The Indian folded his hands across his breast, his eyes on the two men facing him. There was silence, but for the slight rustle of moving bodies in the darkness.
“Sequitah hears the voice of his friend,” he announced 377 at last, “and his words sound wise. The warriors of the Illini will fight beside the white men.”
There was no time lost although I know but little of what occurred, being left alone there while La Forest and De Artigny divided the men, and arranged the plans of advance. The dense night shrouded much of this hasty preparation, for all I could perceive were flitting figures, or the black shadow of warriors being grouped together. I could hear voices, never loud, giving swift orders, or calling to this or that individual through the gloom.
A party tramped by me, and disappeared, twenty or more naked warriors, headed by a black-bearded Frenchman, bearing a long rifle––the detachment, no doubt, dispatched to guard the slope east of the trail, and hurried forth to cover the greater distance. Yet these could have scarcely advanced far through that jungle when the others were also in line, waiting the word.
The very silence in which all this was accomplished, the noiseless bodies, the almost breathless attention, scarcely enabled me to realize the true meaning of it all. These men were going into battle, into a death grapple. They meant to attack five times their own number. This was no boy’s play; it was war, savage, relentless war. The stern horror of it seemed to suddenly grip me as with icy fingers. Here was what I 378 had read of, dreamed of, being enacted before my very eyes. I was even a part of it, for I was going with them to the field of blood.
Yet how different everything was from those former pictures of imagination. There was no noise, no excitement, no shrinking––just those silent, motionless men standing in the positions assigned them, the dim light gleaming on their naked bodies, their ready weapons. I heard the voices of the white men, speaking quietly, giving last instructions as they passed along the lines. Sequitah took his place, not two yards from me, standing like a statue, his face stern and emotionless.
It was like a dream, rather than a reality. I was conscious of no thrill, no sense of fear. It was as though I viewed a picture in which I had no personal interest. Out of the darkness came De Artigny, pausing an instant before the chief.
“All is well, Sequitah?”
“Good––’tis as the white chief wishes.”
“Then we move at once; La Forest will guide the rear; you and I will march together. Give your warriors the word.”