Burlesques William Makepeace Thackeray

59
"The business of the Republic, sire, must take precedence even of your Majesty's wishes,"
replied Dr. Franklin. "When I was a poor printer's boy and ran errands, no lad could be
more punctual than poor Ben Franklin; but all other things must yield to the service of the
United States of North America. I have done. What would you, Sire?" and the intrepid
republican eyed the monarch with a serene and easy dignity, which made the descendant of
St. Louis feel ill at ease.
"I wished to—to say farewell to Tatua before his departure," said Louis XVI., looking
rather awkward. "Approach, Tatua." And the gigantic Indian strode up, and stood
undaunted before the first magistrate of the French nation: again the feeble monarch
quailed before the terrible simplicity of the glance of the denizen of the primaeval forests.
The redoubted chief of the Nose-ring Indians was decorated in his war-paint, and in his topknot
was a peacock's feather, which had been given him out of the head-dress of the
beautiful Princess of Lamballe. His nose, from which hung the ornament from which his
ferocious tribe took its designation, was painted a light-blue, a circle of green and orange
was drawn round each eye, while serpentine stripes of black, white, and vermilion
alternately were smeared on his forehead, and descended over his cheek-bones to his chin.
His manly chest was similarly tattooed and painted, and round his brawny neck and arms
hung innumerable bracelets and necklaces of human teeth, extracted (one only from each
skull) from the jaws of those who had fallen by the terrible tomahawk at his girdle. His
moccasins, and his blanket, which was draped on his arm and fell in picturesque folds to his
feet, were fringed with tufts of hair—the black, the gray, the auburn, the golden ringlet of
beauty, the red lock from the forehead of the Scottish or the Northern soldier, the snowy
tress of extreme old age, the flaxen down of infancy—all were there, dreadful
reminiscences of the chief's triumphs in war. The warrior leaned on his enormous rifle, and
faced the King.
"And it was with that carabine that you shot Wolfe in '57?" said Louis, eying the warrior
and his weapon. "'Tis a clumsy lock, and methinks I could mend it," he added mentally.
"The chief of the French pale-faces speaks truth," Tatua said. "Tatua was a boy when he
went first on the war-path with Montcalm."
"And shot a Wolfe at the first fire!" said the King.
"The English are braves, though their faces are white," replied the Indian. "Tatua shot the
raging Wolfe of the English; but the other wolves caused the foxes to go to earth." A smile
played round Dr. Franklin's lips, as he whittled his cane with more vigor than ever.