Emperor of Gondwanaland (14 page)

A voice I did not recognize said, “I was with Captains Henchman and Prentice as we marched from Boston to Dedham last year to succor the garrison there, and we were overtaken by an eclipse of the moon. We all saw then strange portents on the moon’s darkened face. A bloody scalp, an Indian bow. If the Tawnies can brand their evil upon Luna’s very brow, what chance have we against ’em?”

“Nerve yourself to greater confidence, soldier!” Kane demanded. “Have ye forgotten you ride with God on your side?”

Some Instinct caused me to slip out of the Saddle then, to free Kane for easier Maneuvering. And ’twas well I did. For, as the Clouds clustering overhead began to Rumble and Spit, discharging crackling Lightnings as well, we were attacked!

“Watch yourselves!” yelled Kane, before Anyone else had taken Cognizance of the Assault upon us.

An enormous dripping Tendril as of some Unknown Leviathan of the Deeps, sucker’d over and round as a Hogshead Barrell, Hoary with Barnicles and Seawrack, burst from the water, arc’d thro’ the air, and slapped down athwart the Deck, narrowly missing men and horses, who had scuttled away from its descent, thanks to Kane’s warning. Horses scream’d, men curst, and a volley of Shots crack’d the night. But mere Musketballs seemed to have no effect upon the Creature, and the Awe-some Limb rose skyward again for another Plunge.

Kane was unhorsed now, and standing full beneath the shadow of the Kraken’s Appendage. He flourished aloft his Cat-headed Stave, which Instrument commenced to Fulgurate in the manner I had earlier witnessed.

“Back to Hell with ye, demon! Back to the infernal depths!”

Pride in Kane’s Staunch Demeanor and Apprehension that he would not Prevail against this Monster warred in my Juvenile Breast. Then all was decided, as a Lance of Cold Flame jabbed outward from Stave to Tendril. A smell as of one of our traditional Clam Bakes multiplied an hundredfold filled the air, the Monst’rous Limb flailed about in obvious Pain before sliding away beneath the Turbid Waters, and silence descended upon the scene. At the same time the Unnatural Clouds began to Dissipate, and the Stars once more Smiled down on us.

Recovering with Admirable Alacrity, Major Pynchon soon had the Rowers back at work and order restored. In some further minutes the mainland beckoned us from no large distance. I came up to Kane, and was instantly heartened by his Praise.

“You did well to give me my liberty at the crucial moment, lad, and you did not quail before the hideous unknown. I do not believe anyone will raise any objections to your continued presence tonight.”

“Thank you, Sir. I was inspired by your own noble bearing.”

Kane returned me no Smile, but simply said, “If I exhibit no fear, young Cotton, it is only because all such emotions have been burnt from me by unfathomable hardships and privations. Anyone witnessing the horrors I have seen—assuming those hypothetical witnesses survived—would exhibit the same stoicism. I have no choice any longer in what I do, and this paucity of options represents a missing civilized luxury the lack of which I sometimes sorely regret. But such is my lot, and I am mainly content.”

Leaving me to ponder this Chill Assessment of his Own Damaged Soul, Kane moved off to help with the docking. Soon we were on dry land.

Two Worthy and Vigorous men now separated themselves from the Mass of welcomers, introducing themselves as Captain Church of Plymouth and Captain Williams of Scituate. They delivered an Account of their forces, which included a Contingent of Praying Indians. These Friendly Salvages stood in a Cabal a ways off from us White Men, and I instantly mistrusted their Obsequious yet oddly Threatening Mien. In their adopted Civilized Garb, the Uppish barbarians seemed both Traitors to their own Race and Unreliant Allies, neither Fish nor Fowle, a Pack of Trained Apes or Dancing Bears.

“Mr. Kane,” said Williams, “thanks to your veritable intelligence, we have been able to encircle the bog and ensure that Philip and any of his remaining myrmidons remain cloistered within. We await your subsequent direction.”

Kane uttered then the chilling Words we had all been anticipating, but which nonetheless still Pricked our Courage. “There is naught for it but to enter the horse-repelling swamp afoot, in pairs. The separation of our forces will allow us to beat every bush most thoroughly. But the treacherous conditions underfoot, which the Indians know intimately, will confound and undo many of the teams. We can only pray that whoever of us meets Metacomet will be up to subduing him. Let us but agree to raise a commotion upon sighting our prize, and I will immediately hasten to aid whichever brave Ajax first grapples with the villain.”

“Shall we wait until daybreak?” asked Captain Church.

“By no means. As soon as the rest of our party is ferried o’er, we strike.”

Father arrived with the third Boatload of men, and I shall not recount the Bitter Upbraidings I thereupon received. I made humble yet cogent Response, employing all the finer Logic with which my mentors at Harvard had imbued me, citing the duty of every citizen, however Juvenile, to protect our Commonwealth. When mere Females could exhibit such Courage as to ward off their Vile Attackers with a scuttle of live Coals, could a strapping Youth such as myself do any less? Suffice it to say that not only did my words soothe and convince, but Kane’s account of my Behavior under the Kraken’s Buffets earned me Grudging Praise (once Father’s Apoplexy abated), and also at last the Miraculous Privilege of Penetrating the Very Marsh itself, and in no other role than that of Patroclus to Kane’s Achilles, to continue Kane’s Grecian Simile.

In the end, Father seemed actually Prideful of my new Station in the Scheme of Things. He laid a hand on Kane’s shoulder, signaling his assent to my new status, and earnestly bade the Puritan keep me safe by his Side, asserting that no other Warrior could offer his Cherished Son more Protection than Kane. Kane returned a simple, “That I will endeavor to do,” and then we moved out.

The hour was now nearly Three in the Morning, and already hints of Aurora’s debut were discernible. We welcomed even this negligible Lessening of darkness as an Aid to our Progress.

I carried no Weapon, but my Utility amidst the Thickets soon became apparent. Being Lighter and some’at more Nimble than my Protector, I served as Scout, probing ahead with a long stout Stick and testing the Hummocks and Tussocks that would serve us as Stepping Stones into the Depths of the Bog. This Service freed Kane to concentrate his Hunter’s Senses on both repelling any Attack and Ferreting out any Hidden Salvages.

Not wishing to advertize our Presence too far in advance, we carried no Light, nor did any of the other Teams. Moving thro’ the Sepulchral Gloom and Heat, with its Squelching Muck, Slithering Serpents, Apparitional Trees, and Hordes of Disturbed Insects, some of which made known their Appetite for Human Flesh, I felt like Dante Essaying some Lesser Circle of Hell, with Kane my Militant Virgil.

Now passed an Indeterminate Period of Time, an interval wherein my Sensible Universe narrowed to my own harsh Slogging, labored Breathing, and tensioned Nerves. However, I drew Courage and Stamina from Kane’s unfaltering Harrowing of our Swampy Environs. Rapier in one hand and Pistol in t’other, he stalked behind me like an Avenging Angel in Judges or Zechariah, and I felt utterly safe within his Sphere of Protection.

Every now and then a distant Shot would resound, and I would pray that one less Salvage befouled the Earth, and also that our own men Fared Unharmed. But as time passed and no Hulloo summoned us to confront the Chief Object of our Search, I began to despair that our Fiendish Quarry would escape us once again.

In our unyielding Progress, Kane and I reached finally a largish expanse of solid ground, a little Islet sequester’d in the heart of the Swamp. Its O’ergrown Marge concealed its Interior from our eyes, and we penetrated cautiously.

But all our Deft Secrecy availed naught, for King Philip awaited us in full Cognizance of our advance, standing with Solemn Gravity upon a patch of clear Ground.

A grey Dawn now nearly nigh allowed me a good picture of the Formidable Warrior. Tall as Kane, the fearsome Metacomet wore his pursuit-tatter’d buckskins and robe as if they were Ermine or Sable. His painted face, all majestic angles, seemed hewn from our own New England granite or a block of lignum vitae. Strands of Wampom bedizened his brawny chest, across which he confidently cradled his Musket, Indian fashion. A Rude Tom-a-Hawk, its Shaft carven with Pagan Glyphs, Feathers depending from its Butt, hung from his waist.

Ignoring me utterly, Philip spoke first, his Manly voice resonant with Suppressed Rage, Black Despair, and a most curious Forlorn Indifference to his own Fate. Of Fear I heard no syllable, but yet much of Intelligence and Refinement. Let me confess now that, by the end of his Speech, I had gained new Respect for our Opponent.

“What cheer, fellow Mage. After our spirit battle, we come face to face at last. Your reputation for independence and courage has reached me across the wide waters, yet I find you now entered into the service of these small men, who are all too timid and inept to confront me themselves. I see a proud lion yoked to a plough.”

Kane responded soberly. “The choice of mission is my own, Metacomet. No man commands me. As ever, I respond to the sheer injustice of the situation.”

King Philip spat upon the soggy soil. “Injustice! Where were you then when my people were enslaved and humiliated, when they were taken and imprisoned under false charges, when my brothers were executed and my sisters molested, when our lands were stolen from us? Is it only the sufferings of white men that can elicit your outrage?”

Kane seemed Stung by this Jab. “I have fought on behalf of all races and tribes, Metacomet, the sons of Ham as well as the sons of Shem. But by the time I learned of this war, your side was clearly in the wrong, having overstepped all bounds of civilized combat. Enlisting wicked allies, you turned your back on all courts and treaties—”

Philip’s face contorted with anger. “Instruments of the conquerors, prejudiced against our kind from the start! And I piss on your ridiculous rules of war! Only victory matters.”

Seemingly reconciled to the Futility of any further Argument, Kane assumed a more Agressive Footing. “Let us have at it then, King. Each cause will find embodiment in its champion, and victory will go to him who strikes hardest. And should it be within my powers to subdue you without dealing a mortal blow, I am pledged to do so, having given troth to your netop, Roger Williams.”

“You must do what you deem honorable, as shall I. But I pray you, let us abandon our firearms, and allow our human muscles to hold sway.”

King Philip nobly suited Deeds to Words then, and tossed aside his musket. Kane followed suit with his brace of Pistols and also his Papier. Into his hand came the Cat-Headed Stave, its weird Radiance now matched by the cousin’d Glow from the Tom-a-Hawk.

Then Kane and Philip closed upon one another.

I watched Enrapt as the well-matched Fighters circled each other warily. But I was not prepared for what eventuated when their Weapons clashed.

An enormous Report like a barrage of Thunder issued from the smash of Fetiche against Hatchet. Jags of harsh Lightning shot skyward, illuminating the Scene as brightly as Noon. Neither man seemed disconcerted by the titanic Repercussions of their Contest, but, quite to the contrary, became e’en more fully Embroil’d in a Fantastic Dance of Death, darting around and about, each seeking a way thro’ t’other’s Defenses.

Once more my Heart was Socketed firmly in my Windpipe, as I observed my Worshipful Idol strive so Manfully, amidst the St. Elmo’s Coruscations. From the Fringes, I watched this Eldritch Display with mute Fascination, unable to assign Dominance to either Combatant. But this much I knew: the Contest would not long go uninterrupted, for surely every Interested Participant within Leagues must be hastening to this very spot, drawn by the Tumult. If Kane would indeed settle Philip’s Hash, it must be soon.

But then came Tragedy! Forced backwards, Kane stumbled upon a Root, and momentarily lost his Vigilance. Into that narrow crack of Inattention Metacomet plunged! A blow from his Tom-a-Hawk was only partially deflected before coming into Heavy Contact with Kane’s Scull!

Now Kane measured his lanky Length upon the clammy Ground, Stunned and Bleeding. A Yawp of Sympathy and Alarm escaped my own Lips. My Beloved Conqueror had been felled, and All was Lost lest I could save him! I estimated how quickly I could reach one of Kane’s discarded Pistols, but before I could move, Metacomet bestrode my prostrate Hero like the Colossus of Rhodes and raised his evil Axe.

“I took no such pledge of mercy as thee, Kane. Prepare to meet thy false God.”

At that instant a Shot rang out, and King Philip plunged Rearward to the ground.

Into the clearing stepped one of the Praying Indians, named most inaptly, as I later learned, Alderman. He it was whose Cowardly Shot had ignobly finished the Great Sagamore, once the Bane of our Land, piercing the Body of the proud Leader precisely where “Joab thrust his darts into rebellious Absalom.”

I rushed to Kane’s side, seeking to Succor him. But his Wound was Gouting much blood, and he remained Insensate. There was little enough I could do, save cushion his Head and stroke his Gory Brow.

Within minutes, the Islet was crowded with exultant Soldiers. Somehow, between ’em all, both Kane and the corpse of Philip were Borne out of the Marsh.

Patient Reader, there is little enough more to indite in this Account anent the most Stirring Moments of my Young Life, now so far removed from my current Feeble Estate.