Nauhaught, The Deacon

Nauhaught, the Indian deacon, who of old     Dwelt, poor but blameless, where his narrowing Cape     Stretches its shrunk arm out to all the winds     And the relentless smiting of the waves,     Awoke one morning from a pleasant dream     Of a good angel dropping in his hand     A fair, broad gold-piece, in the name of God.     He rose and went forth with the early day     Far inland, where the voices of the waves     Mellowed and Mingled with the whispering leaves,     As, through the tangle of the low, thick woods,     He searched his traps. Therein nor beast nor bird     He found; though meanwhile in the reedy pools     The otter plashed, and underneath the pines     The partridge drummed: and as his thoughts went back     To the sick wife and little child at home,     What marvel that the poor man felt his faith     Too weak to bear its burden, like a rope     That, strand by strand uncoiling, breaks above     The hand that grasps it. "Even now, O Lord!     Send me," he prayed, "the angel of my dream!     Nauhaught is very poor; he cannot wait."     Even as he spake he heard at his bare feet     A low, metallic clink, and, looking down,     He saw a dainty purse with disks of gold     Crowding its silken net. Awhile he held     The treasure up before his eyes, alone     With his great need, feeling the wondrous coins     Slide through his eager fingers, one by one.     So then the dream was true. The angel brought     One broad piece only; should he take all these?     Who would be wiser, in the blind, dumb woods?     The loser, doubtless rich, would scarcely miss     This dropped crumb from a table always full.     Still, while he mused, he seemed to hear the cry     Of a starved child; the sick face of his wife     Tempted him. Heart and flesh in fierce revolt     Urged the wild license of his savage youth     Against his later scruples. Bitter toil,     Prayer, fasting, dread of blame, and pitiless eyes     To watch his halting, had he lost for these     The freedom of the woods; the hunting-grounds     Of happy spirits for a walled-in heaven     Of everlasting psalms? One healed the sick     Very far off thousands of moons ago     Had he not prayed him night and day to come     And cure his bed-bound wife? Was there a hell?     Were all his fathers' people writhing there     Like the poor shell-fish set to boil alive     Forever, dying never? If he kept     This gold, so needed, would the dreadful God     Torment him like a Mohawk's captive stuck     With slow-consuming splinters? Would the saints     And the white angels dance and laugh to see him     Burn like a pitch-pine torch? His Christian garb     Seemed falling from him; with the fear and shame     Of Adam naked at the cool of day,     He gazed around. A black snake lay in coil     On the hot sand, a crow with sidelong eye     Watched from a dead bough. All his Indian lore     Of evil blending with a convert's faith     In the supernal terrors of the Book,     He saw the Tempter in the coiling snake     And ominous, black-winged bird; and all the while     The low rebuking of the distant waves     Stole in upon him like the voice of God     Among the trees of Eden. Girding up     His soul's loins with a resolute hand, he thrust     The base thought from him: "Nauhaught, be a man     Starve, if need be; but, while you live, look out     From honest eyes on all men, unashamed.     God help me! I am deacon of the church,     A baptized, praying Indian! Should I do     This secret meanness, even the barken knots     Of the old trees would turn to eyes to see it,     The birds would tell of it, and all the leaves     Whisper above me: 'Nauhaught is a thief!'     The sun would know it, and the stars that hide     Behind his light would watch me, and at night     Follow me with their sharp, accusing eyes.     Yea, thou, God, seest me!" Then Nauhaught drew     Closer his belt of leather, dulling thus     The pain of hunger, and walked bravely back     To the brown fishing-hamlet by the sea;     And, pausing at the inn-door, cheerily asked     "Who hath lost aught to-day?"     "I," said a voice;     "Ten golden pieces, in a silken purse,     My daughter's handiwork." He looked, and to     One stood before him in a coat of frieze,     And the glazed bat of a seafaring man,     Shrewd-faced, broad-shouldered, with no trace of wings.     Marvelling, he dropped within the stranger's hand     The silken web, and turned to go his way.     But the man said: "A tithe at least is yours;     Take it in God's name as an honest man."     And as the deacon's dusky fingers closed     Over the golden gift, "Yea, in God's name     I take it, with a poor man's thanks," he said.     So down the street that, like a river of sand,     Ran, white in sunshine, to the summer sea,     He sought his home singing and praising God;     And when his neighbors in their careless way     Spoke of the owner of the silken purse     A Wellfleet skipper, known in every port     That the Cape opens in its sandy wall     He answered, with a wise smile, to himself     "I saw the angel where they see a man.