and landed to Matthew's left, and as this buckskinned comedian began to swell up his cheeks and hop about while emulating the deep croaking of a bullfrog Matthew thought the audience was going to holler the place down on their heads. Such croaking, Matthew reasoned, must be what the white man's language sounded like to their ears. At any other time he might have found this of interest, but right now it was just maddening.

In the midst of all this, Matthew was aware of an approaching figure. He was aware of it for the reason that the mob was parting to let this figure through, and where the mob did not part quickly enough a pair of big hands found purchase and threw Indians left and right. Then a kick was given to the butt of the human bullfrog that launched him toward the nearest lilypad, and a massive buckskin-dressed woman with long gray-streaked hair and necklaces of animal teeth around her throat stood with her hands on her hips, glowering at Matthew. He had no idea what was about to happen, but in spite of what he really wanted to do-which was fall to his knees and beg for mercy-he stood his ground and even managed to thrust out his chin in an actor's show of defiance.

The big woman looked him over from head to feet, made a noise deep in her throat like a bear's grumble, and then turned upon the crowd. If anyone were still laughing and shouting, her voice in the next instant made certain