CHAPTER XXII

ROGER PARTS WITH LITTLE METACOMET

A horseman came riding along the road by the cabin of timid Susan Barley, and he swung his hat to her.

"Great news!" said he.

"What has happened now?" asked she.

"Philip is fleeing--they are surrounding him."

"Where is he?"

"He is somewhere near Taunton."

"And where is the princess and her boy?"

"The women and children are following him. They will all be taken prisoners--there is no more hope for Philip. It all had to be so. He brought it upon himself. The white man or the red man had to perish."

"I know," said Susan, "but I pity his wife."

Roger stood in the door and listened.

"I pity the little boy, too, don't you, Roger? What will they do with him?"

"Send him away probably, or perhaps give him to Father Eliot," said the courier.

"Sir," said Roger, "where are you going?"

"I am going to Taunton to join the forces of Church. They think that Philip is fleeing towards Mt. Hope, the Indian burying-ground: that he is going home. They can pen him up there."

"Sir?"

"Well, boy?"

"Will you let me ride behind you?"

"Where would you go, Roger?" asked his mother.

"I would try to find Little Metacomet. If he were to be taken prisoner, I would try to help him. His heart is true to me. You once told me never to forsake a true heart."

"Oh, Roger, how can I spare you? You may get into trouble. What would I do without you, Roger? When would you come back?"

"The boy is an Injun, Roger," said the horseman.

"But he has a human heart."

"Well, go," said Susan. "Tell the princess, if you find her, that I will shelter her, and go and plead to Father Eliot for her."

"Well, come on, boy," said the rider--"these are hasty times--I must hurry. There are hawks in the air yet, but the sky is clearing--we will have peace before winter."

Roger leaped upon the horse, and the two rode away.

Timid Susan sat down at the door, and threw her apron over her head, and cried with a throbbing heart.

"It may be that we are all the friends that pity Philip's family, but it had to come," said she, moving backwards and forwards, and clasping her hands.

Her husband, the woodman, came home with his axe on his shoulder.

"Roger's gone," said she.

"Where?" asked Mr. Barley.

"To try to find Little Metacomet. They have surrounded Philip near Taunton. I pity the little Indian boy, don't you? Think how he used to come here, sassafrassing, and bringing me forest flowers, and queer birds and all. And what good times he and Roger, who had no playmates, used to have together and somehow it was he that caused the war-path Indians to pass us by. I pity him, don't you?"

"Yes, I pity any one in trouble, but it all had to be."

It is not a long way from Swansea to Taunton, and the two riders soon arrived at Taunton Green.

They found that the Indians had been defeated near the Taunton River in a skirmish, and a number of prisoners had been taken there.

"Philip's wife is taken," said a guard on the green.

"What has become of the little boy?" asked Roger, rising up on the horse's back behind the man in the saddle.

"Little Metacomet?"

"Yes."

"They took him with his mother."

"Where are they?"

"At Bridgewater. They put them in the pound, in the town: in the pen for stray cattle."

"Then I must go there," said Roger clambering down hastily.

He inquired the way to Bridgewater. He turned toward it with nimble feet. It was dark, and there were but few houses on the way, but he arrived there before morning, and went to the town pen.

He asked a soldier on guard if Little Metacomet was in the pen.

"Yes, he is there," said the guard, and added: "Are you friendly to him?"

"Yes, he was my playmate. Can I see him?"

"You can look through at him. It will not be for long. They are going to send the prisoners to Plymouth."

"What will they do with Metacomet and his mother?"

"The squaw queen and the Indian boy? They will be likely to send them away to the plantations on the islands."

"But mother would give them a home."

"Who is your mother?"

"Susan Barley."

"'Timid Susan?' Why, how you talk. Wouldn't she be afraid to house Indians, and the queen, too? The white people would all hate her."

Roger went to the pen. What a sight was there! The sun was rising over the summer woods. The birds were on the wing. Nature was in the fulness of beauty. Inside the pen, lying upon the ground and some mats, were the captive Indians, and Little Metacomet was lying asleep beside his mother.

The white people had been kind to them. They had provided them with good food, and had talked kindly to them the night before. They were disposed to be merciful now, thinking that the end of the war was near.

Roger went to the side of the pen where the little prince lay.

"Metacomet?"

The boy slept on.

"Metacomet?"

The little prince opened his eyes.

"Roger, you Roger, and your heart is true to my heart! What will father do now?"

The princess awoke.

"You, Roger Barley--the good Manitou bless you--you find us in darkness. I never expected to see a morning like this. What made the sun rise?"

"What can I do for you?"

"I don't know--they say that they will send me away, and Metacomet will go with me."

"Where will they send you?"

"To the islands from which the oranges come, so they say. Oh, how could I leave my chief, these lands, and all. Can you not do something for us?"

"Yes, I will go back to mother, and we will go to Father Eliot, and I will plead for you as I would for my own. Good-bye, Metacomet."

"Good-bye, Roger. Whatever may happen to me, my heart will always be true to you."

He spoke these things brokenly, but the meaning was clear.

Roger lingered by the wall of the pound. His heart was full. He knew it all had to be just as it was; but he pitied that little red face.

Suddenly a sound caught the ear of them both. It caused Little Metacomet to throw up his hands.

"Bob-white, Bob-white!"

"The quail," said Roger.

In a woodland meadow a quail was calling, in a sweet musical voice. A multitude of birds were singing in the surrounding trees, but the merry quail's flute-like voice rang out distinct among them all.

"He is calling you," said the little prince. "What will they do with me?"

"Mother will go to Boston to ask the magistrates to let you come and live with us, in the groves."

"The quails there called you, 'Bob-White'" said Little Metacomet. "What good times we used to have there in the green groves of Swansea! I love you, Bob-White, and the groves, and your mother. I think the twelve moons of her. But what will become of _my_ mother? Whatever happens, I must be true to her. Whatever comes, a boy's heart can be true; we can all be true to each other. Massasoit was true, and my father is true to those who have been true to him. Where is he now?"

"Bob-white!"--the quail had whistled again, with love tones in his voice.

"Hear the heart of that swale meadow bird," said the prince.

They listened, and Metacomet's eyes glowed despite his sorrow.

"I must go now," said Roger.

"I may never see you more," said Little Metacomet. "Netop, I shall never see you more. Let us rub noses again. It is the last time--I know it!"

Metacomet was right. It was the last time. Roger never saw his Indian playmate again.