The Old American (22 page)

“Not a bad speech—for an Englishman,” says Caucus-Meteor. He smiles, and folds his arms the same way Nathan did to remind his slave where he picked up the gesture. “My health has returned. I no longer need a slave to tend to my every need. It's unbecoming of a sovereign to keep slaves. My wish is that Nathan Blake live with me as a …” He pauses long. Everyone is thinking that the old king is taunting them in the time-honored tradition of the orator, withholding the flourish that creates meaning, but actually Caucus-Meteor, for once in his life, is at a loss for words. Finally, he backs up in his speech and repeats. “My wish is that your slave be granted conditional citizenship; I request that he live with me as a provider of services, providing companionship and perhaps doing a few chores for an old man. You've been kind enough to lend him to me, though in truth he still belongs to you. Therefore, you, the people of Conissadawaga, must decide Nathan Blake's fate.”

Following some buzzing and milling about, the men and women separate and hold councils among themselves. An hour later the two groups convene.

Haggis steps into the circle. “The men voted that the slave, Nathan Blake, be adopted into the tribe as a provider of services.”

Katahdin comes forward. “The women voted that Nathan Blake should be tested further. We remember that he did not do well on the marksmanship test, nor on the running test. We know that Nathan Blake can work like a woman in the fields, and we know he can serve an old man as any wife or daughter might, but can he perform the duties of an American man?”

“What sort of tests?” Haggis addresses his wife not as a member of his family, but as a citizen of Conissadawaga.

“Manly tests. We want to know: Can he fight? Can he run? Can he do what a man can do?”

The last comment brings titters from the women.

After the people have gone on to other matters, Nathan asks Caucus-Meteor, “If I pass these tests will I be a free man?”

“By the standards you are used to in New England, yes; by the standards of an American already free, no.”

Nathan blinks in confusion and frustration. “That phrase you used in your speech, I haven't heard it before.”

“Provider of services.”

“Yes, what exactly does it mean?”

“There's a word for it in English, but it escapes me at the moment. If you pass the tests, I will continue to be your master, but your status otherwise in the community will be equal to any citizen's.”

“I will no longer be a slave—I will be a servant?”

“Yes, your position will improve to servant.” He pronounces “servant” with a French flourish. “Thank you for providing the word. Your service is appreciated.”

“And the women, what did they mean by manly tests, and laughing afterward …” Nathan abruptly stops talking.

Caucus-Meteor smiles. He can see that it has dawned on Nathan that if he passes the tests, a woman will come to his bed.

F
irst test—wrestling. The women come in from the fields to watch the matches. Nathan's opponent is Agawam, the son of Seekonk.

While they strip down for fighting, Caucus-Meteor advises his servant. “Agawam is very young, fluid in his movements—you are probably stronger, though. Do you have experience in wrestling?”

“More than you might expect from a farmer. When I was growing up in Massachusetts, young men wrestled for prizes and prestige, just as you do here. I see no torn ears, gouged eyes, dislocated fingers among the Conissadawaga men, so you are not as ferocious as some Englishmen I have fought.”

“You—a fighter, I can't believe it.”

“My father taught me to fight, but within restraints. He cautioned me about fighting for vengeance, which possesses the will; money, which violates a man's dignity; and about punching with the closed fist, an offense against one's livelihood. He told me more than once—aye, he told me everything more than once—‘God protects thy soul, thy wife thy heart, and thyself thy hands. A farmer can do his chores without soul or heart, but not without hands.' So you see, Caucus-Meteor, my upbringing allows me to fight with a savage's fury if not with a savage's heart.”

He is confident and obnoxious, thinks Caucus-Meteor. I admire him very much.

The atmosphere for the match is festive. Revelry is at the core of this society, thinks Caucus-Meteor; if we can't agree on anything else, we can agree to make music, sing, dance, be merry, or, in this case, cheer a contest. Agawam circles Nathan. He still thinks of Nathan as a slave, an Englishman who works with women, and as a result is careless in his attack. Nathan tosses him over his hip, and pins him. The match is over in two minutes.

This action elicits loud response from the women. They're urging Nathan on, not because they're against Agawam, but because they're hoping to add one more able-bodied man to the tribe. Caucus-Meteor feels the old urge to wager on the next match, but he holds back. It is impolitic for a king to wager with his subjects, and anyway he owns nothing worth betting, except for his turban, whose loss he would never risk.

The next opponent is a follower of Haggis, Nubanusit, a huge, good-humored rowdy fellow, at the moment drunk. Nubanusit offers Nathan a hand in mockery. “Don't confront this fellow,” Caucus-Meteor shouts in English. Perhaps Nathan's success against Agawam has overextended his self-assurance, and he takes the hand. This will be the end of him, thinks Caucus-Meteor. Nubanusit pulls Nathan to his knees and leaps upon him. But the big fellow is drunk, and Nathan is able to squirm free. After that Nathan lets Nubanusit lunge at him, but avoids grappling with him. The two men dodge and feint until finally Nubanusit loses both balance and breath, and Nathan is on him. A minute later, the match is over, Nubanusit lies helpless with Nathan's foot against his throat. Caucus-Meteor was wrong in his judgment. He's grateful for the feeling of humility. If only I were wrong more often, he thinks, I might be reduced in pride and ambition, and would be happier.

By now Nathan has attracted the attention of two women in particular, Wytopitlock and Parmachnenee. They cheer him, stamp their feet, call to him—“Nay-than, Nay-than, Nay-than!”

Nathan appears tired but excited. He bows. Now all the Americans cheer him.

Just when it looks like Nathan is going to be the man of the hour, Haggis steps forward. “I would like to try the champion,” he says softly. Caucus-Meteor recognizes an old hunt strategy that Haggis is using against Nathan: wear down your quarry and he will present himself for the kill. Two minutes later he has Nathan across his knee. Could break his back with a whisper. Nathan raises his hand, the surrender sign. Haggis pauses, releases him to rousing chants.

Afterward Nathan tells Caucus-Meteor, “If I wasn't tired, I would have defeated him.” Caucus-Meteor concludes otherwise, that from the way both men moved Haggis appeared just a little stronger, a little quicker, and far craftier. Caucus-Meteor smiles. He suspects that Nathan will always believe he could have beaten Haggis.

After the matches, Nathan and the American men drink brandy and boast. They tell stories of contests past, and exchange notions on how to defeat an opponent. Nathan teaches the Americans the New England “trip and twitch” method of separating an opponent from the perpendicular. The back and forth between Nathan and the village men is on an equal basis. Haggis makes an announcement. The next test will be foot racing, tomorrow, same time.

Caucus-Meteor withdraws. He doesn't mind the bragging and foolishness of the men. It's the drinking that disgusts him. And, too, it nettles him that the competition has been a great success for Haggis, who has demonstrated to his people that he is still the best fighter in the tribe.

Nathan doesn't return to the wigwam until very late. He's tired but sober, and a pleased expression on his face tells Caucus-Meteor all he needs to know.

“Whose wigwam did you visit?” he asks.

“Wytopitlock's and Parmachnenee's.”

“Your performance in the matches gave you powers to overcome your modesty,” Caucus-Meteor says. He's teasing Nathan at the same time that he's probing to determine whether goading will persuade Nathan to reveal his exploits with the women.

Nathan says nothing, and Caucus-Meteor thinks: good, you don't know it, but you have passed another test. Later that night Nathan rises from a troubled sleep, kneels, bows his head, whispers. When he returns to his stick bed, Caucus-Meteor calls to him from his fire. “Excuse me for asking a man about his prayers, but were you thanking your god for this sudden good fortune?”

“I was asking forgiveness for sinning with Wytopitlock and Parmachnenee,” Nathan says in a voice far too resonant for a penitent.

“These are not loose women looking only to pleasure themselves, Nathan Blake,” says the old American, falling into oratorical tones. “Their seduction of you is serious business. The village has a shortage of children and men. These women are among a particular kind of réfugié—the lost woman, the widow, the deserted woman, the outcast woman, the woman whose baby has died, the woman whose people have been wiped out by one disaster or another. Their serious business is to make babies and replenish their adopted tribe, and thus justify themselves. They would prefer a good American husband to Nathan Blake, but they'll take what they can get. After watching you all this year as a slave, noting how well you worked and without complaint, after hearing your speech, and after watching you wrestle, they've seen enough to convince them that you have the right qualities to give them good babies. Never mind that you belong to another nation, another complexion. They follow the old American adage: it's not the blood, it's the behavior that makes an American.”

Next day is race day. The villagers remember that last year Nathan's shoelace burst, slowing him down. At the time, that seemed like a bad omen, a sign that Nathan Blake was not worthy for adoption into the tribe. Now it's an element of uncertainty. Will the Ox-Man become known as the Deer-Man?

That's the big question. In fact, Passaconway, the former great runner for the tribe, predicts that Nathan will do well, though he won't win. He remembers that even hobbled by a bad bootlace Nathan showed ability.

Running has an added importance to the tribe, because its women produce special shoes for trained racers at trade fairs. But nobody locally, not even Haggis, would think of reserving these special shoes for himself.

The competitors will run down to the lake, touch the water, and race back, a round-trip distance of about five hundred strides.

“You look eager,” Caucus-Meteor says.

“Back home I was a darned good wrestler, but not the best. My pride is in running.”

Caucus-Meteor wonders now what is in Nathan Blake's head and heart. Is he anxious to prove himself? Does he want to humiliate his captors? Has the touch of American women made him confident and hungry for more? Surely, he should worry a little about his shoes. He's wearing a Frenchman's clothes, but he's shod in the leather boots that he was captured in. They're worn down, and though he has new laces, the shoes themselves might just split under the force of racing. Caucus-Meteor translates his own uncertainty as a sign that the gods have a stake in this race. I must be on the lookout for omens, he thinks.

Haggis is among the competitors. Caucus-Meteor can see that vanity is making him go against his instincts as a hunter. He's expected to win, so he has nothing to gain by racing. Haggis, you fool—you never give a quarry this kind of opportunity. You can't imagine Nathan defeating you and the best runners in the village. You can understand an Englishman pinning an American in a wrestling match, but in a footrace that requires explosive power, plus grace—not possible!

Nathan breaks out in front at the drop of the feather from the hand of old Passaconway. After fifty yards, Nathan begins to pull away, Haggis a good ten steps behind. The gathered are thinking that the Englishman will tire. Instead, Nathan lengthens his lead. By the time he reaches the water he's twenty steps ahead. He loses five steps at the lake because he doesn't have the correct technique for touching the water and making the turn, but that doesn't matter. He wins the race by fifty steps. Not only Caucus-Meteor, but everyone who witnessed the race knows that Nathan is the best runner in the village.

The old American cannot conceal his glee at Haggis's defeat. Surely, he is angry for putting himself in a position to be defeated. He's lost some prestige. Haggis, note how the women, even your beloved wives, are looking at Nathan Blake. You'd better kill this Englishman, before he proves to be more than just an annoyance, and emerges as a threat to your position in the community. Ah, but you can do nothing now, for the village needs good men, and if you don't sanction Nathan's entry into the tribe, the women will rebel. Haggis praises Nathan. Good hunter that he is, Haggis will bide his time until he can remove Nathan as a possible threat to his authority, but without injuring himself or the tribe.