The Return of the Indian (11 page)

“Good!”

Omri opened the door a crack and Little Bear slipped over the edge of the seed tray straight into the cupboard. Omri put his ear to the opening at the top to listen.

Little Bear began at once to harangue the British officer in his broken English. Omri heard the word “French” and the word “kill” but he couldn’t make out much more until the shrill bark of an English voice cut him short.

“Who do you think you are, giving orders to an officer of His Majesty’s 20th American Regiment, you filthy savage!”

There was a deathly silence. Then Little Bear shouted: “I no savage! I Iroquois chief! Iroquois fight at side of English soldier! English happy have Indian help, braves spill blood in English quarrel, now I ask help from English! Why redcoat give insult?”

There was a brief pause, and then the English voice said, with icy contempt: “Insolent bounder! Kill him, Smithers.”

Omri put his hand on the door to slam it shut, but another voice spoke.

“Is that wise, sir? After all, we have used them in the past.”

“Plenty more where he came from.”

“But if he’s a chief, sir—might lead to trouble—”

“Of course, Smithers, if you’re squeamish, I’ll do it myself!—Here! Come back, you blackguard—”

But it was too late. Little Bear had already slipped silently over the bottom rim of the cupboard and was throwing his weight against the door. Omri was very happy to assist him, and in short order the arrogant British redcoats were reduced to their plastic condition again.

Little Bear, his eyes slits of rage and every tooth in his head bared, gave Omri a look of reproach. Omri felt he was being blamed just because he was English too.

“Surely they’re not all like that,” he muttered.

“Some English no better than French” was all Little Bear had to say. “Braves fight alone.”

Just then, Patrick came crashing back through the rhododendrons. He had a tray in his hand, on which were two glasses of milk, two packets of salted peanuts and a couple of red apples. Also a paper bag containing the “now-soldiers.” Omri only hoped they might do some-thing to redeem the character of the British Army in the eyes of his Indian.

There was a pleasant interlude while they fed the Indians. They crushed some of the nuts between two more or
less clean stones and served the bits on platters made from the round leaves of a nasturtium. Patrick bit a piece off one of the apples and broke it up small, while Omri filled and refilled the toothpaste caps which were passed reverently from hand to hand along the rows of seated braves. Among them, they put away nearly half a glass of milk.

Boone, who had been peeping from behind the flap of the tepee, sent a private message with Bright Stars, suggesting a bit of “the hard stuff” should be added to the milk “to put fire in belly,” as Bright Stars solemnly explained. Boone evidently felt it would be no bad thing if these Indians did go a bit loco. But Omri and Patrick agreed that everyone ought to keep a clear head.

Then it was time to bring the modern soldiers to life again and see what could be done about guns.

After consultation with Little Bear, they began with a hulking Royal Marine corporal, kneeling behind his machine gun. He was the one who had sprayed Omri with bullets, so Omri had a sort of warped affection for him.

“We can’t risk Little Bear again,” said Omri. He had told Patrick what had happened with the eighteenth-century soldiers. “A modern soldier would probably be just as unbelieving about a Red Indian as he would about finding himself tiny.”

“We’ll just have to hope he can accept it, somehow. After all, he’s seen us once, the first shock’s over. Come on, no good putting it off.”

Patrick slipped the corporal into the cupboard.

“We’ll have to watch it. Last time I did this, they all just started shooting like mad the second the door opened.”

So they opened the door the merest crack at first, and Omri put his mouth to it and said, “Don’t shoot! We want to talk to you.”

A very ripe soldierly oath answered him, followed by: “… I’ve gorn off me trolley again!”

“Just don’t shoot. Okay?” And Omri slowly swung the cupboard door open.

The corporal had stood up. He gazed around. The machine gun gleamed in the sun, oiled and ready for action.

“Blimey, now I’m outdoors! What the ‘ell is goin’ on?”

Omri went into his spiel. “Of course it must seem
incredible, but the fact is, for the moment you’ve become small. You can tell your grandchildren about it … And it’s going to get even more interesting. What we want is for you to tell some friends of ours, who are your size, how to work your machine gun.”

“And ’oo are they planning to shoot wiv it, if it’s not a rude answer?”

“Well, you see—” But it was too complicated. Omri looked helplessly at Patrick.

“Who do you shoot with it?” Patrick cut in quickly.

The man gave a barking laugh. “The Queen’s enemies, and anyone else who looks sideways at the Royal Marines.”

“And are you an expert on guns—I mean all kinds?”

“You could say so. We’re trained to ’andle just about anything.
And
anybody.”

The boys gave each other a quick look. This suited them.

“Right,” said Patrick briskly. “Here’s your chance to prove it. I’m going to put you and your machine gun in front of a bunch of men. And you’re going to demonstrate how to use it. You’ll go through it once, and then let some of them try it. Only, be careful, we don’t want anybody hurt—this is only a training exercise.”

The corporal’s face had gone rigid and he stood at attention while Patrick spoke. Then he gave a smart salute.

“Sir!”

“What’s your name, Corporal?”

“Fickits, sir, Corporal Royal Marines Willy Fickits.”

“How much ammunition have you, Corporal?”

“Three ’undred rounds, sir.”

“Don’t waste any.”

“Sir!”

“Now, don’t be scared when I pick you up.”

The corporal’s adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed, but his face didn’t change.

“Sir!”

Patrick carried the man, stiff as a tiny pencil, between finger and thumb and set him down, still at attention, on the platform. At the sight of him there was a buzz of astonished interest among the Indians, most of whom leapt to their feet. The corporal allowed his eyes to rove briefly across the mass of half-naked redskins. His adam’s apple did a jig in his throat and his eyes popped. Then his rigid expression came back.

Meanwhile Omri had carefully lifted the machine gun out of the cupboard and set it beside him. The nearness of his weapon seemed to restore him.

“Begin, Corporal!” said Patrick, who found he rather liked giving orders he knew would be instandy obeyed.

“Right, men!” Fickits barked. “Pay attention! I am about to demonstrate the workings of this ’ere weapon, a marvel of military science. I will first break it dahn and put it back together—”

“Never mind that, Fickits,” interrupted Patrick. “Just show them how to shoot with it.”

The corporal instantly changed tack.

“I will first demonstrate the method of firing.” He dropped to one knee, aimed over the heads of the crowd, and fired off a short but noisy burst. Bullets whistled through the air and caused a flurry among the rhododendron leaves.

The Indians watched this impassively. They didn’t seem to grasp what had happened. But Little Bear leapt up beside Fickits and shouted something. He must have told them that each bang represented a bullet, or with luck a dead enemy. At that, the Indians jumped up and started yelling excitedly and pushing towards the platform. Almost at once a fight broke out among those wanting to be the first to try the gun. Corporal Fickits stared at the scrimmage in dismay.

“You’d better give these blighters some orders, sir!” he shouted at Patrick above the uproar. “Goin’ on like that, it won’t do, sir!”

“It’s your gun, Corporal!
You
give the orders!”

“Me
, sir? Ain’t there an officer about, sir? Or at least a sergeant!”

The scrimmage below was getting wilder. One burly Indian had already laid two others out cold and was scrambling up onto the platform.

“You’re in charge, Corporal! Go on, tell them to behave. They’ll listen to you!”

After a baffled moment, Fickits saw that the Indian had laid hands on his gun and was swinging the barrel wildly in all directions. This galvanised him into action.

“TAKE YER ’ANDS ORF THAT GUN!” he bellowed.

His voice was not that of a corporal, but of a regimental sergeant major. All at once the howling mob of Indians fell silent. Even Little Bear looked impressed. The Indian at the gun found himself hiked upright by his hair (all Fickits had to get hold of) and flung off the platform.

“Nah then, you bunch of ’orrible little men!” roared Fickits. “You touch this ’ere weapon when I says you will touch it, and NOT BEFOWER, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT? Or you will find yourselves wishin’ that your mothers ’ad never met your fathers, IS THAT CLEAR???”

There was a profound silence. Even the birds in the bushes seemed stunned.

“Wow,” breathed Patrick. “That’s telling them.”

Corporal Fickits proved a godsend. He knew a great deal about military hardware, not only machine guns. As fast as Omri put the soldiers into the cupboard, made their weapons real, removed them from their owners, and placed them on the matchbox platform, Fickits instructed his now-obedient students how to work them. Soon they had two field guns, ten hand grenades, three bazookas, two more machine guns, and a small pile of automatic rifles. The Indians appeared to like these best. When they discovered that they could actually run while firing them, it took all Corporal Fickits’ newfound authority to keep any kind of order, and even so it was a miracle that no one got hurt during the training. The boys set up stripped twigs and round pieces of trimmed bark as targets, but as there was a limited amount of ammunition, every Indian was given only five rounds to practice with.

Fickits was uneasy about the larger guns.

“Firing artillery, sir, ain’t something you do any old how. Any ’alfwit can blast off with the ’andguns, sir, or throw a grenade, but if you’ll take my advice you’ll leave the ordnance pieces out of it. You need a properly trained crew for artillery, sir. Not rabble like this lot, sir.”

“If that’s your advice, Corporal, we’ll follow it,” said Patrick.

Corporal Fickits’ expression did not change, but he
seemed to swell up inside his uniform like a miniature pouter pigeon.

“Thankysir!” he said, making it all one word.

Little Bear was getting impatient.

“Braves know shoot now-guns,” he said urgently.

“Time go back!”

Omri had been, he now realized, secretly dreading this moment. There was his Indian, not yet fully recovered, no matter what anyone said, about to be plunged into a life-or-death situation.

But he knew there was no way to avoid it. People had to do what they had to do. However, that didn’t mean Bright Stars had to go into danger.

“Can you leave Bright Stars here?” Omri asked.

“Yes,” said Little Bear. “Leave wife. Omri take care. Bring old white she-bear when time come for Little Bear son. But no let stab with claw in backside!”

Omri and the Indian looked at each other for a moment.

“Good luck,” said Omri.

“Need help from Great Spirits. Then fight well, win against French, Algonquin enemy.”

“Did the Algonquins help attack your village?”

“Algonquin lead. French follow. Now go back. Take vengeance.”

“I wish I could see it,” said Omri.

“And me,” added Patrick, who had overheard.

It took some time to assemble the now heavily armed Indian troop and prepare them to leave. Bright Stars
directed Omri to bring her some flowers, which she crushed in her hands, producing a colored pulp with which she smeared Little Bear’s face in streaks. Others were decorating themselves with mixtures of mud and some other colors they had had with them.

Every time a bird flew overhead they all looked up apprehensively. Omri thought they were afraid it might attack them (as indeed it might, had the boys not been there to guard them) but Little Bear, after one such overpass, said:

“Bad omen if shadow fall on braves before battle.”

The last Indians were leaving Bright Stars’ pool, smearing patterns of mud on their torsos. Omri looked at the now murky water in the coffee-jar lid. It had a reddish look where the sinking sun caught it. He turned away, glad that
he
didn’t believe in omens.

Corporal Fickits marched his troops into the cupboard and lined them up in two ranks in the bottom of it. The machine guns were lifted in. Fickits saluted Patrick. “Trainees drawn up and ready, sir!”

“Thanks, Corporal. You’ve done a good job.”

“Thankysir.”

“Now you’re going back where you came from, Fickits. Don’t forget how it feels to give orders. You’ll be a Sergeant in no time.”

Fickits permitted himself a grin. “Yessir. Thankysir.”

Omri told Little Bear to instruct his men each to put a hand on the Shoulder of the man beside or in front of
him, so the whole group was physically linked. “And they must all be linked to you, Little Bear, so you’ll take them back with you.”