CHAPTER XVII

AN INDIAN CLAMBAKE

Near Sowams, on the Kickemuit river, was the Indian town of Kickemuit, and between the water courses or bays ran a long peninsula towards the island of Aquidneck and the ocean, called now the "Mt. Hope Lands." Mt. Hope, the ancient burying-ground of the forest kings, crossed this peninsula. In this delectable country, of bays and waterways, ancient forests, and intersecting trails, were three springs: Massasoit Spring at Sowams, Kickemuit Spring at Kickemuit, and the now so-called King Philip's Spring at Mt. Hope. One of the roads leading to Mt. Hope is now called Pometacom Avenue, on which is the immense Parker Mill.

The Indian town of Kickemuit was a place of clambakes. The piles of shells that accumulated, probably for centuries, may be seen on the winding shores now, near the ever-flowing spring, which is now, or used to be, bordered with water cresses.

There probably in the Indian days were sloping cornfields, where fine meadows are now.

Little Metacomet one day said to timid Susan and Roger, that his father, the chieftain, intended to invite them to one of the clambakes of the Pokonokets.

"I wouldn't see the powwow there, nor nothing, would I?" asked Susan. "It would scare my head off to see him."

The little prince looked puzzled.

But timid Susan concluded to go to the clambake if she were invited by the chief, whatever she might see. She could trust King Philip, the princess and Metacomet.

Susan, who was always afraid lest she should see something or touch something, had one terror above all others, that she might meet with an Indian powwow, or medicine man. She had heard of this strange character who was believed to have gained his influence from the Evil One.

"Oh, he is just awful," she used to say to her little Roger, "and it would make you shut your eyes to the sun just to look at him. One sight of him would put out the sun for me; snake skins hang all about him, and they rattle, rattle, rattle; and he has horns and a tail, and he leaps this way and that as though he were hung on springs; and he yells, oh, the stars can hear him when he yells; he yells the yells of yells, the medicine whoop, which is like the war-whoop. It makes me shut my eyes just to think of him. If you were ever to see him, run; let your little legs fly like drum-sticks. It would cure me of my rheumatism just to look at him. I would shut my eyes tight, and just fly if I were to meet him. Oh, oh!"

She would throw her apron over her face, as she indulged in such terrifying descriptions of the medicine man of whom she had heard in Boston. Roger would sometimes stare with a fixed look of terror, and sometimes laugh after one of these descriptions of the powwow, as the medicine man was called by the English people.

"But, mother, you could not fly; you have no wings, and he would get you, and it might be that he wouldn't hurt you, but would cure you of your rheumatism."

"That he would, you may be sure of that. It makes my rheumatism go away just to think of him at night. They say that he can turn his head inside out. I don't know."

The medicine man in his fantastic dress was no angel. He recalled stories of evil and of the evil spirit. It was his purpose to make himself as terrible as possible in order to scare disease away; he tried so to engage the mind of the sick person with his antics as to cause him to forget his disease awhile, and give nature a chance to rally. On account of him, the English used to call the Indians worshipers of evil spirits.

"The powwow is nothing but a hooting _man_, just like any other man," said Roger.

"Yes, yes, you are a philosopher, Roger, that is so, but they do say that he hoots awful. May I never hear him."

In her lonely days in the wilderness, when she saw a band of Indians, she would say:

"I hope the powwow is not among them."

She had lived in daily fear of this strange doctor, about whom the Indians talked much, and of whose powers many wonderful things were told. When Massasoit was sick nigh unto death, a powwow tried to sustain his life by piercing cries, and by leaping around him. The powwow was probably painted, and plumed with crows' and hawks' feathers, and beat a drum, and rattled snake skins, just as all their conjurers did. He was a product of superstition and ignorance and derived his powers from his own imagination, and sometimes wrought great cures by affecting the imagination of very sick people. Passaconaway, the lord of the Merrimack, was a powwow, and they said of him that he caused trees to dance.

It was at this period of her forest life that there appeared at Susan Barley's door one day a little Indian boy. He bore her a bit of wampum. He was a very pretty boy, and scared Susan said--

"Come in, in the Lord's name. Maybe I will give you a pancake."

At the word pancake the Indian boy's eyes twinkled, for he knew the meaning of that word.

"He has sent for you," said the child.

"Who? Not the powwow, I hope. Oh, how my heart does flutter!"

"No--not powwow. Philip! clambake!" said the boy brokenly.

"You shall have a pancake, you nimble little ducky of an Indian boy."

She bustled around and fried some pancakes while he watched her with twinkling eyes. "Here, little boy of the woods, here is your pancake. Have you a mother?"

The child dropped his chin for yes.

"Then I will send her two. These were fried in bear's grease and are proper good." She said this by pointing to the bear's grease and smacking her lips three times.

* * * * *

Susan and Roger set out for Kickemuit on the morning of the day appointed for the Indian clambake. It was one of those dreamy days of mellowed light, so well known in the bay country. The maples were changing in swampy places.

As they approached the place of the spring, Little Metacomet came out of the lodge to meet them.

The beautiful princess had dressed the Indian boy gayly for the festive occasion. He wore on his head a crown of white and dark plumes. The band of the crown consisted of pearly shells and the feathers, which slanted backward like a mane, were from the wings of the sea eagle. His tunic was woven of river grass and bark fiber, and was fringed. He bore on his arm a round shield like a drum-head. It was stained with pigeon berry and yellow ocher. His tunic was fringed, and his feet were mocassined. He looked like a little warrior. The costume of the princess was as gay, with a girdle of shells and feathers.

[Illustration: HE LOOKED LIKE A LITTLE WARRIOR.]

Near the lodges, under the great oaks, a bake was steaming. It consisted of an oven of stone, filled with clams, cohangs, scollops, scup, and other fish, covered with sea-weed and rock-weed. The scup was the delicious fish of Mount Hope Bay.

The tribe was there, and King Philip, the forest lord of Pokonoket, was painted and plumed, and surrounded by his great captains, one of whom was Annawon.

The ancient oaks with their ospreys' nests slanted towards the flowing spring, and under them were painted warriors and Indian girls.

Down the stream came canoes, one of which bore Wetamoo, Philip's wife's sister, glittering with fantastic ornaments made of the pearl of shells.

"You don't suppose the powwow will come, too?" said Susan to Roger.

When the Indians were ready to open the bake, pipes rang out, drums were beaten, skins were rattled, and the rock-weed and sea-weed were thrown off of the steaming fish and bivalves. Then all sat down in a circle, and the Indian girls and young braves served the great company.

The afternoon sun was going down when the feast ended. In the evening there was to be an Indian dance under the full moon, and a medicine man was to perform.

And now Susan had her fears realized when this terrible object came rushing out of his lodge, leaping into the air, and rattling his dry hides, shells and snake skins.

She ran to the princess.

"Oh, that I should ever see the like!" she said. "He has horns."

"No hook," said the princess. "The animal is dead that wore the horns."

"But he has a tail."

"No danger," said the princess. "The animal is dead that wore the tail."

"But his voice goes up to the stars and makes me tremble."

"The stars do not hear," said the princess.

"I was so afraid that I would see something all along," said timid Susan. "Let Roger and me go now."

"No, no," said Little Metacomet. "Sassamon must go with you, and he is going to dance, and the paniese, the prophet, is going to speak under the moon, and Wetamoo will circle around with her braves. Stay, stay. I will bring the medicine man to you and he will tell you who he is."

So Metacomet sped away and presently returned with the medicine man.

"Do not be afraid," said the Powwow. "I will defend you against all evils. I am only an Indian decked out. See, these are not my horns, nor this tail my tail, and the snakes that I rattle are dead snakes, and the Indian's heart is true to all who are here to hear him. Tremble not when I hoot. It is a friendly hoot for such as you."

He uttered a fearful hoot and left the little woman smiling.

The festival lasted nearly all the night, and King Philip danced with Queen Wetamoo, while the two boys lay down on the green together, and Susan leaned on the beautiful princess' arm.

"Everything goes happy when hearts are right," said the princess.

The moon at last sank low, the powwow ended, the land became shadowy and still, and the pioneer's wife lay down beside the Indian princess in the women's lodge, and Roger beside Little Metacomet, in the chief's quarters, and the night heron wandered along the shore, and the loon cried, and no one thought of harm. It was the calm before the great war, whose war-whoop Susan so much feared that she might one day hear.

When the people, white and red, retired to rest that night, the Indians began to sing themselves to sleep.

Once more Susan was alarmed when this singing began. She had never heard the like before. _Boon--zoun--tarara_, like the whir of the loon's wings in the night, or the cry of the loon when the waves were beating on the rocks. But one by one the voices ceased, and then the Indians began to snore.

The timid woman did not dare to sleep.

About one o'clock a queer form appeared at the door of the lodge. It stood in the moonlight. It rose up and looked like a little man in furs.

Susan could not keep still any longer. She rose up on her elbow and touched the princess' arm.

"There's a man in the door. See there."

"Oh, that is a tame bear."

"Let me call Little Metacomet."

"No, give him a pancake."

"Who? Metacomet?"

"No, the bear."

Susan followed the suggestion.

The bear ate the pancake, and then came toward the little woman, who was lying on the mat.

"Oh, princess, he is coming!"

"Give him another pancake."

Susan followed this suggestion also. The bear ate the pancake, and stretched himself out near the mat, and was as quiet as a kitten. Then all of the forest were still, Indians, bears, and all. The moon went down, and even the white woman became quiet amid lodges of Indians near her and a little black bear beside her.

Early in the morning, the blue jay came to the lodges and screamed, "Wake up, wake up!" in a piercing tone. The bear woke up and walked away.

Such were primitive forest days. Susan prepared to go back to the groves, when the powwow came out of his lodge, a kindly-faced Indian, with all his toggery on his arm.

"You fear," said he. "I bring you some presents.

"Here are my horns; take them to the groves--then you no fear.

"Here are my rattles; take them to the groves--then you no fear.

"Here are my hides; take them to the groves--then you no fear.

"And here is my heart; it is a friendly heart--it goes with you."

Then Susan departed with a joyful mind.

"I don't think that I will ever hear the war-whoop now," she said. "What would I do if I should--what _would_ I do?"