ELKSWATAWA;
OR,
THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.
A TALE OF THE FRONTIER.
“A noble race! but they are gone,
With their old forests wide and deep,
And we have built our homes upon
Fields where their generations sleep.”
BRYANT.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS,
NO. 82 CLIFF STREET.
1836.
[Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.]
CONTENTS.
TO WILLIAM H. M'FARLAND, ESQ.
DEAR SIR,
By inscribing to you these volumes,—in which I have endeavoured to enlarge upon an interesting portion of our National History, and to set forth in a connected view, the main incidents in the lives of two of the most celebrated Aborigines of our continent,—I offer a tribute not less agreeable to myself, than due to your personal worth.
To an accomplished scholar like yourself, this work may appear crude and defective; if so, let the intentions of the writer compensate for the faults of his production. The recollection of the many kind offices received at your hands, and of your amiable and dignified character, renders it a pleasure to dedicate to you this first attempt to describe events, which may hereafter be pourtrayed by an abler pen.
With my best wishes for your prosperity and welfare,
Believe me, Sir,
Yours, truly,
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
During the intervals of leisure in a profession which has hitherto employed but a small portion of my time, I traced out for my own amusement the following story. It having fallen to my lot to reside for some time in the western part of the Union, and to have visited personally many of the Indian tribes along the frontier, I was naturally led to observe with much attention, their customs and habits of life. The more I saw of their peculiarities and traits of character, the more I found my feelings aroused, and my sympathies enlisted in their behalf; and from the contemplation of what they now are, I was carried back, by a natural train of thought, to reflect upon what they once had been. The names and deeds of those celebrated individuals, who have from time to time, arisen among them, and with a foresight and patriotism worthy of happier results, endeavoured to regain for the red man his original power and possessions, became familiar to me as household words, and I felt myself able to appreciate more justly the talents and policy of those unfortunate champions of Indian liberty, whose conduct and characters, owing to the animosity excited in the minds of the frontier settlers by a series of harassing hostilities, have been generally misrepresented, and painted by the hand of prejudice, in the darkest and most odious colours. One of the effects of the sojourn above referred to, was the entire removal of many unfounded causes of dislike, and false impressions, which had their origin in these and similar sources, and the conviction that were the Indian, like the lion in the fable, to draw the picture himself of the contest which has with but few intermissions, been carried on between the whites and the aborigines, since the period of the earliest settlements, we should behold many startling and indisputable facts, many unprovoked aggressions, and many sins unatoned for on the part of our countrymen, amply sufficient to turn the milk of human kindness into the bitterest gall, and kindle the most unextinguishable hate in the breasts of the most civilized people.
To these many apologetic circumstances, tending to excuse their natural animosity toward the whites, was added in my mind an admiration of those peculiar traits of character which they possess in common with no nation of modern times, but in which they approach nearly the Greeks and Romans in their best estate, before luxury had paved the way for despotism, and licentiousness had fused down all individuality and national differences into one common mass of dulness and depravity. The short, pointed, and antithetical sayings of many an Indian chieftain, partake of the old Laconic character, and the discipline both of mind and body, common among the tribes, is equally severe with that inculcated by the Legislator of Sparta, in her palmiest days. The answer of Tecumseh to Gen. Harrison, when offered a seat by him at the council, will compare with any reply in ancient or modern history; and the apophthegms of King Philip, recorded in the annals of the times, are marked with the same spirit of moral fearlessness and independence.
But the Indian, like his more civilized neighbour, however much he may strive for effect, and put on his best mental attire upon occasions which call for such preparation, has an every day manner, so to term it, or a style of familiar conversation, when not labouring under any particular excitement, which differs but little from that of the rest of the world, and offers a striking contrast to his more exalted moods, when art and passion combine to swell the stream of his eloquence. Indeed, as in the well known lines of Horace:
“Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque,
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba,”
so the Indian, unless warmed by the expectant gaze of the multitude, or influenced by the most violent passions, confines himself to the more homely and necessary common places of the language. I have travelled among them, hunted with them, conversed with them, and watched them when employed in domestic avocations, and never, as far as my personal experience enabled me to judge, did I hear any expressions more highly wrought or figurative, than such as would be used in ordinary conversation among ourselves. Impressed with this fact, I have accordingly, in many instances, represented the Indians as conversing without much of that mannerism which has by almost common consent, been held to characterise their speech, while at other times, when the place seemed to demand it, I have given the most figurative and antithetical turn to their language; and in so doing, I have rather deferred to the commonly received opinion, than acted in accordance with my own judgment. This course may be contrary to the notions entertained by many; but conceiving it, for the reasons above stated, to be a correct one, I leave my Indians to vary their modes of expression according to the circumstances in which they are placed.
The above remarks will apply with equal propriety to the language of the Kentucky hunter, described in the following pages. He uses slang as a matter of habit, when speaking of certain things, but this does not prevent him from being more choice of his words when the subject requires it. It may be observed, in this connexion, that although a great proportion of our western population may often, partly from fancy and partly from carelessness, interlard their language with strange and far-fetched expressions, they nevertheless can be, and are, when occasion demands it, as select of their phrases, and as simple in their arrangement as any class of persons on our continent. In fact, the many burlesques of western manners, which have given so much amusement to our eastern and transatlantic brethren, were as much of a novelty to the supposed actors in them, upon their first appearance, as to their neighbours in the adjoining states.
The main incidents detailed in this work are strictly historical, and drawn from authentic sources. So great, indeed, is that portion devoted to the narrative of well known events, that the author has his fears, lest by their too frequent occurrence, the purely fictitious part may be weakened, and the whole assume a dry and uninteresting appearance. But when he reflects upon the nature of his materials, and the striking incidents in the history of the Prophet, which make truth appear stranger than the wildest fiction, he is inclined to think that the reader will wish he had curbed his fancy still more, and detailed yet more at length, the actual occurrences of that interesting period. The speeches attributed to Tecumseh and his brother, as well as those of Gen. Harrison, are extracted verbatim from the records of the times, since nothing which the writer could himself compose would approach them in native eloquence and felicity of expression. Much as they must suffer in the translation from the Indian tongue, there still remains sufficient of the sacred fire, the “divinus afflatus,” to show the character of their eloquence, and vindicate for their author the title of Prince of Indian orators as well as of warriors.
Feeling it a duty due myself, to assign the reasons why I had ventured to set forth opinions counter to the generally received impressions of Indian and western character, I have been led to express myself more at length than I intended. With this as my apology, I subscribe myself,
THE AUTHOR.
Jerusalem, Southampton Co. Va.
January 27, 1836.
ELKSWATAWA;
OR,
THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.
CHAPTER I.
“And many a gloomy tale tradition yet
Saves from oblivion of their struggles vain,
Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet,
To people scenes, where still their names remain.”
SANDS.
The 20th of August, 1794, was the commencement of an era, ever to be remembered in the annals of the West; for it marks the close of those sanguinary battles which had so long desolated our northwestern frontier with all the horrors of savage warfare.
Previous to this date, the Indians, emboldened by repeated successes, and instigated by hireling agents, had swept like a tornado along the whole range of our western settlements, marking their route with the direst destruction. But it was not in predatory excursions alone that their power had been felt; they had been victorious in several regular engagements. Led on by the most noted chieftains of their tribes, they had defeated Generals Harmar and St. Clair, nearly annihilating the army of the latter, and creating so great a sensation throughout the land, that it caused the Father of his country, like Augustus when he heard of the destruction of Varus and his legions, to weep for the men he had trained to arms, and pass a sleepless night, pacing his apartment, and repeating aloud, “St. Clair! St. Clair! restore me my troops!”
This calamity, however, aroused the nation from its apathy; and the appointment of General Wayne to the command of the western army induced the country to anticipate the happiest results. No man was more popular, and no selection could have inspired more confidence. Bold, daring, indefatigable, and skilled in habits of Indian warfare, he was withal so reckless of life, that he received, and ever after bore in the West, the appellation of “Mad Anthony.” We should exceed the limits which we have here assigned ourselves, were we to trace minutely the progress of events from the time of his appointment to the period with which we commence; nearly a year had elapsed, and nothing definite had been accomplished, when, on the 8th of August, 1794, we find him encamped at the confluence of the Au-Glaize and Maumee Rivers, having under his command more than three thousand men, most of whom were regulars. The Indians, comprising the tribes of the Miamies, Pottawatamies, Delawares, Shawanees, Chippewas, Ottawas, and Senecas, amounting in all to about two thousand, were commanded by Little Turtle, chief of the Miamies, and the most noted warrior of his day; Blue Jacket, chief of the Shawanees; and Buckongahelas, chief of the Delawares.
The morning of the 20th found the Indians advantageously posted in the forest of Presque Isle, awaiting the advance of General Wayne. With his army divided into two columns, he moved on to the attack; the action became general about 10 o'clock, and for sometime was maintained with the greatest obstinacy. A movement on the part of the American General to out-flank their right wing, threw them into disorder, and wanting unanimity among themselves, for dissensions had already crept into their ranks, a flight ensued, and victory declared in favour of the Americans. The loss on either side was not great, yet the victory was complete, and attended with more important consequences than any battle which had ever been fought in the “far west.” The Indians were dispersed, and their property destroyed, and being no longer able to contend with any hope of success, many chiefs sent in their submission. Hostilities were now suspended, and in the following year Commissioners were appointed on the part of the United States for the purpose of concluding a general peace.
Greenville, in Ohio, was appointed for the conference, and thither in August, 1795, repaired the Commissioners, together with the chiefs of all the northwestern tribes, accompanied by crowds of red men. Never had a more imposing council been held in the “far west.” Of the Representatives who were present, each one was conspicuous in the tribe to which he belonged, all were famed as warriors, and noted for the part they had acted in the deadly struggle which they had so long, and so hopelessly been waging.
The crowd which had assembled, both of red men and whites, gave it somewhat the appearance of a jubilee, but, on the part of the Indians, it was a sad occasion which had called them together. They had long been contending for wild lands, and still wilder liberty, with a perseverance and determined zeal which won the admiration even of their enemies. There was nothing selfish, or ambitious in their purpose; they fought to retain that which the God of nature had given them, and thousands had fallen and died satisfied, that they fell in defence of their hunting grounds, and in preserving sacred the graves of their fathers. They yielded to the superiority which a civilized has over a savage foe, and they yielded, when their tribes were so thinned of warriors that but few were left to battle in their country's cause.
After so fruitless and protracted a struggle, it might truly be deemed a sad occasion which had called them together, to transfer for ever, those lands, for the possession of which they had so long contended. But they were now forced to sue for peace, and the cession of a large portion of their territory was the sole condition upon which it was to be obtained—the powerful dictating to the powerless—and we may well conceive the reluctance with which they acceded to the demand, when we reflect, that the tract of country then surrendered, now comprises several of the most flourishing states in the Union. The terms, however, after a long and ineffectual opposition, were accepted, and the treaty being ratified, each party pledged itself to preserve the peace concluded. The Indians then expressed themselves contented with its provisions, and the council adjourned. Peace being now restored, all seemed anxious to preserve it, and Indians and whites mingling promiscuously together, forgot at once former differences, in expressions of mutual courtesy and friendship.
With this state of things came a change in the affairs of the West. The instruments of war were exchanged for the implements of agriculture, and crowds of emigrants were found flocking to that lovely region of country, where but a short time before, marched regiments of fearless and intrepid soldiery, or where, in lawless bands, with vengeance dire, there roamed the savage wild. Beautiful and bright was the prospect now, as when a cloud which has for some time shrouded the horizon in gloom, carrying terror and dismay to the breasts of all, spends its force, and suddenly breaking away, leaves the glad sun dancing upon the earth. So was it here. Gloom and darkness had hung over the land—the midnight torch, and merciless scalping-knife were the visions of the past, and the future now shone forth so clear and inviting that it promised to realize even the wildest dreams of the imagination.
Looking through the vista of futurity, it required no seer to foretell, that the Valley of the Mississippi, which, from its physical appearance, may well be regarded as the cradle of our continent, was soon destined to become the chosen home of the exile from every clime, and to contain a population, brave, hardy, and industrious; not one to whom ignoble thoughts were boon companions, but a people elevated in sentiment by the immunities received under a Republican government, and stimulated to acts of noble daring and enterprise, by the reflection, that their fortunes were cast in a land where nature had been more lavish of her bounties, than in any other part of the world—yes, in a region of country, bounded on the north by lakes, in which, so vast is their extent, all the vessels, that in every part of the world now plough the briny deep, might be placed, and still hold their onward course—in a region of country, where rivers run by almost every door, and throughout the whole of which flows one great stream, the grand receptacle of a thousand tributaries—a wonder within itself—the great aorta of our continent, which courses every clime, from the far frozen regions of the North, to warm and sunny lands, “where the orange and citron are fairest of fruit,” and flowers burst into beauty, regardless of the seasons of the year.
Indeed it required no seer to tell, that here, in a few years, cities would spring up as if called into existence by the wand of the magician, that those streams, over which now skimmed the light canoe, would soon be covered with boats, bearing to other markets the surplus produce of a mighty people.—These were the expectations which filled the minds of all, when peace spread her wings over the wilds of the West, and when with them were connected the descriptions of hardy adventurers, who not only pourtrayed it as possessing all the advantages here depicted, but likewise painted its beauties in such glowing colours, that reason was merged in visions of fancy, thousands of our enterprising citizens tore themselves from their comfortable homes in our older states to become settlers of the West.
With the commencement of this onward movement, forests began to disappear, and fields of grain waved in rich luxuriance, where, but a few years before, the Indian hunter pursued his wily game.—As time rolled on, the woodman's axe was often heard in the forest, and every road was thronged with emigrants wending their way to some new and distant home—while the Ohio was dotted with countless small flat-roofed buildings, filled with families, who were floating on to points still more remote.
When the tide of emigration first began to flow, the wigwams of the Indians served as a barrier, and for a time stayed its progress; but, as the flood increased, they were forced to desert their homes, and recede from its influence. Having smoked the pipe of peace with the stranger, they spoke not a word, but with feelings of deep sorrow, left the graves of their fathers, and retiring farther into the forest, selected another spot whereon to fix their cabins. But scarcely were they settled in their new abodes, before the axe of the pioneer again resounded in their ears, and the lodge of a squatter was seen rising in the distance. With the approach of the whites, retreated the game which was the sole support of the Indians, and again they plunged yet deeper into the recesses of the forest, and murmured not.
But when they began to find that one encroachment was but the prelude to another, and that patient endurance availed them nothing, suppressed murmurs were at first heard, then hoarser remonstrances, and finally out they spoke, talked of right and wrong, and denounced the whites as grasping and unjust, till the sparks of vengeance which were to kindle up a flame among the tribes, were then first blown abroad.
But setting aside the encroachments of the whites, there were other causes for their discontent; causes, which deeply agitated them, and stirred up in each one feelings of revenge. The treaty of Greenville, though seemingly just in its provisions, had been wrung from their necessities, and although at its conclusion, all the chiefs expressed themselves satisfied, and an opinion pervaded the country that a firm peace had been established, still there were many of the Indians in whose bosoms hatred against the whites was not extinguished, but continued to glow with a burning desire of vengeance. To them the treaty was but the smothering of a fire to keep it alive, and their sense of unavenged wrongs was like a secret volcano, consuming itself with its own fires, and accumulating the power to burst forth.—The warriors who entertained these feelings belonged to the tribe of the Shawanees, decidedly the most warlike on our continent, and had often fought first among the foremost, in many of the numerous conflicts in which their tribe had been engaged.—Those to whom we particularly allude, were present at the treaty of Greenville, and though too young to be allowed a voice in council, left it with disgust, and from that moment to the period of which we are writing, had been constantly brooding over the wrongs of their country. But now, when they viewed the continual encroachments of the whites, and saw, daily, their dominions invaded, and their hunting grounds lessened, they began to awaken to a sense of their danger, to breathe abroad a spirit of revenge, and urge their countrymen on to acts of violence.
To the causes of irritation which we have before enumerated as stimulating them to these measures must be added the breach of the treaty of Greenville, which had been so solemnly ratified, and which on the part of the Indians had been preserved inviolate. One of the stipulations of that humiliating compact, by which they had ceded so vast a territory, provided that all murderers should be surrendered to the party aggrieved, to be punished according to their respective laws or customs. In accordance with this provision, Indians were repeatedly given over to the United States' authorities, tried, convicted, and executed according to the judgment of their courts. But though many Indians had been shot in the most wanton and unprovoked manner by Americans, and a demand for the murderers often made, still they were never given over for punishment, nor was there even an instance in the courts, of a conviction for so atrocious a crime. This was the power of prejudice, and to such an extent was it carried, that the killing of an Indian by an American was scarcely regarded as indictable offence. Can it then be a matter of surprise, that in this state of things, they, with their ardent feelings and simple notions of justice, should be sometimes tempted to take the law into their own hands, and seek by bloody retaliation that redress, denied them by our courts, and the hostility of our people. Is it at all strange that murders were committed which began to increase to an alarming extent, and that the Indians, adopting our own tactics, should have endeavoured to screen the murderers?
But we have still to add for the Indians, another cause of exasperation. Many attempts had been made on the part of the whites, to purchase other portions of their land, from all the tribes assembled in general council. In this they had failed, and yet, several treaties had been concluded, and large districts of land conveyed to the United States, by a single tribe, while the Indians generally regarded it as the common property, only to be alienated by all the tribes collectively. To annul these treaties, repeated applications had been made, but without success. These, with the long and unprovoked aggressions before mentioned, would have stirred up the deadliest hate of the most civilized people; then how could they otherwise than powerfully operate upon savages, marked by ferocity of disposition, and stubborn independence of character.
While this state of feeling was spreading rapidly among the Indians, emigration was in a great measure suspended, and fear was felt by all the border settlers. Nor were their apprehensions groundless, for it often happened that some adventurer, more daring than his companions, suddenly disappeared from his family, and was never again heard of. And scarcely would the excitement consequent upon these things subside, before acts still more alarming in their character were perpetrated, tending to unveil the mystery which hung over the fate of those who were lost; for the hunter would at times discover the mangled body of some emigrant who had been wantonly murdered, and left a prey to the beasts of the forest. When these things were told, terror and dismay filled the breasts of all, mothers pressed sleepless pillows, drew their infants still closer to their bosoms, and saw in troubled slumbers the blaze of their dwellings, while the war whoop of the savage would ring shrill in their ears. Yet it was but a dream.
At this time a great change was observable in the habits of the Indians; they no longer indulged in intoxicating liquors; gewgaws, which before possessed so many attractions in their eyes, were now disregarded; all intercourse with the whites was suddenly broken off, and rumour began to tell of secret councils, and midnight meetings in the depths of the forest. And then were heard dark hints, and enigmatical sayings, implying that they were invulnerable to the bullets of the whites, and were soon to repossess the lands of their fathers. Then came the tidings that a Prophet had arisen, who held daily converse with the Great Spirit, and ruled the tribes with an absolute sway. With this annunciation, the clouds of discontent, which had so long lain scattered in the horizon, began to unite, and settle in darkness over the west. At this period we commence our narrative.
CHAPTER II.
“Then he hears
How the fierce Indian scalped the helpless child,
And bore its shrieking mother to the wild,
Butch'ring the father, hastening to his home,
Who sought his cottage, but to find his tomb.”
BRAINARD.
The 10th of August, 1809! At the mention of that date, how the past sweeps by me, and with it come the yells of the savage, the dying groans of infancy and of age; and by the light of lurid flames, I behold their bleeding bodies, and hear the last gurgling cry of a youth, as he sinks beneath the closing waves. It was a sad night, and fearfully wild is the tale which it tells.
The Ohio, than which no lovelier river flows beneath the sun, was bearing on its surface, a rude boat, containing an emigrant family destined for some point in the “far west.” Carried along by the current, its motion was so gentle, that not a ripple indicated its passage. The hour was midnight, there was no moon, yet the stars emitted a soft light sufficient to show the dim outline of the lofty hills, which skirted the river on either side, serving as landmarks to the adventurer, by which to keep near the middle of the stream. The country was here entirely unsettled, and the dense forests which rose up high into the heavens, threw over the scene a sombre hue, calculated to suggest to an excited imagination a thousand dangers.
Thus situated was the family of John Foreman, consisting of himself, his wife, and several children; among them a sweet girl, who, like an opening flower, was just expanding into beauty, and a son who had already arrived at the age of manhood. Mr. Foreman was a native of lower Virginia, whom misfortunes had reduced to poverty, and who, with a hope of bettering his condition, had torn himself from his friends, to become a settler of the “far off West.” Having embarked at Pittsburg, he had already floated far upon his journey, when the incident occurred upon which depends the interest of the following pages.
The boat having swept a distance hard upon a thousand miles, through a country where the vision was bounded by lofty hills, rising before them in perpetual beauty, had now arrived at a point where the scenery ceases to be beautiful, and at once becomes grand and sublime. This point, the most remarkable on the Ohio River, is known to travellers, by the name of the “Battery Rock,” being a mural precipice of limestone, rising perpendicularly several hundred feet from the river which laves its base, and stretching for some distance along its northern bank. It lies within the state of Illinois, some ten or twelve miles below Shawneetown, and a few miles above the village of Golconda.
The hour, as we have stated, was midnight, and being such as to invite repose, the family were all asleep, save Mr. Foreman and his son Hugh, who were reclining upon the roof1 of the boat, and directing its course by a long pole, which projected from it, and served the purpose of a rudder. An unbroken silence had for some time reigned, when the following dialogue ensued:
“Do not bear so much to the left, Hugh; you will get out of the current; see, it sets in to the bank.”
“Yes, father; but the more distant we are from the bank, the safer I feel.”
“Afraid of the Indians, Hugh?”
“No, sir; I cannot say I am afraid.”
“I am pleased to hear you say so, my son; you should not fear, for although they tell so many bloody tales of them, I think we shall have no cause to add another to the number. We have now floated a long distance, been upon the water more than twenty days and nights, and yet no mishap has befallen us; a few days more, and, God willing, we shall reach our place of destination.”
“I wish it were so, father; I have no fears, yet my heart has some strange misgivings. Gay dreamed last night, we were taken captive by the Indians. I have no faith in dreams, and I know not why it is, but I feel sad and gloomy.”
“Hugh, this is not a time to indulge in superstitious fears, when we are about to form a frontier settlement. Such things must be abandoned, or you will become a laughing stock for your companions; moreover, your sister must cease to tell her dreams, since they unman her brother.”
At this speech, Hugh's countenance slightly coloured with indignation, but it quickly passed away, and he said: “Father, I feel your reproaches, yet I have not the spirit to answer them; for a presentiment of danger has come over me, and though vague and indefinite, I feel that there is no opposing it; indistinct and gloomy visions flit across my mind, conveying no definite idea. To ensure our safety, I would this hour willingly meet Tecumseh, single handed, terrible as he is.”
At the name of Tecumseh a shade passed over the face of Mr. Foreman, while he recollected the many daring outrages which were said to have been committed by him; but, quickly dispelling it, he said, “Come, come, my son, let us drop this subject; it is idle to anticipate dangers; bad enough to meet them when they come.”
“Then let it be so. But I wish we had not ventured so far down, it has now been nearly a week, and we have seen no living soul. Father, do not the woods seem to you darker than usual? the hills rise higher here than we have yet seen them; I never saw a scene so wild and lonely—father, father, did you not see a light moving?”
“Where, where, my son?”
“On the top of that lofty bluff to our right. There, there, I see it again.”
This annunciation acted like magic upon Mr. Foreman, who grasped his rifle, and nerving himself to meet whatever danger might present itself, gazed long and searchingly at the place pointed out. Still nothing was visible—the banks wore a dark and gloomy aspect, yet they were as quiet as the unrippled surface on which they were floating—no sign indicated the presence of a human being, no signal told that the wild woods were tenanted. Observing this, he drew a long breath or two, relieving himself from the high state of excitement under which he had been labouring, then turning to his son, said, “Hugh, you must have been mistaken.”
“I see nothing now, father,” was the reply, “but I thought I saw a light glimmer on those cliffs for a moment and then disappear.”
The scene, desolate as it was, was so quiet and lonely that its repose seemed a guarantee for security, and both again sunk into a dreamy reverie. Some time elapsed, when Mr. Foreman complained of being sleepy, and turning to his son, said, “I believe I will turn in, call me when your watch is over, and take care to keep near the middle of the stream.” So saying, he went below, leaving to Hugh the sole management of the boat.
When left alone to himself, Hugh forgot danger in the deep stillness around him, for it was of that nature, which by its sublimity hushes up the harsher feelings, and creates a vague pleasure which cannot be defined, and which we feel most generally, only when we look abroad from the mountain tops, or stand above the roar of dashing torrents. There are moments in life in which we cannot control our thoughts, yes, there are very many, and Hugh began to ponder over scenes from which he had been torn, to dwell upon the bright recollections of boyhood, and to feed his heart with the called up image of one, dear to him above all other things.
But while these things were passing in his mind, and by their power destroying all consciousness of the present, there might have been seen a dark and indistinct object on the surface of the water, stealing onward with the noiseless glide of the serpent, when it draws its doubling form along the dewy grass. No apparent motion, not a ripple of the wave announced its passage; yet it was approaching the boat, near, still nearer. Another moment, and it was along side. Then, like tigers crouching for their prey, a band of Indian warriors sprung forth, while the neighbouring hills re-echoed their savage screams. Then were heard cries for mercy, and shrieks of horror;—then might be seen their dark forms glancing in every part of the boat, while from right to left, with deadly sweep, they plied the greedy tomahawk. A moment more, and the splash of falling bodies was heard, then the bubbling groan of the dying,—and all was quiet. Not a sound broke upon the ear, all nature seemed asleep, and the boat still glided along as smoothly as it did an hour before. Another moment, and there rolled forth a volume of dense smoke, followed by lurid flames, which bursting out, wrapped the boat in a blaze of living light, and showed a mass of mangled bodies in its bottom. How ghastly pale are the countenances of the slain, when seen by that bright light. See how that mangled mother hugs her murdered babe!
At the same moment, in the back ground, yet near at hand, might be seen a light bark canoe, filled with Indian warriors, painted and equipped in warlike dresses, who with bright exulting faces were gazing on the scene before them, their hatchets red with slaughter, their hands clammy with the blood of the slain. And that nothing should be wanting to render the scene impressive in the extreme, stretched in one end of the boat, lay the almost lifeless form of Gay Foreman, the sole survivor of her family, with her hands pinioned; and her mouth gagged to silence her cries, while her head lay near a pile of bleeding scalps which had been torn from her butchered family, and from which, the warm blood was still trickling down into the bottom of the boat.
The Indians remained silent spectators, until the fire began to decline, when by its dying light they plied their paddles, and their light canoe darted off, skimming the waves like a living thing.
The incident above described occupied but a short time; the boat, covered with thin, dry pine boards, having burned to the water's edge, soon sank, and the Indians having left the scene, all was again quiet.
And was an act so daring to be perpetrated, and yet remain secret? no—on the opposite shore, within the state of Kentucky, and far in the forest, were reposing by the embers of a dying fire, two hunters of the “far west.” One was enured to fatigue, had often skirmished with the Indians, and ever surrounded by danger, was as wily as the savage, as daring, and as bold. The other had had less experience, yet they could both look upon death and not grow pale. They were asleep. But habit had rendered them so watchful, that the lightest step would arouse them from the deepest slumber, and scarcely had echo ceased repeating the first war-whoop which rang through the forest, before they stood erect, mute as statues, with rifles ready cocked, gazing deep into the woods. Another moment, and yet no cry—another, and another, and still all was quiet.
“I say, Earth, that cry must have come from some boat on the Ohio; the Indians are murdering some emigrant family.”
“It must be so, Rolfe; where else could it have come from? Gather up our plunder, and let's be moving; there's no more sleep for us.”
“Not an inch, unless it be in search of those Indians,” said Rolfe.
“You must be a blockhead,” answered his companion; “where do you 'spose I am going? If what we suspect be true, I must make a hole through one of 'em—yes, I am obliged to do it. Now did you ever hear of my backing out from a fight, when there was the least chance of getting into it decently?”
“Come, then,” said Rolfe, “haste, haste, we may yet save the life of a fellow-creature. Oh God! will there never be an end to this cold-blooded butchering?”
“No—no end till we use 'em all up—but it's no use to hurry after Ingens; to beat 'em we must fight as they do. Rolfe, you are always too eager—an eel does not move through the water with less noise than we should through the forest, if we wish to do any thing.” So saying, and repressing the ardour of his companion, they began to move silently along to the bank of the river, groping their way as stealthily as the wild tenants of the woods.
“Earth, is it not strange that we hear no more of them?”
“No; they do their work very silently; you will not hear any more of 'em, until they think themselves safe; then, if they have had much luck, they will kick up the very devil. Rolfe, you can fight as well as any body when you see an Ingen, but you know mighty little about their ways.”
“Earth, I am rather a novice at the business you know, and confess I have much to learn; tell me why they whooped only once, and then ceased.”
“As a signal for attack, and in order to frighten,—they ceased, because they fear discovery—but hush, we'll come upon them, may be, 'fore we know it.”
“Earth, come this way, come, come, it is the nearest to the river.”
“Now, Rolfe, there it is again; does a 'coon, when he wishes to avoid the dogs, run a straight course, or take the nearest way to his hollow?—You, I suppose, would like to meet some dozen of 'em on the bank. Now take my advice; I am an older hunter than you are, and if hereafter you should meet an Ingen who knows me, just ask him if ever he fooled Earthquake.”
Then turning off a little from the river, he proceeded a short distance parallel to it, when he began to climb a hill, the top of which having with some difficulty reached, he motioned his companion to be seated; and in silence searched on every side for the spot where the tragedy had been acted. Yet no clue remained—no noise broke upon the ear—there was no light, the burning boat having sunk.
“Well, Earth, what do you think of this?”
“Why, that the Ingens are somewhere under the bank, perhaps in Cave-Inn Rock; the only thing we can do, is to remain here; if they have taken any prisoners, we shall hear them when they set off on their journey.”
“Where is Cave-Inn Rock; I do not think I have ever seen it?”
“It is so dark now that I cannot point it out to you, nor do I exactly know its situation; it is either in the ledge before us, or, if we are opposite the Battery Rocks, I believe it is lower down; but if that cave could speak it would tell many a bloody story.”
“How, for what is it remarkable?”
“Why, for years it has been, and now is, a place of concealment for those red devils from which to make their attacks on emigrant families. The entrance is scarcely larger than a door, although the cave, I am told, runs far into the rocks, and is situated so near to the river, that, if there be a smart rise, you can paddle a canoe into it. So, you see, no place could better suit their purpose.”
“There is a smart rise in the river at this time, and they may have gone into it; now, Earth, if the entrance be no larger than you say, can we not keep them in, and starve them into our own terms?”
“No; that is impossible, the rock rises straight up from the river, and there is no chance to get a foothold, besides there are some stories told of the Shawanees and that cave, which I don't even like to think of. But come, another time we will talk of this, for the present be quiet;” and they mutually sunk into a meditative silence which was first interrupted by a glare of light, accompanied with the wild revelry of savage triumph. Jumping up, they gazed around them on every side, yet nothing could they see; still the revelry continued. Again, and again they searched, but without effect, until Earthquake looking far above him on the opposite bank, beheld the cause, and calling the attention of Rolfe, he merely pointed his finger; not a word was spoken, but in silence they gazed with eyes riveted on the spot.
Nothing could be more striking than the scene before them. Lighted up by the glare of torches, which gave to the surrounding objects a darker hue, stood forth in bold relief a bare ledge of lofty rocks, upon whose summit were seen carousing a band of Indian warriors warm with slaughter, while several hundred feet beneath them, swept along the most beautiful and gentle river in the world.
Although separated by the stream, the fire threw abroad so bright a light, that to the hunters every object was distinctly visible. As the revelry continued, wild with ecstasy, the Indians were seen to pass round the scalps and examine each with many a jest. They then rose, and forming themselves into a line, commenced a war dance, merely following each other with measured steps in a slow trot within a circle, while at the same time they sang a wild melody narrating the events of the evening, which translated might run as follows:—
“Red, red, is my hatchet,
The long knives have gone home;
Red men, yes red men,
The pale face is laid low.
Then pass round the scalps,
And loud let us yell
The cry which will tell our friends
We are avenged.
They come across the big lake,
They say we are friends,
They get strong, they rise up,
They take away our lands.
Then pass round the scalps,
And loud let us yell
The cry which will tell our friends
We are avenged.
And never while sun shines,
Or river runs here,
Will we bury the hatchet,
Till the long knives are gone.
Then pass round the scalps,
And loud let us yell
The cry which will tell our friends
We are avenged.
By the bones of our fathers,
We swear to this oath;
And die at the stake,
Let him who recants.
Chorus—Then pass round the scalps,
And loud let us yell
The cry which will tell our friends
We are avenged.”
While this was acting, Rolfe and Earthquake had remained passive spectators, yet so vivid was the scene, that they had already become perfectly acquainted with the extent of the massacre, for the wild dance, the bleeding scalps, and even the condition of Gay Foreman were but too visible. Still pinioned, and gagged, and bruised by being dragged up the rocks, with her hair dishevelled, and eyes streaming with scalding tears, she lay spectatress of the scene before her, unable to speak or move.
Is there a human bosom callous to the appeals of pity? Yes, even in civilized life we meet them every day, then do not wonder that Gay Foreman, though a child whose every thought was innocence, and whose beauty was as variable, yet striking, as the ever changing hues of our own summer sunsets, should in the breasts of the savages, have awakened no feelings of compassion.
Her agony was so intense, that she was nearly insensible, and it seemed that her sufferings were about to be ended, for one of the Indians, tall, thin, and of gaunt visage, excited above his companions, stepped from the ring and tangled his fingers in her long dark hair. She shuddered, and looked imploringly in his face.
At this sight, Rolfe forgetting himself, distance, and every thing else, threw up his rifle, cocked it, and was in the act of firing, when Earthquake rudely caught his arm, crying, “hold, are you mad?”
The fiend now shone in the face of the savage, the tomahawk was raised, but, ere it fell, another warrior rushed to her rescue, and Gay was preserved, whether for a better or worse fate, will be learned in the sequel.
Having witnessed the escape of the captive from immediate death, Earth observed, “now, Rolfe, had you fired, your ball would never have reached those cliffs, and its report would have been a signal for their flight, and her certain destruction.”
“But, my dear Earth,” said Rolfe, “how could I look on unmoved.”
“My good fellow, the best intentions often produce the worst effects, when acted upon in the heat of zeal. Remember, keep cool if you can, and let your judgment act in the hour of danger.” He then pressed his head with his hands, as if suffering under intensity of thought, and continued “it is not an entirely hopeless case; we must go in pursuit of them; so fair and young a creature must not writhe at the stake.”
“With all my heart,” said Rolfe, “let us go; quick, how?”
“It matters not how, we must go,—poor girl, were I to leave her alone in her present situation”—here he could say no more, for the tears flowed in a stream, down his rugged and weather beaten face. Is was a lovely sight to see a rough hunter of the west, whose appearance indicated him a stranger to feeling, thus overcome by sympathy for the distressed.
Rolfe, who had hitherto looked on his companion simply as a hunter, bold, frank, and daring, when he saw him thus affected, knew not what to think; and was about to inquire the cause of his emotion, when Earthquake requested him to be silent. His grief was of too holy a nature to be disturbed. Oh! what a flood of recollections must have called forth that gush of feeling.
Descending the hill, they pursued their way to the river, still keeping an eye upon the Indians. Earthquake wiping the tears from his eyes with the cuff of his jacket, observed, “my conduct must seem strange to you, Rolfe. I have been in these woods a long time, and I have seen more than I ever tell of—I once had a father, and a mother, and sis”—but the tears again started, and he added, “let us drop it; perhaps another time,” and in silence they threaded the woods until they stood on the river bank.
Earthquake was now himself again, and he said, “come, Rolfe, their frolic is nearly over; see, they are loosing their captive, and will soon be moving. We must intercept them when they come down from the cliffs, and follow on, watching our chance. Will you venture?”
“How, swim it?”
“Yes, we can do nothing else; we can lash together a couple of logs to lay our rifles and clothes on; they will keep dry, and we must swim along, resting upon them. This is the only hope, for we might search for a week, and not find a boat.”
“Then let us go to work; I willingly risk my life in such a cause.”
A short time sufficed to prepare the rude raft, and the hunters having stripped, and placed upon it their rifles and clothes, it was seen gliding noiselessly forward to the opposite bank.
CHAPTER III.
“The western borders were with crimson spread,
The sun descending looked all flaming red;
He thought good manners bound him to invite
The strange youth to be his guest that night.
'Tis true, coarse diet, and a short repast,
He said, were weak inducements to the taste
Of one so nicely bred, and so unused to fast:—
But what plain fare his cabin could afford,
A hearty welcome at a homely board,
Was freely his; and, to supply the rest,
An honest meaning, and an open breast.”
DRYDEN.
Richard Rolfe was a high-toned and chivalrous Virginian, born and reared in Petersburg, a beautiful town lying within the county of Dinwiddie, and stretching along for a mile or more on the southern bank of the river Appomattox. An orphan in early life, he was educated under the guidance of an uncle, and completed a course of studies at William and Mary college, at that time, and, I dare say at the present, the best institution within our country for the sons of Virginia.
The law, as a matter of course, was selected as his future pursuit, for parents thought then, as they do now, that every child who is educated, must be bred to that profession. Scarcely had he commenced this pursuit before his uncle died, leaving him pennyless and alone in the world. Yet, destitute as he seemed, he was of great promise, and his friends, looking far into the future, predicted his advancement to the highest honours of his native state.
There is one requisite, without which, no man in the practice of the law can arrive at any degree of eminence, and this is untiring perseverance. I care not what his talents may be; there is no exception. We sometimes, though rarely, meet with instances which seem to be exceptions, and they indeed are beautifully bright. They dazzle, and we are delighted; yet, like ignes fatui, which charm the beholder, they last not. No—they endure not unto the end, and however brilliant their efforts, they are distanced in the long race of life, by far inferior, yet more laborious competitors.
Yet Rolfe reckoned not on this important, though common-place truth, but endowed with many estimable qualities, commenced his profession, flushed with hope, and sanguine of success. The world said of him that he was good-looking; yet his particular appearance, his mode of dress, the colour of his hair or eyes, with other minutiae generally deemed all-important by novelists, I never knew; so, let them pass; he was of good family, and had received the best education the country could afford. Generous to a fault, ardent in temperament, and glowing with youth, there would at times burst forth feelings and opinions which characterized him as a being of a high order. Yet he was too sensitive, with opinions of principle too refined, for the practical sphere in which he was destined to act; so that he often deemed the world selfish and dishonest, because its views did not coincide with his own; imagined a friend cold and unfeeling, because he was less ardent than himself, and often conceived himself slighted when no offence was intended; with all this, frank in his manner, and ever ready to forgive, he was endowed with many elements of true greatness, but what is a rare occurrence, he possessed them in too great a quantity, for he wanted that power which would enable him to control and regulate them.
Such was Richard Rolfe, when he commenced the practice of the law, and such was he, when fate threw him in the company of a gentle being, who, unwittingly to herself, initiated him into the mysteries of that delicious passion, which, Burns says, “in spite of bookworm philosophy, and acid disappointment, I pronounce to be nature's dearest gift, our greatest blessing here below.” He loved, and what southerner, who has arrived at the age of twenty, has not?
“The cold in clime are cold in blood,
Their love can scarce deserve the name;
But his was like the lava flood,
That boils in Ætna's breast of flame.”
He loved—the expression seems cold when used to characterize a passion deep, ardent, and intense, as was that of Rolfe—and still she was neither a sylph, nor a fairy, nor an angel, but merely flesh and blood, cast in nature's prettiest mould—“a sweet, sonsie, bonnie lass.” Her eyes were hazel, and she was a gentle, quiet little creature, well calculated to rob you of your peace, without your ever dreaming even for a moment that she intended it. Her hair—a poet would have called it auburn—was rich, and glossy, and fell curling and clustering beautifully down her shoulders, forming a rich drapery for the loveliest face my eyes ever beheld. A face, not brilliant, nor splendid, nor even pretty; no, these are not the epithets which would have characterized it; but it was lovely, and gentleness and purity held dominion there, and cheerfulness often came, and still had it been wanting, she would not have been melancholy.
As I said before, she was a quiet, gentle creature, and seemed unfit for the cold and selfish world in which she was destined to play her part. With these qualities, she was intellectual, without being too much book learned, kind without seeming to intend it, and artless without affectation. Not a dog but read her countenance aright, and would follow her until he obtained his dinner; not a servant, but loved her more than any member of her family.
She was not a showy girl, and yet a stranger would have admired her without knowing why, and though placed in a room graced by beauty and fashion alone, and in the most retired part of it, a place she always sought, he could scarcely have passed without inquiring who she was.
Perhaps the charm lay in her retiring and timid manner. Her entrance into the world was like the mountain daisy, “scarce glinting forth amid the storm,” or it was like the first rose of spring, half blown, which comes out blushing at its own appearance, and nestling for concealment among the leaves which surround it. She was sweet fifteen—the spirit of love—whom to see, was to love, and who could not live without loving; playful as a child, with a disposition warm and confiding; and Rolfe loved her; she was, indeed, “the ocean to the river of his thoughts.” And did she love him? “She never told her love.”
Yet they had often walked together upon the rocky bank, which, on either side, bounds the river at the western extremity of the town, and had during their excursions, inhaled the fragrance of the woodbine, wooing with its petals the summer breeze, and beheld it wreathed in festoons, locking its tendrils one within another, and forming for the little islets a rich drapery. Often had they seen the mysterious love-vine creeping over the tops of the shrubs which rose along their path, or weaving itself among their tender twigs; often had they gathered the golden vine, and from it demanded their future fortunes. They had stood upon the towering rocks, which upon either side curbed the rushing river, and listening to the dashing torrent, had remained, charmed by its music, until the last rays of the setting sun warned them of the hour for departure. These, to young hearts, are dangerous things. Now, did she love him? Really, I know not; yet think you she could do otherwise, often meeting with Rolfe, gifted above his fellow men, and aware how much his happiness depended upon herself? He was poor, and on that account she was required not to love him, and that she might not encourage, she affected reserve. Formality now presided over all their meetings, which were less frequent than when first he knew her; yet Rolfe loved deeply, and would sometimes brook her reserve, and the cold glances of her parents, by repeating his visits. Although no smile of welcome greeted his entrance, a gleam of joy sometimes shone for an instant from the dark eyes of her he loved, and then again, it was yes, sir, and no, sir, to every question; and rigid ceremony prevailed during their meetings. Yet there were moments, when, overcome by the urbanity of his manner, or fascinated by the glowing powers of his conversation, formality made her exit, and sunshine gleamed over the little party. Then sparkled the glad thoughts of youth, then burst forth the untrammelled opinions of his refined nature, bright and dazzling as the gleam of rockets; or, if his thoughts soared from this world into the regions of speculation, they shone forth as beautiful and startling as the forked lightning which sports of a dark night 'mid summer clouds. Or, if he rather chose to tell a tale of tenderness, or of suffering, and thereby touch the chords of the human heart, spell-bound, his hearers followed whither he led, and only ceased to follow when he released them. Although such was his power, and such may have been the impression left, yet it was an equal chance, that at his next visit to the family, he would find them all icy cold.
It may well be conceived that Rolfe's present frame of mind was but ill suited to the study of the law; moreover, he was too restless and impatient to serve that regular apprenticeship through which all must pass who come forward relying for success solely on their own resources; which consists in unceasing attention and apparent devotion to business, when one has nothing to do; which implies incessant labour, without present benefit, for future and contingent good.
Time rolled on, and Rolfe became still poorer; unsuccessful in his profession, and apparently slighted by her he loved, he became gloomy and unhappy. The glow of early life was fast departing; his feelings were withering under the blight of mortification, and the world for him had no joys. To alleviate his sufferings, he courted dissipation, and neglected his studies; became reserved in his manner towards his friends, and consequently conceived them cold and unfeeling; when, being alone in the world, he resolved to leave the scene of his unhappiness, and seek a home in the western wilds.
This resolution was scarcely taken, before he communicated it to many of his companions. They laughed at it as the whim of a man in love, yet he was fixed in his determination, and a few days sufficing to make his little preparations, he set off, having been absent for several weeks, to gaze for the last time, on her he loved. Slowly, and with a full heart, he moved forward, and approaching the house of her father, discovered her in the porch, nursing her flowers, and twining into wreaths the woodbine, which, full blown, hung clustering in rich luxuriance above her. The last rays of the setting sun yet lingered on her form, which was partly concealed by the sweet foliage which surrounded her; and Rolfe thought he had never seen her so beautiful. Then there passed over his mind the reflection that the hues of the dolphin are brightest when it dies, and he added, “she too is loveliest when I leave her;” and, moving on, he was soon at her side. Upon discovering him, she turned, and with great gentleness, though in a slightly upbraiding tone, said, “Oh, Richard! why so long absent? You know not how much I have missed you.”
“A thousand thanks for those kind words,” said Rolfe, pressing her hand affectionately, “tell me truly, have you wished to see me?”
“Certainly,” said she, “for I have been lonely and wanted some body to talk with me.”
“Somebody,” repeated Rolfe, “then you cared not who?”
“No; we have had company enough, and, could numbers interest, I should never be lonely; but it is not every one whose conversation pleases.”
“Come, dearest,” said Rolfe, “you are grave this evening; why so?”
“No,” replied she, “I am not, and if you think so, it is your long absence which has caused it.”
“Pardon me, my love,” said Rolfe, “for though absent, my heart and thoughts have both been with you; not an hour passes but I in thought give half to you, and I would be oftener with you, but that I fear to trust myself.”
“Fear,—what?” said she.
“Why, that I shall love you more than I wish.”
“Then you do not wish to love me?” said she, inquiringly.
“I did not say that,” replied Rolfe, “although I think I should be happier if I had never known you.”
“And would you forget our acquaintance?” said she; “forget that which has been to me the happiest circumstance of my life? Richard, I have never given you cause to be unhappy.”
“My love, I mean not to chide,” said Rolfe, “but you know our attachment is an unfortunate one. Your parents always regard me as an unwelcome visiter.”
“Come, let us walk into the parlour,” said she, “there is no one there;” and in a few moments they were seated on the sofa, when raising her handkerchief, she pressed it to her eyes in silence.
“Come,” said Rolfe, “taking her hand, tell me, why so grave this evening, has any thing farther occurred to make you unhappy?”
“No,” said she, “but you know there are moments in which sadness sometimes steals over us without a cause—it comes like twilight, following the close of a summer day.”
“It is a beautiful comparison, love,” replied Rolfe, “but twilight is always succeeded by night. Do I read aright our fate?” “The present is dark,” said she, sighing, “and we cannot read the future.”
“And is the present dark to thee, love,” said Rolfe, “to thee, embodying within thyself all that is pure and bright, in human nature?”
“Hush, Richard,” said she, “could I be, you would make me vain, for you love me, and therefore think me better than I am. It is that which makes you speak so extravagantly.”
“Never mind that,” said Rolfe—“come, tell me, is there any hope that your parents will consent to our wishes?”
She blushed, and casting her eyes on the floor, was silent.
“So much for being poor,” said Rolfe, as a shade passed over his features, and he pressed his eyes with his hand, as if suffering with thought.
“Come, Richard,” said she, aroused by the attitude he had assumed, “please, don't do so; all may yet be well.”
“Will you marry me without their consent, at some future day?” inquired he.
“No,” said she, “I cannot do that, I should never forgive myself if I did, for they love me, and if they err, it is in doing what they think will advance my happiness.”—
“Then you will not run away with me?”
“No:—and never mention that again unless you wish me to like you less.”
“Then our dreams of happiness are over,” said Rolfe, “and this is our last meeting.”
At this speech, she turned her eyes full upon Rolfe, and gazed searchingly in his face, and when she read in his countenance that his resolution was taken, she became agitated, and said, “please don't say so; why not love me, and visit me as you have always done; I will never love another.”
“My purpose is taken,” he replied, “I shall ever love you dearly as I now do, and, should fortune smile, will at some future day return to claim you as my first, and only love. But in a day or two I shall leave for the west.”
At the mention of that word, a shudder passed over her frame, for in her mind it was associated with many stories of Indian massacre, and she said, “O! something is ever occurring to make me wretched. I had almost as lieve hear of your being tomahawked, as of your going to the west.” When she had made the remark, she turned her eyes on Rolfe, and on meeting his, her countenance was instantly changed, and she eagerly cried, “Oh, pardon me, pardon me, I did not mean it,” then laying her hands caressingly upon his, and looking imploringly in his face, she said, “forgive me that speech; will you, will you forget it? I am ever doing something wrong, though I do not intend it, now promise me, will you forget it?”
“Yes, most certainly,” said Rolfe, who had remained silent, charmed by her mode of atoning for a thoughtless speech. And that speech he had promised to forget. Yet the exaction of that promise had stamped it on his mind never to be effaced. No, never can he forget the slight and girlish form which prayed his forgiveness, never forget that countenance so full of tenderness and regret; no, never forget the thrill which ran over him when her light fingers touched his; never forget how each auburn lock seemed to woo his pardon; never forget how her dark eyes, full of affection, by their every glance expressed her penitence. Thou hast promised to forget, yet often in future years shall that scene rise before thee, whether thou mayest be standing above the roar of some cataract, gazing on some beautiful landscape, beholding the ever varying tints of a golden sunset, or reposing after the fatigues of battle. Yes, often, in the darkest hours of night, whether on the prairie, in the forest, or in a cabin, shall it rise before thee, and in all its loveliness shalt thou hug it to thy soul. Yes, it shall be to thee like an oasis in the desert, like a sail to the wrecked mariner, like hope to the criminal. Yes, time after time in future years shall it rise before thee, as green, as fresh, and as vivid, as though it were but the date of yesterday.
The above scene was little calculated to strengthen Rolfe in his determination, and a continuance of it might effectually have changed his purpose; but a step was heard, and her father, upon entering, found her cold and reserved, and apparently uninterested by the company of Rolfe.
After the common salutations of the day were over, she said, “father, Mr. Rolfe says he is going to move to the West, but I cannot believe it—do you?”
“I think not, my daughter,” was the reply, “for surely no one would venture there, in its present new and unsettled condition.”
“I shall leave in a few days,” said Rolfe. His remark was unnoticed, save by her he loved; she gazed at him for some time with searching eyes; the conversation then took another turn, and soon after he arose, wished them a good evening, and retired. Though struggling to conceal his emotion, his embarrassment was plainly visible, so much so, as to be the subject of remark after his departure.
“Father, I fear Mr. Rolfe is going, he seems so unhappy.”
“I hope not, my daughter, for, with perseverance, he will become an ornament to his profession, and although at present I should not like him as a son-in-law, yet I had rather he would not leave us.”
At the word, “son-in-law,” his daughter's cheeks were suffused with blushes, and running away, she was soon engaged in some household occupation; yet her heart was sad, and often did she detail to her mother Mr. Rolfe's remarks, and wonder if he was going to the West.
Having retired to his lodgings, he threw himself on a bed, where he remained for some time absorbed in thought, when suddenly assuming an energy of character, he arose, strode several times across the room, laughed wildly, and then suddenly curbing himself, his face grew dark as he said, “even she believes it the whim of a boy.” A shudder ran over him, his soul seemed wrung with anguish, and he added, “it is a sad duty to say farewell to friends we love, when we think we shall meet them, O! never.” Then pausing a moment, he continued, “O! poverty! poverty!—how often hast thou been sketched in some humble sphere, as fascinating in the extreme—and lovely art thou in the abstract;—but oh! let him tell who has felt thy gripe, how thy fangs creep into the soul, torturing it, and destroying its powers of action; or how, with thy cold, icy hands, thou freezest up the feelings, making this earth a hell!”
“Educated in a style unsuitable to my fortune; called into a class of society, whose expenses I cannot afford; brought up to a profession, whose profits, for some years at least, will not buy me bread, starvation, with her thin, lean, devouring look, sits gazing at me. My happiness, too, dependent on a girl whose parents slight me because I am poor! O! mine uncle! why did you not give me a profession suitable to my fortune? Had you but made me a mechanic, though never so humble, my thoughts would not have been exalted, and I should have been happy. But to be tacked on to the fag end of a profession, to spend my days lounging about the doors of a county court, wrangling over petty strifes, while my soul sickens with disgust, these, O! most noble profession, are thy duties. But I will away—I will leave my native land, and become a wanderer in the wide world,—yes, my resolution is taken.”
It is easy to conceive the state of mind, and the bitterness of feeling which gave rise to the above soliloquy, and I deem it not exaggerated, under the circumstances just described. Intense suffering often produces delirium, and that of the wildest kind; and while the mind labours under it, no language can be too strong for the expression of feeling.
Early on the following morning, a servant was holding at Rolfe's door a fine horse; a light pair of saddle-bags were thrown over the saddle, and the master appeared equipped for a journey. So easy and dignified was his deportment, so manly his carriage, that you would never have suspected that he was about to leave the home of his fathers. For there was no wavering of purpose, no flow of feeling to announce his departure; calm and unmoved, he was about to place his foot in the stirrup, when his dog Carlo, running and yelping playfully, jumped up against him, and commenced licking his hands, as if asking permission to go. This silent tribute of affection could not be withstood, patting him on the head, Rolfe wept like a child. “No, Carlo, I will not make thee a partaker of my misfortunes, the fate of an exile shall not be thine;” then shaking his weeping servant by the hand, “take this dog,” said he, “when I am gone, to my former friend Lucerne, and tell him to keep him, as a gift from me, and also tell him that, should all the world prove false, Carlo will remain true to his master.” Then spurring his horse he cantered off, threading street after street, until he found himself on the western highway, where we must leave him to pursue his journey.
His departure created quite a sensation, and for a time shed a gloom over the circle of his acquaintances. All his good qualities were called up and enumerated over and over again; his foibles forgotten. He was frank, manly, and generous. Then came speculations as to the cause of his leaving, and all recollected that he was poor, and that his profession yielded him nothing; and then all regretted his departure, and, were he now here, all would have assisted him.
But of all the crowd which entertained for him so many kind feelings, she who felt most, said least. Not a syllable in reference to him she loved was ever uttered; an indifferent spectator would never have imagined that she knew him. Yet to those who knew her, although she appeared gay and cheerful, her gaiety seemed forced. For so silently did she listen when Rolfe's good qualities were mentioned, that her soul seemed to drink in his praises, and her guitar, which once emitted sounds as light and playful as her own buoyant feelings, was now as sad as the heart of its mistress, for when she touched it, so plaintive were its strains, that they seemed to sound the knell of departing joys.
Several months elapsed, and no tidings were heard of Rolfe, when, at the close of a beautiful summer's day, a solitary and jaded traveller might be seen in the wilds of Kentucky, urging his weary horse along a wide path, which led on to the little village of Bowling Green. He was distant from it several miles, and night was shedding abroad her sombre hues, when, approaching him by the same path, walked a hunter of the west. He was strong and athletic in figure, and on his shoulder, supported by his left arm, was carelessly thrown a heavy rifle. A rough hunting shirt, fastened around his middle by a cincture or girth, from which gleamed forth a large and well sharpened Spanish knife, formed his upper garment, while his lower limbs were encased in leggins, which fitted with great neatness and regularity. His beard was the growth of many moons, and served to impart to him a ferocity of aspect, which accorded but little with his character.
But since this encounter, casual as it may seem, was destined to exert a great influence on Rolfe's after life, it is proper that we should detail the circumstances which accompanied it. The meeting between a traveller and a hunter, on the frontiers, has so much in it characteristic of that peculiar class of persons, who, from the time of earliest settlements, have been the pioneers of our western wilderness, that one who has once witnessed, can never forget it. In manner there is so much apparent familiarity, that you are apt to be displeased. But when you reflect that it is the offspring of the kindest feelings, and springs most generally from the purest fountains of the heart, you are gratified; for myself, of all welcomes, give me the hearty shake of a western hunter; for if you measure his good will towards you by the strength of his gripe, he never leaves you dissatisfied on that point.
The hunter wound his way along the path until he came directly up to Rolfe, when he eyed him for a moment from head to foot, and thus addressed him:—“Stranger, give us your hand, I'm glad to see you; don't see a man every day in these parts.”
Rolfe was at first disconcerted, and disposed to recoil from the rude familiarity of the hunter, but there was so much frankness in his manner, that he extended his hand, and thanked him for his kindness.
“You seem a stranger in these capes?” continued the hunter.
“Yes, sir,” replied Rolfe, “but I hope I shall not remain so, inasmuch as I came out with an intention of settling.”
“Give us your hand again for that,” and he grappled it like a vice; “we want men here awful bad; we have seen hard times, but I fear worse are coming. There was a whole family murdered just down here, a few nights ago.”
Rolfe started at the tidings; the scenes in which he seemed destined to act, flitted before him, but suppressing his feelings, he asked, “by whom?” “And who should it be but the Ingens?—I got upon their track right soon, and made a light through one of 'em.”
“Shot him?”
“Yes, look at the bore of that gun,” passing it to him. “Don't you think 'twould make a light through him? And he don't know to this day who it was that did it, but come, it's getting late, where are you going to camp to night?”
“That is more than I can tell,” replied Rolfe, “I did hope to get on as far as Bowling Green.”
“Oh! that will never do! 'tis too far; come, draw in your horns, and take the back track. The trail from here to Bowling Green is a bad one, and I do not think you can follow it; moreover, I have a friend a short mile from here, and what little he has, you are as welcome to as a brother. It is right rough living, but with a hearty welcome, and a good appetite, I should think you might get along, come, you can tell us the news from the old settlements.”
Rolfe, who was fatigued and weary, accepted the stranger's invitation with as much frankness as it was given; and proceeded with him to the cabin of his friend, where he met with much hospitality, and passed the night in telling them of “their kin1 in the old country,” or else listening to hunting stories, with the more exciting details of frontier warfare. Several days passed, and still Rolfe remained, charmed by the bold daring, the manly frankness, and lofty independence of his companion. Time wore on, they became inseparable, and the accomplished and talented Rolfe became a hunter of the West.
That he should have become strongly attached to hunting, an occupation so little in unison with his former habits, seems at the first view a strange annunciation, yet such he became, and such, from the nature of his situation, was the pursuit most likely to be followed. Having left home sick at heart, with blighted hopes, and feelings mortified, he arrived in Kentucky at a time when a frontier war was daily apprehended. A hunter's life was the life of a warrior, for he knew not where he might meet an enemy. Rolfe had no plan sketched out for the future, and his sole object was to forget the past.
In this situation, the first person with whom he forms an acquaintance, possesses in an eminent degree some of the nobler virtues of our nature; charms him with tales of border warfare, of lofty daring and bold conception, describes to him as a hunter only can, the high, yet pleasing excitement produced by being alone in the wild woods, where danger is known to be abroad. The effect of these things upon the mind of Rolfe may be conceived, when, rather more than a year after this time, the two hunters who are crossing the Ohio, may be identified with the persons we have been describing.
Rolfe and Earthquake, for so I shall designate the latter, having succeeded in passing the river, hurried on their clothes, and were soon ready for a march. Landing at the base of the limestone cliffs, upon which the Indians were encamped, they lost sight of them, and being unable to ascend the bank at that point, proceeded down the river until a more favourable ascent presented itself. Then seeking the woods, they cautiously crept along until they reached a large tree situated on the edge of a ravine, which commanded a tolerable view of the ledge of rocks, and there they resolved to await the approach of the Indians. They were led to do this chiefly because the tree, being hollow, offered them a hiding place in case it should become necessary.
Scarcely had they taken their position, when a light was seen moving about on the rocks, and soon after, an Indian, bearing aloft a torch, descended, apparently lighting the way to his companions.—Then came another, forcing along, and at the same time assisting, his beautiful and unfortunate captive, and then came the remainder of the gang, each following on in Indian file. Arriving at the base of the rocks, and gathering together, they consulted for a moment as to their route, then starting off, led the way directly towards the hunters.
When this plan was adopted, Rolfe and Earthquake, who had expected them to take a different direction, found themselves so near to the party, that retreat was impossible, and adopting the only alternative which presented itself, they concealed themselves in the cavity of the tree, and there awaited the issue.
As the light shot upwards with a vivid glare, “by heaven, Earth,” said Rolfe, “how the past springs to life at seeing that face; the girl of whom you have heard me so often speak, was very much like her.”
“Hush,” said Earth, “or you will have a tomahawk about you, afore you know it; hush, don't breathe, they are coming.”
The torch which they bore shed abroad a flickering light, showing at one moment every object with distinctness, the next, veiling them in darkness; and their heavy steps as they dragged their feet through the leaves, were heard approaching. The sobs of the captive, with the harsh language of the captors, as they urged her along, caused a shudder to thrill through the frames of the hunters, and Rolfe wrung his hands in agony, saying, “O! Earth! let us try them.”
“Hush,” said Earth, “we are gone if they come to the left of this tree; they come; we are gone! we are gone!”
The Indian who bore the torch was now within a few feet of them—another step, and the light must have shone in the cavity of the tree—another step, and discovery would have been inevitable. His foot was raised, his body advanced, but before the step was taken, the deadly rattle of a snake was heard, proceeding directly from the root of the tree. At the sound of the rattle, Rolfe started and drew up his feet; Earth pinched him into silence, and the Indian, recoiling at the well known sound, jumped back, pronouncing the word “achgook! achgook!” meaning, “snake! snake!” then filing off, he made a circuit to the right. It was a moment of wild and fearful excitement, as the Indians each approached the tree, and filed off. Death seemed already to have encircled the hunters in his icy fetters, yet the last of the band passed on, and all was safe.—“Thank God,” said Earth, “we are still alive.”
“I don't know that,” said Rolfe, shuddering; “where is that snake?”
“There is no snake here.”
“I certainly heard one.”
“No;—don't you recollect my killing a snake yesterday, and cutting off the rattles?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I was the snake just now, I made the noise. There are many of the Ingen tribes who will not disturb a rattle-snake; they say it is as harmless as a lamb, for that it never attacks, and even when about to strike in its own defence, always gives warning that you may get out of its way. On this account, they avoid it, and when found, turn from its path. This was all that saved us just now.”
“My thanks to you, Earth, it was a bright thought. Is there not something noble about the rattle snake. I like the motto, ‘don't tread on me.’”
“Come,” said Earth, stepping out of the tree, and peeping round, “there they go, eight in number; see those hindmost how they are loaded with plunder. Rolfe, I fear we can do nothing.”
“But we must do something, Earth; let us follow on and wait a chance.”
“Recollect,” said Earth, “we are in their country, and must be cautious:—we may follow them through the night, for their torch will be of more service to us, than to them; yet, when morning comes, if we have done nothing, we must return.”
“To spread the tidings?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“But, Earth,” said Rolfe, “they profess to be at peace, and surely would not add another crime to the one just committed.”
“Yes, they will do any thing,” said Earth, “never put any trust in one if you can help it.”
“Well, Earth, tell me where do you think they are going?”
“That is more than I can tell,” said Earth, “you know that large numbers are constantly gathering upon the Wabash to see their new made prophet, and these may be hurrying on there, like a parcel of 'coon dogs on a warm trail. But this looks mightily like some of Tecumseh's work.”
“How? What do you mean by Tecumseh's work?”
“Why, I mean I never knowed any one of his band to leave any thing unfinished. I've known 'Cumseh a long time; I knowed him when he was a mere boy, in the old ‘Black Snake's’ time. I have set for him many a night on his paths, and watched for him like I would for a deer at a lick. That was a good while ago, Rolfe, but he used to make his mark then mightily like this one we've seen to night.”
“Whom do you mean by the old ‘Black Snake?’” inquired Rolfe.
“Who? Mad Anthony to be sure; why, Rolfe, you don't know any thing. The Ingens called him the ‘Black Snake,’ because, although they kept a sharp look out, he would crawl upon their lands before they knowed it.”
“Well, where is Tecumseh?” said Rolfe, “tell me that, for I think it probable they are going to his camp.”
“There is no knowing,” said Earth, “I hear he is always moving about in spots;—but what say you, shall we go or not?”
“Go on certainly,” said Rolfe, “we must follow them, at least for a time.”
“Be it so,” said Earth, at the same time following on. “The way I'll use up one or more of them will be quite alarming.”
“Come, Earth, do not follow their example;—let us have no more cold blooded butchery. If there is the least hope of rescuing the prisoner, I will help you to cut them into mincemeat; but to kill only one, when no possible good can result from it, I will not agree.”
“I used to hate this business, Rolfe, as much as you do, but they would make me git used to it. I've got a grudge agin 'em of mighty long standing. I once had a mother.” There was something in the pronunciation of the last word which precluded reply, not another syllable was uttered, but, darting from tree to tree, they began to move on in pursuit of the Indians.
For some time the pursuit was a silent one. The excitement which had been produced on the Indians in the early part of the evening, had died away, and sullenly they were moving forward to their camp. No sound was heard but the stifled sobs of the captive, and the rustling of the leaves as they marched along.
Rolfe had filed off to some distance, in order to get a side view of their movements, while Earthquake followed immediately on their trail. For some time this was the order of pursuit; then the Indians began to move more lazily, and one of their band, tall and rawboned, fatigued with the weight he was carrying, lagged behind, until he was separated by a considerable interval from his companions. Earthquake was not unmindful of this circumstance, nor of another, that he was the same who had tangled his fingers in the hair of the captive; and he was soon creeping after him, as a setter does, when he is winding birds. The torch gave an irregular light, yet by its dim glare, as it shot upward, Rolfe beheld Earthquake, but a few feet behind his intended victim, who stooping forward to support his burden, was lazily drawing himself along. He saw Earthquake cautiously draw from the cincture which confined his hunting shirt a knife, which glittered as the light fell upon it. Shuddering with emotion he turned his head from the scene. Yet a moment and no noise, still another, and all was quiet; turning to see what had happened, he beheld the Indian moving along at his accustomed gait, while Earthquake was no where to be seen. He searched the woods in every direction, yet nothing could he discover; several minutes elapsed, when looking far ahead of the Indian, between him and his gang, yet directly in his path, he saw a head peep round from a large tree, then quickly draw back. The Indian approached, the light seemed for a moment fainter, Rolfe heard the ripping of a knife, and as the light again glanced forth, he beheld Earthquake with the quivering body of the Indian in his arms, easing it gently to the ground to prevent the noise of a fall. The legs contracted, and kicked several times with the spasms of death, and then not a muscle moved. Earthquake withdrawing his knife, wiped it several times on his hunting shirt, examined its edge, and returned it to its sheath; then taking the bundle which the Indian had been carrying, he secreted it at a short distance, and continued the pursuit.
Though the execution of this plan was as quick as its conception, yet Rolfe, without Earthquake's being aware of it, had been a silent looker on. Paralyzed by the scene, he was for a moment at a loss how to act; it had been so cool, so silent, so effectual, and perpetrated withal in a boundless forest, at the dark hour of night. There was no sudden burst of passion, not a muscle had been distorted, but with the same quiet ease that he would have butchered a bear, did he go through the ceremony. Rolfe was lost in thought while considering how he should act, for his soul revolted at what he had seen, and he continued almost mechanically the pursuit, while Earthquake gliding along, bent his steps towards him, and upon coming up, playfully shook the rattle before mentioned. At the sound, Rolfe started from his reverie.
“What!” said Earthquake, “still afraid of the rattle snake?—You know it always gives warning.”
Rolfe turned upon him with eyes plainly showing his dissatisfaction; for the speech, as he thought, was bitterly sarcastic, while Earthquake, believing him ignorant of what he had done, intended nothing by it. The darkness of the hour prevented Earthquake from seeing the change which had come over Rolfe's countenance, and Rolfe was about to go a step farther and vent his detestation of such an act, when Earth calling his attention, pointed to a gathering of the Indians. “See, Rolfe,” said he, “they are consulting as to where they shall halt, for they believe themselves far enough from the settlements now, to rest in safety for a few hours.”
This luckily changed the direction of Rolfe's thoughts, and he asked, “what can be the hour of the night?” “Hard upon day-break,” said Earth, “you see it is darker than it has been, and you know it is always darkest just before the day dawns.” Leaving the hunters to hover about the temporary camp of the Indians, we must bring forward other parts of our story.
CHAPTER IV.
“These are the gardens of the desert,—these
The boundless, unshorn fields, where lingers yet
The beauty of the earth, ere man had sinned,—
The Prairies.”
BRYANT.
On the side of a green sloping hill, along whose base murmured a little rivulet, lay the temporary camp of a roving band of Indian warriors. It was situated within that region of country which now forms the state of Illinois, but over which, at that time, they roamed with all the freedom of undisputed sovereignty. Peace had reigned for many years, and apprehending no danger, they had selected their situation, a regard being had more to comfort than security. Somewhat elevated, it commanded a fine view of the surrounding scenery, and surely eyes never beheld a prospect more beautiful.
In the rear of their camp, and at a short distance, lay a boundless forest, wild, grand, and imposing from the deep stillness which reigned throughout it. There was no undergrowth, the Indians having regularly burned it every spring, and in its place, there sprung up a soft velvet grass, so green and luxuriant, that to the weary it seemed to invite repose; and upon this, far from the wigwams of the red men, fed herds of buffalo, deer, and elk.—Before it lay in all its silent beauty, a prairie, of whose extent the human eye could take no note. While you gazed searching for its boundary, the eye would sweep the greater segment of a circle, still there it lay illimitable; there, spread out before you, it undulated with the heavy swellings of the sea; yet it was not monotonous, for from its bosom arose many little islands as green and fresh as foliage could make them. The whole prairie was covered with grass of luxuriant growth, and adorned with every flower to which the climate gave birth, and when set in motion by the winds as they swept over it, it assumed the appearance of a gently heaving ocean, while the odour from the flowers, borne on the passing breeze, shed abroad so many sweets, that a stranger would have looked upon it as the land of promise.
And if there was a moment in which the prospect was more beautiful than at another, it was when the sun, near the western horizon, seemed pillowed on clouds of fire, or else sinking beneath it, grew large, and round, and red, shedding abroad a softer light, as if sorrowing that even for a time he was compelled to leave a scene so lovely.
Overlooking this, lay the Indian camp. A large buck which swung against a tree, and a buffalo from which several Indians were stripping the hide, indicated that they had just returned from a successful hunt. Yet you soon saw that hunting was not regarded as their sole occupation, for upon glancing round, you beheld stacked up in various piles, rifles, unstrung bows, and all the implements of Indian warfare; while the military dresses of the red men told plainly, that they were holding themselves in readiness for some warlike excursion.
The camp presented many scenes, several of which were strikingly impressive from their contrast. Scattered about in every direction, lay groups of warriors, some sleeping, others telling of battles, or cleaning their arms; while hard by, leaning over a log, might be seen several feathering their arrows, and decorating them with hieroglyphical characters. On the outside of the camp, burned a bright fire, over which several squaws were preparing their morning meal, and still farther without, rose up a bower, formed by the weaving of oaken boughs.—In this were reclining two female Indians, evidently of some distinction, from the manner in which they were treated. They were Netnokwa, and her daughter, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa.
Netnokwa was by birth an Ottawa, and notwithstanding her sex, was recognized as chief of her tribe. She possessed great energy of character, blended with ambition; bold, ardent, and indefatigable in her exertions, she had obtained an authority over her tribe which few of the opposite sex could have wielded. Conspicuous for her savage virtues, she also possessed those which would have shed lustre over any character; several times had she in former days led her warriors on to mingle in the exterminating war which then raged on the upper branches of the Wabash, and as often had she been successful. In the defeats of Generals Harmar and St. Clair, her warriors had been conspicuous, and she had also in person led them on to the decisive battle of Presque Isle, which marked its termination. From that time to the present, peace had reigned; but now clouds of war were again gathering, and Netnokwa, incited by the martial recollections of the past, had repaired from her distant home in the north-west to the scene of former conflicts, to learn the truth of flying rumours, gaze upon the far-famed Prophet, and acquaint herself with the situation of the tribes along the frontier.—In this journey she had been accompanied by her daughter, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, whom she brought with her to bestow in marriage on a Shawanee, whose growing reputation had already spread far abroad.
Having arrived in his country, she had ascertained the location of his encampment, and had with her daughter come to seek him. Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, or, “the Red Sky of the morning,” which her name implies, was as pretty as a dusky maid can be; beautiful in proportion, timid in appearance, and as easily startled as the fawn; with eyes so expressive, that they seemed to say a thousand things, while her hair, darker than the raven's wing, fell without a curl in rich luxuriance far below her shoulders.—She sate within her bower neatly dressed, and decorated with wild flowers, the snow-white petals of which, interwoven with her hair, wore the appearance of spotless gems.
She was embroidering with her needle a deer-skin slipper, or rather tracing thereon with beads, some fanciful figure, when ever and anon she would let it drop, and gaze upon the deep blue heavens, as if endeavouring to read therein her fate; and then her whole frame would tremble, and in her agitation she would again resume her needle.
“Mother, I fear I shall be left alone.”
“The ‘Red Sky of the morning’ is the fairest maid of the forest; where is the chieftain who dares refuse her?”
“Mother, I have seen chieftains decorate themselves with large and gaudy flowers, when the sweet-briar was opening its buds to the morning.”
“And is Netnokwa nothing? Proud may be the chief who calls me mother. Rest, my daughter, the fawn is troubled at its own image.”
“Mother, I know not the chief. Some Shawanee maiden will enter his wigwam. Your name is great among the red men, but I have seen a warrior strike with his hatchet the old oak tree which shades our wigwam, and it bled. Is not Netnokwa to her tribe, what the oak is to the forest?”
“Then be it,” said the mother, “as the Great Spirit wills it; we must await the hour.”
It is easy for us to conceive the feelings which agitated the breast of the Indian maiden. Young and diffident, she was frightened at the ceremony she was about to go through; and moreover feared a repulse with its attendant mortifications. She had never seen the man to whom, if it pleased his fancy, she was about to be united; nor had even a rumour reached her ears from which she might form any conjecture as to his decision. The hour for the ceremony had not yet been announced, although it was known that it must take place before the close of the day. Leaving Netnokwa and her daughter for a few moments, let us return to the camp.
Directing our attention from that part of it which we have been describing to another, the eye reposed upon a group of warriors, most of whom were earnestly engaged in conversation. There was one, however, of a dark and ferocious countenance, who spoke not, but sate apart, brooding on the visions of his own fancy. He was clothed with power, and not a glance that rested on him, but was quickly averted, as if from some dread object. This mysterious being was the Prophet of the Shawanees.
Next in rank was a character of a different order, whose dress bespoke him chief among his tribe.—His wrists were decorated with gold and silver bands, while rich ornaments of the same metals hung suspended from his neck and ears. Beside him on the grass lay a beaver skin, fancifully gathered up, somewhat after the fashion of a Turkish turban, and from it waved over with much grace, a large plume of white ostrich feathers. His tomahawk was keen and bright, its handle inlaid with silver, and with it his hands were playing for the want of some other amusement; his lower limbs were encased in leggins, on which were traced many grotesque figures, and which fitted him so closely, as to show the beautiful symmetry of his figure.—He was of fine stature, and his face, but for its dusky hue, would have been thought handsome, even by the pale faces. There was nothing dark or lowering in his aspect, but an ease of manner, and a grace which marked him one of nature's nobles. In gazing on him, the surprise was, that one possessing so few of what civilized man deems advantages, should by the power of genius alone, have already connected his name with a system of policy, which could only have originated in the deepest wisdom, and the most profound sagacity; a system, by which nearly all the tribes in the great valley of the Mississippi were made subservient to his purposes, and their power concentred for one great design.
Yet who was there, who had not heard of Tecumseh, the Shawanee warrior, who so often had foiled the whites, and like an eagle stooping from his eyrie, so often struck, and was gone, no one knew whither. Even when a boy in years, he had associated his name with so many tales of frontier massacre, that in the settlements it would blanch the cheek of a maiden, or hush a crying child into silence.
When the war which terminated with the humiliating peace of Greenville, was still raging, Tecumseh was the leader of a roving band which often swept down upon the settlements, and marked its path with the most desolating ravages. Nor, in the long interval of peace which succeeded, did his restless mind continue inactive, but was constantly engaged in meditating schemes of vengeance, and devising plans for concentrating the scattered energies of his countrymen, weakened as they were by petty jealousies, and by divisions among their tribes;—the particulars of which shall be shortly unfolded.
It is said that even when a child he gave marks of the prowess which was to distinguish his riper years. Oft time had he listened to the chiefs of his tribe, while they detailed the proud descent of the Shawanees, and described their once princely dominions, and had wept upon hearing their change of situation attributed to the perfidy and aggression of the whites. Like Hannibal in his infant years, who swore eternal enmity to Rome, Tecumseh vowed that all his energies should be directed to resist the encroachments of the whites; that never would he move from the lands which his tribe now held; but that there, on the graves of his fathers, would he make the last stand for the rights of his countrymen. It seemed as if all the wrongs his race had suffered were glowing in him alone:—he felt them, and had been in part avenged; for in early life, his path was like a tornado sweeping through the forest, plainly visible from the destruction that marked its course; and how faithfully he carried into effect the resolves of his early years, let the sequel tell.
Still, great as he was, Tecumseh was not alone, but was one of three brothers at a birth; and a more remarkable one, the annals of history never recorded. Tecumseh, Elkswatawa, and Kumshaka, were born near Chilicothe, on the banks of the Scioto, in the year 1772. Their father fell in assisting the unfortunate Logan in the battle of Point Pleasant, which was fought at the mouth of the Great Kanawha, in 1774, and for instruction they became entirely dependent upon their mother, who was by birth a Cherokee. She early made them acquainted with all warlike sports; instilled into their minds a deadly enmity against the whites; narrated the sad catastrophe which led to the battle of Kanawha; and breathed into them that spirit of vengeance which had led their father on to the battle in which he fell.
Every thing surrounding them tended to make them warriors of the first class. They belonged to the tribe of the Shawanees, decidedly the most warlike, and, at one time, the most powerful on our continent. For fifty years previous to the date of which I am now speaking, they had, with scarcely any intermission, been engaged in hostilities. They had fought every tribe of any note, residing in that extensive district of country which reaches from the Floridas on the south, to the great lakes of the north, among which may be enumerated the Creeks, Choctaws, Cherokees, Yemassees, and Delawares. Leaguing themselves with the French, they had fought as their allies from 1755, to the termination of the war in 1763. Recruiting for a few years, they allied themselves with Logan to revenge upon the people of Virginia the wrongs he had suffered in the murder of his family. Defeated in this attempt, and the war of the Revolution breaking out, they became the steadfast allies of the English, their former foes; remained so throughout the war, and continued up to the treaty of Greenville to wage an unrelenting warfare along our entire frontiers, notwithstanding the peace of '83. They never sued for peace, but time after time, to stay the wave of advancing population, had they swept over the frontier settlements. They alone had preserved unadulterated the Indian spirit of indomitable savagery; forming the forlorn hope of the numerous bands which had been continually driven westward, they had within their own minds marked out the boundary beyond which they would never retreat.
This was the tribe from which descended Tecumseh and his brothers, and where could they have found a better school for the exercise of all warlike propensities? where have found a situation better calculated to arouse them to action, and to make them the distinguished men they afterward became?
Nothing could be more different than the dispositions of the brothers. Tecumseh was noble in appearance, firm in purpose, gifted in speech, daring in design, burning with the love of glory, and reckless of personal aggrandizement. He was frank, open and manly with his friends, kind, just and humane to his enemies. Elkswatawa was tall, too slender to be finely proportioned, with sharp piercing eyes, and a thin, lowering visage. He was dark, crafty and subtle; wavering, nor in a stranger to mercy; and in purpose not less undaring less bold than his brother. Kumshaka had not the qualities of either; he was a good warrior, but wanted that comprehensiveness of mind, and fixedness of purpose, which characterized his brothers. With regard to him it is needless to enter more into detail, for his early death prevented him from playing any conspicuous part. Let us now return to our story.
The camp which we have been describing, was that of the Shawanees, and Tecumseh was its chief. Collected around him, his warriors seemed to be discussing some subject of great interest.
“The clouds are gathering,” said Tecumseh—“the red torch must shortly be kindled; the whites will not let us live in peace.”
“No,” said a warrior, “they kill our people and take away our lands; we must fight or starve.”
“Fight,” cried another, “and the whites shall be scattered like leaves by the wind.”
“Know you the number of the pale faces?” inquired the first warrior who had spoken—“they are like grains of sand on the shore of the big Lake:—they are like leaves on the trees.”
“Yes,” said his companion, “but the leaves on the trees sometimes fall.”
“They do”—chimed in Tecumseh. “But when the old leaves fall, new ones come; so is it with the pale faces. This country cannot hold us both, and when we battle again, it must be until they, or we, no longer struggle for dominion.”
“Before the treaty,” said the warrior who last spoke, “the red men went to battle, and the ground was covered with the whites;—will it not be so again?”
“It shall be so:”—said Tecumseh, “but the time has not yet come. When we again gather our warriors, the pale faces shall fly—we shall trample them down—and the wild beasts shall feed upon them. Did not the Great Spirit give these hunting grounds to his red children?”
While thus conversing, they were interrupted by a messenger from Netnokwa, who bore a bundle of presents, and said to Tecumseh, “the Red Sky of the morning wishes to make her appearance.”
“Let the messenger retire, while I hold converse with my warriors,” said Tecumseh; then calling them more closely around him, “Tecumseh would hold a talk with his brothers,” said he. “The pale faces are cleaning their guns and sharpening their knives. They wish to drive us from the hunting grounds of our fathers. Tecumseh never will go;—his thoughts are for his country; he has no time for a wife, and would have his brothers tell him the best way to refuse Netnokwa's daughter.”
“Netnokwa,” said a warrior, “is chief of the Ottawas; you had better tear a cub from a bear in its den, than refuse the offered hand of her daughter.”
“Netnokwa is great;” said Tecumseh. “She is a woman, and I fear her. Her tongue is like a knife. But before another moon we may go to battle. What would Tecumseh do with a wife?”
“Red Sky of the morning hath travelled far;” said a warrior, “her step is like that of the bounding roe; her moccasin leaves no print on the grass; her voice is sweet as the singing of birds. There is nothing like her in the forest. A maiden likes not to be turned away.”
“I have not seen her,” said Tecumseh, “and though she be beautiful as the sun when first he rises up from the prairie, and walks out to make every thing glad, yet, I want not a wife.”
“Shall she be laughed at by the chieftains of her own tribe,” said a warrior, “for having been refused by a Shawanee brave? She is young; her heart will bleed.”
“Tecumseh is sorry,” was the reply, “but he has spoken. The maiden must return to her own lodge.”
“Stay,” said a warrior, whose years entitled him to great respect, “will Tecumseh listen? My eyes have seen many snows, and my ears have drunk in many sounds:—something whispers me put it off.”
“Tecumseh would be glad if he could do so,” was the reply. “If the tomahawk were deep buried, and the pale faces would let it stay there, the daughter of Netnokwa should live in his wigwam. But it cannot be, and it is better to refuse at once, than to delay until the long shadows fall and then refuse. The maiden would dream she was a chieftain's bride. No.”—Then, turning to a warrior, he said, “get ready the presents, let them be rich, and such as should belong to a chieftain's daughter. To-morrow the maiden returns to her own country.”
The preparations were soon made, and “Red Sky of the morning” was seen coming towards Tecumseh's tent, leaning for support on the arm of her mother. As they approached, they were met by Tecumseh, who treated them with great courtesy; nothing indicated his purpose, no marked dislike, or even coldness of manner told that the maiden was to be refused. Never was a girl of the forest more fair, and never did so much delicacy and timidity encircle a dusky form. Shrinking from the ardent gaze of the chieftain, she caused her hair to fall over her face, serving as a veil behind which her virgin modesty retreated, while she awaited his advances. Tecumseh had never seen any thing so beautiful, and for a moment faltered in his determination; yet, with a recollection of the situation of his country, he was himself again, and taking the maiden by the hand he led her towards his tent, that he might accompany his refusal with a sufficient number of presents.
Netnokwa, during this time, calm, dignified, and majestic, had been supporting her daughter, without ever for a moment dreaming, that she was to be refused; and when Tecumseh, taking hold of her hand, led her on to his tent, she observed, “‘Red Sky of the morning’ will be the bride of the greatest brave.”
Tecumseh heard the remark, and felt deeply; for besides the passions of the mother which were now to be aroused, there was the daughter so retiring, modest, and gentle, that he was pained to give a pang to one so good. How sadly would she be mortified, not because she loved him, for until the present moment her eyes had never beheld him, but because of the ridicule which would be cast on her by the chieftains of her own tribe, for having been refused by the Shawanee. Without her consent, her mother had projected this match, in order to secure a strong ally; she was likewise apprised of the growing reputation of the Shawanee chief, and doting upon her daughter, had been anxious to connect her with one, whom fame had already exalted far above his companions.
Tecumseh, accompanied by Netnokwa and her daughter, had now nearly reached his tent; another moment and the costly pile of presents would have told his determination, when suddenly there arose a cry, that a runner was coming. The camp was instantly in motion, and all minor things forgotten in a general desire to hear tidings, whose import none could conjecture. Great was the relief to Tecumseh; it enabled him for a time to postpone the ceremony, and flattered him with the hope, that its purport would compel him to defer it until some more opportune occasion.
“What tidings are these borne on the breeze?” asked Netnokwa, “Shawanee brave, think not now of a maiden, but gather your men, and receive the runner.”
“I will,” said Tecumseh, as he hurried off, “return to thy bower;—I will tell thee the tidings.” A moment passed, the warriors were assembled in council, and the runner introduced. Addressing himself to Tecumseh, he stated that he left a band of Indians assembled on the Wabash, who were so excited against the whites on account of a murder recently committed, that he feared they would make a sudden irruption upon the settlements, and call down the force of the whites before the Indians were ready to oppose them. That being apprised of this, he had stolen away to tell it to the chiefs of the Shawanees, and see what they in their wisdom would do.
At the close of this speech the air resounded with yells of vengeance. When they had died away, and silence was again restored,—“where gather our brothers” said Tecumseh, “and what are their number.”
“They are assembling on the forks of the Wabash,” said the runner, “and warriors are gathering like pigeons at a roost.”
“This must be stopped,” said Tecumseh, “our fathers who have gone to the world of spirits, shall have more white men to wait upon them. But the time has not yet come; a little while longer, and the war whoop shall ring.”
Again the yell of savage delight broke forth; each warrior rose upon his feet, brandished aloft his glittering tomahawk, and made it whistle as rapidly he moved his arm through the air.
“Silence!”—cried a voice which had something in it of an unearthly sound; they were hushed as still as the grave, and the Prophet rose.
“Warriors, listen; it is the chosen of the Great Spirit who speaks to you. We are not ready for battle. When we strike, all the red men must know it. We must move like a great flood over the land. We are now but a small stream. Our brothers on the Wabash must be calm. They must suffer a little longer if they wish to see our rivers run red with the blood of the whites. Tecumseh, hurry away, and tell them the time has not yet come. They must disperse. It is the Prophet of the Great Spirit who commands it.”
He then seated himself, and Tecumseh, making no reply, for the words of the Prophet were by his followers deemed as unchangeable as the laws of the Medes and Persians, the council then adjourned.
“But stay,” said Tecumseh, addressing his warriors, “what will become of Netnokwa and her daughter?”