Free The Old American by Ernest Hebert Page A

haughtiness or English arrogance or American defiance, without the rancor of nation versus nation, a man. Exemplary behavior. Now the captive adopts the unusual tactic of walking the gauntlet, as if to say, “We are here together.” In olden days, when defiance was so admired, Nathan Blake’s behavior might not have saved him, but these days the folks on the line see in him an emblem of the Christianity they’ve embraced. Caucus-Meteor chuckles to himself, thinks these people must be unnerved. He wishes he could predict the outcome. Will they crown this man with thorns or laurel?
    He’s surprised when Bleached Bones settles the wager between them.
    â€œBut he’s not through the gauntlet yet,” says Caucus-Meteor.
    â€œI’ve seen enough—he will walk to the end of it without harm. These Iroquois might be Christian by baptism and inclination, but they’re pagan by ancestry and habit. The old gods rise up in them from time to time. They secretly suspect that your slave is a sorcerer. They may be right. You watch out, Caucus-Meteor, else your man visit upon you a plague you cannot now imagine.”
    Caucus-Meteor stares into the eyes of his once and future adversary and companion. He sees a happy glint.
    â€œYou’ve lost your bet, and you are still a man. I admire you, Bleached Bones.”
    â€œI am a man falling off a cliff contemplating the rush of air in his throat while the ground flies up to impale him. It is not so bad to feel what you can before you die.” Bleached Bones tweaks the bone in his nose, turns his back, walks away.
    Nathan Blake, you kept your head up, you talked respectfully, but respect is not how you’ll be known in the stories told; you’ll be known as the man who walked the gauntlet. Nathan Blake, you will be the last to appreciate your accomplishment.
    Nathan has minor cuts, bruises, and bumps. His most serious injury is a bloody nose. Caucus-Meteor throws Nathan’s head back, puts pressure on his forehead and neck, and the bleeding stops. The old American conducts a brief examination, pronounces his patient fit, gives him a blanket. “Remain quiet, Nathan Blake, until your stomach tells you it is all right to stand,” Caucus-Meteor says. “Then you may dress and resume normal activities.”
    Nathan throws the blanket over his shoulders, sits on a log, shivers. He’s banged up, weary, a little nauseous, but calm.
    â€œWe will stay the night here in Kahnawake with my cousin, Omer Laurent,” Caucus-Meteor says. “Omer and his wife live by the European custom of ambition, hard work, chicanery, prayer, and luck. Tomorrow we will start for Conissadawaga.”
    The Squakheag brothers decide to paddle home to Odanak under the stars. They don’t bother to tell their commanding officer. By French law, they’re deserters, but as a practical matter the military service is over and the mercenaries will return to their villages whether their commander wishes them to or not. Meanwhile, in Kahnawake, a big celebration rages all night. Caucus-Meteor and his slave, Nathan Blake, watch from the darkness just outside the fire glow. Sam Allen stands naked beside a huge pot of water bubbling over irons straddling a fire. Most of the village has turned out for this event. The Mohawk men and, worse, the women, make fun of Sam’s scrawny body.
    â€œThey going to kill him?” says Nathan, his jaw tight, his eyes feigning slight interest. He’s more upset about this than he was about his own safety.
    â€œWatch, Nathan Blake—you will discover something you never encountered in New England.”
    The younger woman standing beside young Allen pinches her nose; the older woman and the rest of the Mohawks laugh.
    â€œWhat deviltry is this?” says Nathan.
    â€œNo deviltry; you look too deeply. All they’re saying is the obvious. The boy stinks.”
    The two women wash Sam Allen from head to foot.