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 welclass="underline" "Einde net"
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 all other mouths were shut. Matthew thought this woman could knock a door down by hollering at it. The other Indians simply shut up, and some of the young braves even plopped themselves on the ground in a display of obedience, their heads and shoulders bent forward as if the woman's words were whipstrikes. Matthew had no earthly idea what she was saying, but it was clear she was lighting the devil's own fire in their earholes. If anyone moved during this tirade, her black eyes found them and the offender shrank back like a trembling dog.
When she was done browbeating her own people, she turned her attention to Matthew again and just stared at him as if to crumble him to dust. After a length of time in which he failed to disintegrate, the woman shouted out what was obviously a command of some kind, for here came forward a fearsome-looking brave decorated with jagged red and blue tattoos on his cheeks, chin, arms and legs. The man got right up into Matthew's face, said, "E'glish folla," and turned around to walk out. Matthew did exactly as he was told, having to pass by the large Indian woman who made a noise like spit sizzling in a frypan, which he presumed summed up her opinion of himself and his countrymen.
Outside, another mass of Indians waited for him, along with their animals. Shouts and what might only be termed catcalls started up, but were quickly stopped by his escort, who began to give them as much a tirade as the woman had delivered, and this one punctuated by slaps to his own chest and the pounding of his fist against his palm. Whatever was said, it was delivered with authority, for no sooner had the brave finished speaking did everyone turn away and go about their regular business as if Matthew had suddenly ceased to exist. "Folla, folla!" the brave told him, and motioned him on. Matthew went like a ghost through the village. He caught the eyes of a few children and young women examining him, and a brown dog ran up barking furiously until the brave hollered out and a small boy scurried over to clamp his hand over the dog's muzzle, but otherwise Matthew's progress was undisturbed.
It was a huge place, containing one longhouse after another. Matthew counted thirty-four of them, of varying sizes. He figured the largest few might each house a hundred Indians. Women were busy caring for infants and young children, and there were shed-like structures where men were working at such tasks as building birch-bark canoes, chopping wood, and sharpening knives and spearheads. In fact, the industry he saw around him-the weaving of baskets and blankets, the molding of clay pots and the scraping of animal skins stretched taut in wooden frames-and the sheer number of villagers made Matthew think this must be the tribe's New York. Toward the rear of the village, the back wall was open to reveal a large lake that might have been part of the Raritan river system, and alongside it a cornfield, an orchard on the hillside and other rows of vegetable fields. Truly, it was a world unto itself. "My friend," Matthew said to his escort, who walked briskly ahead. "The man who was hurt. Where is he?"
No answer was offered, therefore Matthew had to be satisfied with silence. At length they came to a smaller bark-covered dwelling set off by itself near what Matthew thought must be the village's eastern wall, and here the brave planted his palm in the air in a motion that Matthew took to mean stand still. A little knot of children who'd been following at a distance crept forward a few more yards and then also stood still, watching intently. The brave shouted something in his language toward the dwelling's doorway, which was covered with a deerskin. Smoke was rising from the hole on the roof, indicating that someone was home, but no one emerged. The brave picked up a long stick from the ground, edged forward close enough to pull the deerskin aside with the stick, and then repeated his shout, which sounded not unlike a rough command.