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Title: Elkswatawa; or the prophet of the west
A tale of the frontier
Author: James Strange French
Timothy Flint
Release date: September 12, 2024 [eBook #74401]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Harper & Brothers, 1836
Credits: Ron Swanson
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELKSWATAWA; OR THE PROPHET OF THE WEST ***
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.]
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 roof[1] 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:
[Footnote 1: See note A.]
“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 kin[1] 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.
[Footnote 1: See note B.]
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?”
“We will away to our own country,” said Netnokwa, who, with her
daughter, was standing a little apart from the crowd, “‘Red Sky of the
morning’ would not detain her chief from duty:—when the sky is clear,
the Shawanee brave can find our wigwam.”
“Yes,” said Tecumseh, “if I live, I will find it, but does Netnokwa
look for a clear sky? Clouds are thickening; there may be peace
between the red men and white, but, I fear, it will only be, when the
white man's plough runs over our graves; never before. The pale face,
like a lean dog, is always hungry.”
“The red man is strong in battle,” said Netnokwa, “let him go forth;
when roused to vengeance who can withstand him; the Great Spirit is
with him.”
“We are strong,” said Tecumseh, “and were all united, we could sweep
over the settlements like a fire over the prairie. But we are divided,
and must not strike till all are one. Then the earth shall tremble
under the tramp of our feet, as we march along. We must stop our
brothers on the Wabash. The Prophet orders it. I must away. You will
return. Some of my warriors must conduct to her lodge ‘Red Sky of the
morning.’”
“Let your warriors stay;” said Netnokwa, “the clouds are darkening.
The pale faces may come down upon our lands. You may need them. I, and
my daughter can thread the forest.”
“But my Ottawa maiden will want for food,” said Tecumseh.
“‘Red Sky of the morning’ is fleeter than the doe,” said Netnokwa,
“her arrow never misses it's mark.”
Pleased by this compliment from her mother, she gracefully bent a bow
which was near her, “will the Shawanee chieftain bring me that bird?”
said the maiden, pointing to one which was sitting on a tree hard by.
“The distance is great; before I approach, it will fly:—” said the
warrior.
“No,” said the maiden.
“I may not hit it,” said the warrior.
“I will,” said the maiden.
The warrior became confused, and hesitated.
“Will you bring me the bird?” said the maiden.
Still more confused, he bent his bow, and started forward.
“You need not shoot,” said the maiden, and drawing her bow, she let
fly an arrow. The bird dropped beneath the tree; then, awaiting the
return of Tecumseh, she said, “thinkest thou the Ottawa maiden will
want for food?”
“Thou art the daughter of Netnokwa,” said Tecumseh, gently taking her
hand; “when the pale-face is no more, we will together hunt the deer
and buffalo far from our wigwam.”
With Tecumseh, this at the time was his determination; for never had
he seen a maiden more lovely, or one more worthy than Miskwa to become
a warrior's bride. Yet, dark as his forebodings were with regard to
his country, he saw not how great and deadly was to be the coming
struggle, nor how sad its issue, after having worn out in its defence
the energies of his own great spirit, and covered its plains with the
bones of his warriors.
But the time having arrived for him to set out, as ordered by the
prophet, Netnokwa said, “hast thou heard of Pontiac, Tecumseh? His
blood flows in my veins; at his name the settlements would tremble,
not one, nor two, but all; his voice in battle was like rolling
thunder; his path on the frontiers like the whirlwind's sweep; make
him thy light, thy guide, thy north-star.”
“It is well,” replied the warrior; “but let Tecumseh live, and his
country shall be respected and at peace, of the red torch of war shall
blaze from the big lakes to the far south; and the red men from the
setting sun shall hurry on to feast in the wigwams of the pale faces;
farewell.”
“May the Great Spirit bless thee,” said Netnokwa. “Tell me, when will
the Ottawa maiden see the Shawanee chieftain?”
“When there are no clouds in the horizon,” said Tecumseh, “and the
war-whoop ceases to ring through the forest;” then disappearing for a
few moments he returned equipped for a journey, and bidding his
warriors a hurried farewell, was soon hid with the runner in the
recesses of the forest.
CHAPTER V.
“Where is the stony eye that hath not shed
Compassion's heart drops o'er the sweet McCrea?
Through midnight's wilds by savage bandits led,
Her heart is sad, her lover far away.”
DRAKE.
The leader of the party which Rolfe and Earth were following, was
named Yanatah, who only halted for a few moments, that he might
consult with his followers as to where they should rest; when again
setting off, they soon emerged from the woods into an open prairie,
and seeking a small elevation, which was no other than an ancient
mound, they prepared to pass the remainder of the night. The spot
which they selected commanded a view for some distance in every
direction, and as the grass was too short for concealment, the hunters
were obliged to content themselves with lying on the edge of the
prairie under cover of the woods.
Each one of the Indians as they left the forest, picked up some wood,
and in a few moments they had a large fire blazing, around which they
gathered.
“We are not all here,” said Yanatah; “where is Begwa?”
“He had a heavy pack,” said a warrior, “and stays behind; he is
tired.”
“Give the pale face a blanket,” continued the chieftain, “and let her
sleep; she wants rest; she must travel to the Prophet's camp.”
This was done; but her heart seemed breaking, and death for her had no
terrors. From the first moment of her capture until the present, she
had been hurried along without time for reflection; and now, at rest,
began to doubt whether she was dreaming, or whether her situation was
really what it appeared to be; and when consciousness came with its
sad reality, she gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears.
Some time elapsed, and yet Begwa had not arrived. His absence
occasioned much anxiety, until some one hinted that he had gone off in
order to secure to himself the plunder with which he was loaded. There
being no other rational way to account for his sudden disappearance,
the suggestion was agreed to, and vowing vengeance, they were silent.
After a few moments, Yanatah said, “while we sleep, let two warriors
keep watch; I fear the pale faces are on our steps; I doubt if Begwa
would have left us for the sake of plunder. Begwa was a good warrior.”
“Begwa,” replied one of the party, “would not have fallen without a
struggle. If the pale faces were on our steps we should have heard
them.”
“Can you hear an eel,” asked Yanatah, “when it moves through the
water? say no more, but let the watch be kept.”
Soon after this, they were all reposing by the fire, save the two
warriors on duty, who were perfuming the air with kinny kaneek, and
inhaling its odour through the handles of their tomahawks, the heads
of which were fashioned into pipes. The captive maiden soon sank into
a troubled slumber, for although she slept, her frame was often
violently agitated, and there were moments, when her limbs quivered as
in the agonies of death; with this exception, the Indian camp was
quiet.
The prairie, as we have before observed, was too naked to allow the
hunters to approach nearer to the Indian camp, than the outer edge of
the woods; and nothing remained for them, but to rest where they were
as mere spectators; for although at some distance, they had it
entirely within their view.
Having seated themselves with their backs against a tree, whose widely
spreading branches kept off the dew, they gathered themselves up and
adjusted their garments that they might be as comfortable as possible.
“There is as yet no chance to benefit the captive,” said Rolfe.
“No,” said Earth, “see! those two devils are wide awake; but let them
fall asleep if they dare, and we will not have crossed the river for
nothing.”
The feelings, like every thing else, require relaxation, and Rolfe and
Earthquake forgot in a few minutes the excitement under which they had
been labouring.
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “the dews are very heavy, I feel a little
chilly.”
“That is, you would like a little back-warmer,” said Earth, “come out
like a man, and don't be so mealy-mouthed.”
“I thought it was all gone.”
“No,” said Earth, drawing from his pocket a small, flat, _stone
tickler_, and shaking it, he smiled as he heard it wash up against its
sides. “I'll try it first, to convince you 'tan't poison,” and
throwing his head back, he emptied a part of its contents into his
throat, and smacking his lips, passed the tickler to Rolfe.
Rolfe went through the same ceremony, and as gurgling out, it
pronounced the words, _good_, _good_, “there's no lie in that,” said
Earth, “it speaks the truth every word _on_ it.”
“It's all _lie_, I believe,” replied Rolfe, “for it has taken the skin
from my tongue, why did you not put some water with it?”
“What! wade through water in order to get at the liquor! no, no,
Rolfe, never do that when you have any respect for the spirit.”
“Earth,” said Rolfe, changing the subject, “how little do the people
in the States know of the life of a Western hunter; here are we
sleeping night after night without a bed, often without food, and now
lying in an enemy's country, watching a party of Indians four times
our number.”
“Not quite four times, I think,” said Earth; and so saying, he looked
archly at Rolfe.
“I understand you, Earth; I saw it all, but did not like the deed;
there were eight.”
“I could not help it, Rolfe, 'twas so good a chance. Moreover, I
thought I might as well put him out of the way, that there would be
one less, in case we have to take a brush.”
“I have no objection if any good is to result from it,” said Rolfe,
“they are now seven to two, and I don't think we have gained much; I
can't say that I liked it.”
“But, Rolfe, tell me, did you not think the operation was performed
very neatly?”
“Yes, I must give you credit for that, Earth, it was certainly a very
cool murder.”
“Oh! no, no, don't call it a murder, Rolfe, I only killed an Indian;
it was over so quick with him, I didn't hurt him; he only said
‘humph!’”
“What did you do with the bundle he was carrying?”
“I hid it, thinking we would examine it on our return.”
“You did well, for from it we may learn the name of the family
murdered. Earth, ever since I caught a glimpse of that poor girl's
face to night, I have thought of nothing else; she is so much like her
I loved, that if I could divine a reason for her father's having
emigrated, I should think her the same. But her father was rich and
happy; and surely he would never have left a quiet and peaceful home,
for the wild woods of the west.”
“God only knows who she may be,” said Earth, “I pity her from the
bottom of my soul, for she has suffered a thousand deaths to-night.
You know she is a stranger to me, Rolfe, but if there be any such
thing as truth, I would, to restore her to her friends, willingly take
her place.”
“Poor girl!” said Rolfe, “she will never see her home again; doomed,
perhaps, to the torture, or else to fill the office of some Indian
squaw.”
“It is hard, hard, Rolfe! yet such is their savage nature; no one
escapes. But if they carry her to Tecumseh, and all things be true
which they tell of him, she will not suffer. 'Cumseh and I have seen
some hard times.”
“What do they say of him?” inquired Rolfe.
“Why, that he respects the treaty, is famed for his humanity, and has
never refused to surrender a murderer; moreover, he is the only Ingen
whom I have heard of as being perfectly disinterested. He is very
different from his brother.”
“And do you know his brother?”
“I have never seen him, but know him to be cruel in the extreme. He is
the man who has lately become a Prophet, and you know he has been
burning his own people until he is tired of it. Now I think it more
than probable that he is at the bottom of this murder.”
“Then God forbid,” said Rolfe, “that she should fall into his hands,
her fate will be bad enough without.”
“You may say that,” said Earth.
“But from your statement with regard to Tecumseh, Earth, I should
think he was a noble fellow, and if they carry her to him, he will
restore her to her friends.”
“Yes, he is as noble as a red skin can be, and that's not much; I
don't trust any of 'em. I suspect he is our worst enemy, and every
thing that his name implies.”
“What is that?”
“Why, Tecumseh, in the Shawanee tongue, means ‘tiger crouching for his
prey.’”
“Look, Earth,” said Rolfe, pointing to the fire, “what are those
Indians at?—making baskets?”
“No,” said Earth, “they are twisting those twigs in order to make
small hoops to dry their scalps upon. Do you not see between that
fellow's legs something that looks like small hoe-cakes? Well, they
are scalps stretched upon a hoop and placed there to dry.”
“Tell me, does the maiden see them?” inquired Rolfe.
“No, I think not,” said Earth, “see, she lies covered up, and, I hope,
is asleep.”
Much desultory conversation occurred, which whiled away the time till
day began to dawn. The hunters were now getting drowsy, and yet the
Indians showed no disposition to move. But when the eastern sky began
to grow red, and the sun rose up, the Indian camp was in motion, and
soon after the red men with their captive were treading their way
across a prairie, boundless in extent, and beautiful as the
imagination can conceive.
For the hunters to follow on, was now a perilous undertaking. The
country was so open, that they could not keep near enough to watch the
movements of the Indians, without detection; and the only plan was, to
allow them to get out of sight, and to follow on to their trail,
hoping for some fortuitous occurrence.
To this plan Earthquake was opposed, and he urged the great risk that
must be run without the probability of doing any good. But Rolfe had
become so much interested in the fate of the captive, that he begged
his companion to continue the pursuit, if only for that day; and if no
opportunity should offer for assisting her, that he would then return.
“Were we in the forest,” said Earth, “I would willingly follow for a
week, but in an open prairie there is risk and no benefit; however,
since you so much desire it, follow on.”
“Earth, you talk of risk; you know war is not declared, and that the
Indians still profess peace. Now suppose we show ourselves and demand
the maiden, they will perhaps surrender her.”
“I thought of that,” said Earth;—“there is peace, 'tis true; but,
Rolfe, you see what sort of a peace 'tis. Were we to show ourselves,
instead of getting the maiden, we should have our scalps taken off.
They have done this to pay for some murder committed on 'em, and it
must lead to war, and sooner than we wish, if we are to remain long on
this side of the river; but if they carry her to 'Cumseh's camp, we
may venture, and if he be present, perhaps we may succeed.”
“Then,” said Rolfe, “let us follow for a time, and see where they are
going.”
“Agreed,” said Earth.
Suffering the Indians to advance for some distance, the hunters
crawled up to the fire which they had left, and there remained until
the party dwindled down to a few dark spots on the surface of the
prairie; when, rising up, they followed fearlessly on their trail.
“How beautiful are these plains,” said Rolfe. “Earth, do you blame the
Indians for not surrendering them?”
“No, I cannot say that I do: nor do I blame the whites for
endeavouring to take them away.”
“Why? are not the Indians the rightful owners, and have not their
fathers owned them time out of mind?”
“Rolfe, it will not do to argue this matter: we have treated the
Ingens so badly, that we cannot now live in peace, but are obliged to
add insult to injury. You know I've a great many grudges agin 'em, and
use them up on all occasions, for I well know they would have killed
me long before this, if they had had a good chance.”
“And because you have treated them badly, you think you ought to kill
them? Is that your argument?”
“No, I never argue about it; if one comes near me, and he gives me a
cause, I'm very apt to kill him. Somehow or other it is bred in me,
and I hate them; for you see they are always straggling along the
frontiers, and committing murders.”
“Yes, and you see our frontiers are always extending, so that the
Indians are compelled either to move or else to be continually at
war.”
“The fact is,” said Earth, “I believe I think as most of the whites
do, and that is, that these lands are too good for them; they should
be cultivated instead of lying waste for them to prowl over.”
“From present appearances,” said Rolfe, “it will be a long time before
they are cultivated; the Indians, I think, are preparing for a general
war.”
“They are,” said Earth; “and it would still be a hard fight if they
were all united; but their dissensions and our enmity, will root them
out at last.”
“I have often thought of this,” said Rolfe, “and also of Pontiac, the
Ottawa chieftain. He was a great man, and would have been great, even
among the whites. Had he lived on the sea-board when this country was
first discovered, a settlement would never have been formed by the
whites in his day.”
Nothing occurred worthy of note during the progress of the hunters
across the prairie. Not being able to mark particularly the movements
of the Indians, they merely followed on at a distance. It was now
evening, and a dark line was seen on the horizon in the direction the
Indians were travelling, which, increasing as they journeyed along,
proved to be a forest bounding the prairie.
“They must be near their journey's end,” said Earth. “See the smoke
how it hangs over yon wood; it is there they are encamped.”
But before we introduce the predatory party, let us again return to
the camp of Tecumseh. That chief having left some few hours before,
all was quiet, and his warriors now lay lounging idly about. The sun
was fast sinking in the west, the trees were casting their longest
shadows, and birds were hurrying by to roost, when from the depths of
the prairie came a scalp yell floating on the breeze.—All were silent,
for none knew its exact import, and in an instant the camp was again
in motion, and then again as still as if no living soul moved in it.
Anxiety was visible in every countenance. With heads inclined to the
prairie, and listening ears, they might have been mistaken for the
finest specimens of sculpture; so breathless, so mute, so intent were
they upon catching the wished for sound. Then arose another
yell;—still breathless they stood. Then another, and another, until
the eighth came passing by, drawn out much longer than the first; when
from the camp arose one universal shout, each person having found a
tongue; and then were seen bright faces, and happy hearts, and
congratulations that eight pale faces had gone to their long homes,
and then were bursts of joy, and many ran bounding forward to meet the
returning party.
While this was acting, the Prophet sat alone in his tent, for he never
mingled with the common herd, lest by so doing they should become too
much familiarized with his person. The cause of the scalp yell which
agitated the camp was also entirely unknown to him, but a smile played
over his countenance when the glad sound first reached his ears, and
he rubbed his hands and said, “mischief,—good!”—and after a few
moments summoned one of his attendants that he might learn its cause.
The messenger having retired, soon ascertained the particulars which
we have detailed, and returning, told them to the Prophet, who was
evidently pleased at the narration; but a moment's reflection told
him, that the affair, if not already known, must be hushed up, and not
a trace left which might lead to its discovery. “Eight gone,” said he
again, rubbing his hands; “it would bring war quick.” He also
recollected that his camp was generally believed by the whites to be a
place of rendezvous for all the murderers in the country, and he also
knew that it had often served them as a safe place of concealment from
the most diligent search. The present affair had been one of greater
magnitude than had occurred for a long time, and its publication would
lead at once to hostilities, for which he was not yet ripe. To prevent
this was the first object, knowing that, were the perpetrators of so
great a crime found in his camp, it would call down the unmitigated
vengeance of the whites, and involve in one common ruin the innocent
with the guilty. Furthermore, it was requisite that he should censure
their conduct, lest a further commission of such crimes should render
it impossible longer to preserve a show of peace, and yet in doing so,
policy required that he should cherish the hatred which they felt
against the whites. This was a delicate part to play; but throwing a
few skins around him, and assuming rather a more mysterious appearance
than usual, he adjusted himself in a seat, and ordered before him the
party who had just arrived from the Ohio. He was now nearly in the
plenitude of his power, and his words were law and none dared to
disobey them.
When Yanatah and his party were informed of the Prophet's commands,
clouds of fear passed over them, for they knew that they had acted
counter to his expressed orders, and committed an act which might
involve their tribe in war, and lead to its total extirpation. Hurried
away by revenge, these thoughts had not before suggested themselves;
but now that they were about to stand in the dread presence of the
Prophet, they all swept past, and they saw before them only the ruin
into which their rashness had plunged them, and trembled, not with
personal fear, but at that intangible something, which gave character
to the Prophet, and rendered him the dreaded object of their hopes as
well as fears. With downcast countenances, and in dogged silence, they
moved forward to his tent, and making humble obeisance stood uncovered
before him. He seemed not to regard their entrance, but remained for a
time muttering with his lips, and rolling his eyes towards heaven, as
if repeating some prayer, then turning on them a savage gaze, he
looked as though he would have looked them through. When his scrutiny
was over, he said, “why the scalp yell, Yanatah? Has the Great Spirit
sent red war upon our lands, or does the Prophet, his agent, preach
peace unto the tribes?”
Yanatah cast his eyes upon the ground, and was silent. “Speak,” said
the Prophet, “whence these cries of murder in the air? Who dares lift
the tomahawk? Shall battle rage, and I not know it; I, the chosen of
the Great Spirit? Speak!”
Yanatah paused for an instant, then nerving himself for the effort,
looked the Prophet in his mighty face, and spoke: “Chosen of the Great
Spirit, listen! A brother, dear to my heart, was slain by the whites.
I sought their wigwams, and demanded his murderer. They gave me
promises. I went again; they laughed me to scorn. His blood cried for
vengeance, and I sought it.” He was then silent, and the Prophet's
visage assumed rather a gentler aspect, and he said: “Thou hast done
wrong, Yanatah; the hatchet is buried; the Prophet of the Great Spirit
will tell the red men when to strike;” then, pausing for a moment, he
continued: “Did no pale face escape?”
“Not one,” answered Yanatah, “darkness was over the land; yet a
captive lives, and is here, a slave for my mother, who weeps for her
son.”
“It is well,” said the Prophet; then pausing again, and rolling his
eyes toward heaven, and muttering with his lips that those before him
might see he held converse with the Great Spirit, he continued with
renewed energy, “Yanatah, take thy band and away, far, far from our
camp. Blood red are thy steps, and the whites follow on, like hounds
on the track. Be seen no more, till a runner from the Prophet calls
thee to battle. Away!—”
At this speech, surprise sat upon the countenances of Yanatah and his
band. The Prophet had told them that they were pursued; though merely
a random assertion, the truth of which he feared, and uttered only to
serve his own purpose. They believed it, and were unable to account
for the manner in which he had received his information; in silence
they gazed at each other for a moment, when Yanatah, desirous to know
what was to become of the prisoner, pronounced the words “the
captive?” in an inquiring tone, for he durst not directly ask the
question. “Remains with me,” said the Prophet sternly. “Let her be
brought before me. Away. An hour hence, Yanatah must be without our
camp.”
There was no reply, and bowing humbly, they left his presence.
In the great excitement of the moment, the prisoner had been in a
measure forgotten, and when she first arrested public attention, “Red
Sky of the morning” was seen leaning over her, arranging her dress,
and doing many little offices of kindness. So resigned was she, so
worn with fatigue and suffering, that even the savages, upon beholding
her, manifested some slight feelings of sympathy, and the desire which
many cherished when she first entered the camp, of seeing her brought
to the stake, passed away.
When the order was given that she should be brought before the Prophet
to be disposed of by him, Miskwa, who felt assured that, as he had
always inculcated peace, he would not adjudge her to death, started to
his tent to entreat him to give her the prisoner for a slave. But upon
approaching near enough to catch a glimpse of his dark and lowering
countenance, she abandoned the idea, and returning, sought her mother
and begged her to prefer the request.
No one in the camp possessed more power than Netnokwa, and no one in
the camp in making a request, was more likely to succeed. Yet she saw
at a glance the difficulty in which the Prophet was placed. He could
not order the captive to death; it would not be in accordance with the
doctrines he now preached. He could not send her to the settlements;
she would tell her story, and excite the whites to immediate war; all
trace of the massacre must be concealed, and she knew not that under
these circumstances the Prophet would be willing to trust the prisoner
out of his own immediate sight. With a knowledge of these things, she
accompanied the maiden and stood with her alone in the presence of the
Prophet. The captive now, weeping bitterly, neither looked up nor
spoke; the world for her had no joys; her life was in the past. She
sobbed as if her heart would burst; yet the Prophet regarded her not,
but in his own tongue carried on a hurried dialogue with Netnokwa. Not
knowing the object of her visit, aware of the influence she wielded,
and also of her connexion with Tecumseh, he began to explain to her
the difficulty in which he was situated, the necessity there was for
concealment, and his fears that the captive would be searched for by
the whites; founding them on the sudden disappearance of Begwa, a
thing almost inexplicable on any other supposition than that the
whites were now on their steps. Saying this, he paid a compliment to
the wisdom and experience of Netnokwa, and asked her what was best to
be done. She stated the wishes of her daughter, and added, that should
the captive be given to her, they would set out with the first light
of day, and in the distant regions to which they were journeying there
would be no probability of her being discovered. At this piece of
intelligence, a feeling of pleasure was manifest in the countenance of
the Prophet, and again turning to Netnokwa, he hinted the ease with
which the maiden, when far away, might meet with a secret death.
Netnokwa seemed not to understand, and suppressed her feelings,
whatever they were. The death of the captive the Prophet could have
required of Yanatah, and his request would willingly have been
complied with; but he feared that the act, if intrusted to him, would
be viewed as a license for the commission of any other crime his
passions might suggest.
Being foiled in the attempt he had made to make Netnokwa connive at
the death of the prisoner, he yielded her up without annexing thereto
any condition; for it saved him the trouble of devising some other
mode to get rid of her, and he was also satisfied that, provided
Netnokwa and her daughter set out sufficiently early, it was the best
plan that could possibly be adopted.
Netnokwa having now succeeded in her request, took the hand of the
weeping girl, and was leaving the Prophet, when, in an authoritative
manner, he again urged her to set out early, and on no account to
leave any clue by which the maiden might be traced. Bowing, she
departed, and returned with the captive to her bower, and, though in
common with most of the Indians, she felt a fear of the Prophet, yet
her opinions of his character had been materially changed by the
interview.
With the first gray light of morning, Netnokwa and Miskwa rose and
began to prepare to set out upon their journey. Waking a warrior,
Netnokwa ordered him to bring their horses, and she began to get ready
her bundles, while Miskwa was sent to arouse the captive, to whom she
had extended all the little comforts of which she was possessed, and
whom she now found overpowered by fatigue, and sleeping away as
sweetly as innocence could do. But the hour having arrived at which
they were to set out, she bent close over her, and hesitated, as if
fearing to break a slumber so soft and quiet; when after a moment, she
said in her own beautiful language, “Great Spirit! can a pale face who
looks as she does, delight in hunting us as dogs, taking away our
lands, and driving us far from the graves of our fathers? it cannot
be.” Then, recollecting how lonely and unprotected was her situation,
she was still more softened in her manner, and laying her hands gently
on the captive, she continued, “Sweet Flower, arise, arise, we must be
moving.” Her mother, who saw how much her feelings were interested,
stood apart in silence waiting for her; when the maiden awoke she
gazed about her with a vacant stare, and rubbed her eyes and looked
again, and when the recollection of her situation crossed her mind,
she called upon her father and mother, and began to weep.
Miskwa was now all tenderness, and throwing her arms around the
maiden, she spoke as though each word was understood, saying, “Sweet
Flower, weep not, I will love thee, I will take care of thee, thou
shalt dwell with me.” Even Netnokwa was affected by the scene, but she
was anxious to be off, for the rosy light of morn was now just peering
forth, and she ordered her horses to her tent. Miskwa expressed a wish
that “Sweet Flower,” for so she continued to call the maiden, should
ride with her; in accordance with it, both were mounted on one horse,
while Netnokwa on another leading the way, plunged at once into the
forest.
She had continued her journey for nearly an hour, when, counter to the
expectations of the Prophet, and also to the intention with which she
sat out, she resolved not to proceed directly to her place of
destination, but first to visit some friends on the Wabash, whom she
had not seen for many years; where her wish was to stay only a few
weeks, and then proceed on her journey. In adopting this resolution,
she saw the difficulty she would have in carrying along the captive,
and that she would increase the probability of her being discovered.
But then the point to which she was bound was far from the borders,
and she trusted to her own wisdom for the power of concealing the
captive. This incident, though seemingly trifling within itself, was a
matter of much moment, since it was unknown to the Prophet, and his
chief object in giving the captive to Netnokwa, was, that in her being
carried at once to a distant region, she might the more effectually be
concealed.
CHAPTER VI.
——“But now he kneels,
And, like a scout when listening to the tramp
Of horse or foot, lays his experienced ear
Close to the ground, then rises and explores,
Then kneels again, and, his short rifle gun
Against his cheek, waits patiently.”
ROGERS.
The hunters, whom we left pursuing the Indians, remained so far behind
as to lose sight of them in the open prairie, and following on until
appearances indicated their near approach to the camp, took it for
granted that thither they were bound. They were afraid to enter along
with a party so much excited, lest they, to conceal all traces of
their crime, should also put them to death, and crouching down in the
grass, resolved not to venture nearer, until darkness should allow
them to approach it in safety.
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “how is this thing likely to end?”
“Rather squally,” said Earth; “most probably with the loss of our
hair.”
“You don't think so; they surely will not dare do it, they must know
it will lead to war.”
“You did not think they would dare do what they did on the Ohio.”
“No, I did not; if I had heard it, as I hear other rumors of families
disappearing and never being heard of, I should have regarded it as an
idle story.”
“Now the truth is,” said Earth, “they'll dare do any thing. They'll
give you one hand in friendship, while with the other, they put a
knife between your ribs. We are in a ticklish situation, Rolfe, and
I'm not so sure we shan't be used up.”
“How? what?”—said Rolfe, quickly.
“Why, these devils must conceal this thing; you see they've been
hurrying along, that they might keep dark; now, were we to go up and
demand the girl, and tell 'em of the murder, we should be butchered or
roasted before you could take a chew of red-streak. They would'nt wish
prettier fun, and instead of lying upon this soft grass, we should be
dancing round a pole, with a parcel of lightwood splinters in us.”
“Earth, this is rather too serious a mater to joke about; but, if what
you say of Tecumseh be true, he will not suffer it.”
“I told you,” said Earth, “what people say, not what I know of
'Cumseh; for myself, I have no confidence in any of 'em, I never
knowed one that could be trusted; its just as natural for them to lie,
and do every thing that is bad, as 'tis for a gourd to have a bitter
taste.”
“Then it may be as bad in the morning,” said Rolfe, “as it is now.”
“No, they'll have time to cool a little,” said Earth, “but I'll slip
round after a while, as soon as I think it safe to do so, and see what
I can make of 'em.”
“Well, be cautious, Earth, for I should hate for them to get hold of
you.”
“You let an ‘old coon’ alone,” said Earth, “for I reckon that perhaps,
I should hate it a little worser than you.”
“Earth, I'll tell you a notion that strikes me.”
“What is it?”
“Why, that this party has not gone to the camp.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because, if Tecumseh is there, they would be afraid to go, for people
generally say that he sticks to the treaty, and discountenances these
things; and what every body says, you know, is right apt to have some
truth in it. Another reason. If the Prophet is there, they would not
go, because he preaches peace, and you know what a disturbance we have
already had, about his refusing to give up a murderer.”
“There is something in what you say, Rolfe, but these Ingens are sly
dogs; they are mighty tricky. If they are not here, where could they
have gone?”
“They may have avoided the camp,” said Rolfe, “and have gone up the
Wabash, where they are always assembling, or else have turned off, and
gone to the west.”
“We'll see presently,” said Earth, and stretching themselves out they
awaited the approach of night.
Several hours had now passed, when Earth rousing himself from a
troubled sleep, left Rolfe, and proceeded cautiously to reconnoitre
the camp. Cutting an armful of long prairie grass, and wrapping it
about his body, so as to conceal, in some measure, the outlines of his
person, he approached fearlessly until the fires of the Indians showed
their exact position; when, crouching down, he gently stretched
himself out, and began to pull his body slowly along. Feeling before
him, he carefully removed every stick or reed which, if broken, would
make the least noise, and crawling cautiously, continued his perilous
task. Stopping every moment, he listened with suspended breath, to
discover if his approach was heard, and proceeded in this way until he
reached the southern edge of the encampment, where, by drawing his
head down beneath his shoulders, and by a proper arrangement of the
grass, a species of tact only known to a genuine hunter, he almost
imperceptibly rose up, and appeared darkly shadowed forth as an old
stump. At a few yards, and just before him were reposing a group of
Indians half dosing, and whiffing in silence, their fumes of smoke to
the midnight air. Earth gazed upon them for a short time and soon saw
that from them, nothing was to be learned. Then, although not even the
gentle waving of the grass disturbed the scene, he disappeared as
though he had sunk into the ground.
Then escaping to some distance, he rose, and forming an extensive
circuit, began in the same cautious manner to approach the camp on its
northern boundary, where was situated the bower of Netnokwa. Having
arrived as near as he wished, he stretched himself out and lay, to all
appearance, a log upon the ground. Here, that old dame was croning a
low ditty; Earth listened with the utmost attention, and endeavoured
to catch some of her words, hoping by their import to find out who she
was, when suddenly rising up, she left her bower, and as chance would
have it, directed her steps towards him. At her approach, Earth
involuntary pressed himself closer to the ground, but as Netnokwa had
come out to learn the hour of the night, she saw him not. Stopping for
a moment, within a few feet of him, she gazed at the stars, read the
hour, plain as on the face of a dial, and returned. Soon after this,
Earth slipped away, and proceeded with equal caution toward a cabin or
hut, which he saw rising up in another direction on the outer border
of the camp. Upon coming near this, he personated the body of a
blasted tree; stooping low enough to avoid the dark shadows of the
forest, you might have seen the outline of its bare limbs in relief on
the horizon. These he had picked up as he moved along, and with the
addition of the prairie grass which surrounded him, his figure was so
much changed as to be scarcely distinguishable. The hut which he had
now approached was that of the Prophet, who was chaunting in a wild
melody, though in a low and suppressed voice, songs of vengeance.
Here Earth remained a short time, and as bending forward, he listened
more eagerly, to catch the Prophet's words; the motion of the tree
which he personated was the same as if there had swept over it a
gentle breeze. A few moments passed and he disappeared.
There was now a rustling of the prairie grass, and Earthquake, gliding
along, seated himself near Rolfe.
“What tidings, Earth?” said Rolfe, in a hurried tone.
“No news of the captive,” said Earth, “and moreover, the camp is
quiet.”
“Whose camp is it?”
“The Prophet's.”
“How do you know?”
“From the humbug which hangs over his tent,” said Earth, “and a noise
that I heard, which I suppose he intended for a prayer, but it sounded
to my ears, very much like the whining of my old bitch Jupiter.”
“What do you mean by humbug over his tent, Earth?”
“Why, I could'nt make it out exactly, but it seemed to me that there
were rags and skins strung together in curious shapes, hanging all
about it.”
“Did none see you?”
“No, not one; there was an old squaw who came out star gazing; she
mistook me for a log, and had like to have stumbled over me, but all
went well.”
“And you did not see the captive,” continued Rolfe.
“No; and every thing seems so quiet, that I begin to doubt if these
devils from the river went there. If they had, they would have been
talking that thing over one half the night, and showing their scalps
the other half.”
“Then, if they have not,” said Rolfe, “the Prophet will aid us in our
search, and even lend assistance to rescue the maiden.”
“It will be to his interest to do so,” said Earth, “and if he gives us
any real help, it may serve to cover over that ugly trick of his, in
refusing to give up that fellow who killed the storekeeper. But,
Rolfe, I don't believe in Ingens strong as I do in the Bible. I hate
'em; Ingens and 'possums are very deceitful.”
“Is there no danger, however, in entering the camp in the morning,
Earth?”
“No; none, I reckon; we will try it all events:—come now, hush, Rolfe,
let's go to sleep.”
“I can't help thinking of that girl,” said Rolfe, “some how or other
she seems to haunt me. I keep fancying I have seen her before.”
“Seen her, indeed,” said Earth, “where did you see her?”
“It seems to me,” answered Rolfe, “that she is like a girl I used to
know in Petersburg. But then,” said he, pausing, “her father was rich
and happy.”
“And because you left him rich and happy,” said Earth, “you think she
must have floated down the Ohio in a flat boat.”
“No, it is that which perplexes me,” said Rolfe.
“Well, it ought to bother you,” said Earth, “now I feel for that gal
just as much as you do, and if she can be found, I mean to find her
and take care of her. I don't care who she is. I expect she is some
poor girl whose daddy couldn't live in the old states, and thought he
would float out here and squat in a cane brake. You know corn is
mighty scarce there on light land. But nothing will satisfy you,
Rolfe, but you must make her the real grit, one you used to love; and
with plenty of money, make her float all about here, looking for you,
I suppose. Come, let's go to sleep.”
Rolfe, who felt the force of Earth's ridicule, was silent, and a few
moments found them slumbering quietly.
Morning was far advanced, when the hunters leaving their cover
proceeded fearlessly to the camp. They had nearly reached it, and were
not yet discovered; but as soon as observed, there was passing to and
fro with quickened pace, and several Indians entered the tent of the
Prophet.
“See, Rolfe,” said Earth, “there is the tent of their mighty Prophet,
that back hut which rises up, covered with skins.”
“I see it,” said Rolfe, and they walked into the camp.
The Indians were either sitting or lounging about, and paying no
particular attention to their entrance, maintained the most perfect
silence. Earth dropped the butt of his rifle on the ground, and
leaning on its band coolly surveyed the group before him; but they
spoke not, and believing that they were waiting for him to speak, he
addressed in the Shawanee tongue the oldest before him, and demanded
to be led into the presence of the Prophet. The Indian addressed,
seemed not to comprehend the question, but upon Earth's repeating it,
he said “umph!” and spoke in an under tone to a companion near him,
who instantly rose, disappeared for a short time, and returning,
motioned the hunters to follow. They obeyed in silence, and
accompanying the messenger, soon stood in the presence of the Prophet.
He was sitting on a buffalo skin, which served as a floor for his
tent, which was unfurnished, if furniture consists in the comforts of
life. A bowl of dry peas, which, from his appearance, formed his only
sustenance, for his countenance was lean and haggard, together with
several little bags well stuffed and closely tied, were all that at
first view met the sight. But upon closer observation, a wicker basket
of tolerable size was seen peeping forth from a bundle of skins which
had evidently been placed there to conceal it, and in this no doubt
was contained the medicine bag with which he worked his incantations.
His person was wrapped in a blanket, and muffled up as closely as
though it had been the dead of winter, for his sacred person was not
to be gazed at by vulgar eyes. Still one might judge that an amulet
was worn on his neck, from seeing the tooth of an alligator in the
claws of an eagle. Eyeing the hunters for a time, he turned to address
them, while they, disturbed by a slightly rustling noise, found to
their surprise, that they were surrounded by a numerous band of Indian
warriors, armed with rifles, tomahawks, and war clubs.
“Stand it like a man,” whispered Earth to Rolfe, “there must be no
back out now.” And as he said so, the Prophet began.
“We are glad to see our brothers, the long rifles, in the camp of the
red men. It tells us there is peace in the land; we always preach
peace. Why come our brothers? are they hungry, let them speak, they
shall have food.” He was silent, and Earth addressing him in his own
language, said, “I speak to the prophet, and grieve to tell him that
bad men are abroad. Many years ago we buried the tomahawk, but the
Ingens have dug it up. They have burned a big canoe, and the river is
red with the blood of the pale faces, and their spirits cry for
vengeance. They sprung upon them like panthers upon deer. They gave
them no notice, they killed all but one, a young woman; she is left
alone and they dragged her to this camp; we followed on her tracks,
and come to demand her and carry her back. The Prophet is great, he
preaches peace, he is more wise than the red men, and tells them what
is good for them. He will have the bad Ingens tried, and send them to
the whites, and he will give up the maiden to the long rifles who wait
for her, and make strong again the bands of peace. The hunter has
spoken.”
Earth had no sooner commenced his reply, than the Prophet started
wildly, as if receiving the most unexpected tidings, and increasing
surprise continued to gather in his countenance, until Earth's remarks
were finished, when answering quickly, he said, “My voice is almost
silent, and my eyes are turned to tears with what our brother, the
long rifle, tells me. The Great Spirit bids me preach peace to the red
men; and I beg them in his name not to go to war. But there are bad
red men, as there are bad white men. They will not take our advice.
The Prophet must say, our brother, the long rifle, speaks false, when
he says that bad men are in our camp. The Indians who did wrong, would
be afraid of the Prophet, and they would not bring the young woman
here. They know we would tie them, and send them to the settlements,
as we have always done, and would send along the young woman too. We
wish our brothers, the whites, would always follow our example. If an
Indian kill a white man, we give him up; he is hung. If a white man
kill an Indian we never hear of him.”
So soon as the prophet ceased, Earth turned to Rolfe, and repeated to
him what had been said. Deep and inexpressible disappointment settled
over his features; but after a moment, he said, “Earth, does he not
know where it is probable they have gone, and can he not tell the
tribe to which they belong?”
“I will see,” said Earth, and turning to the Prophet, he said,
“Father, thou art great in wisdom, and the Manito tells thee the
secrets of the world. Wilt thou make glad our hearts, by showing us
the path along which the bad Ingens have travelled? The long rifle
will thank thee, and say, the Prophet is the friend of white men.”
Pleased by these remarks, the Prophet with more gentleness in his
manner than he had before manifested, said, “We are sorry our brother
said that bad Indians were in our camp. It made our heart heavy to
hear it. We have nothing to do with bad men. We are very sorry for
what has happened, we are grieved for the young woman, and would show
her to our brothers if we could. Our eyes are opened by what our
brother has told us, and we will tell him what we think. It was last
evening that the Prophet was alone in his tent, praying to the Great
Spirit to tell him what to do, that he might make his red children
happy, when afar off he saw red men crossing the prairie. He thought
they were hunting, and was surprised that they did not come to see
him. The Prophet thinks they were the bad men, and they feared to
come.”
“The Prophet is good, he will show their path to the hunters,” said
Earth.
“The long rifle,” answered the Prophet, “follows the game in the
woods. He can find the tracks of the bad men. A runner from the Wabash
came yesterday to see the Prophet. He said that bad red men were
gathering together, and that the pale faces were trembling. We like
not these things, and sent our brother Tecumseh to make them hunt the
deer far away from the border. The Prophet thinks the bad men have
gone there.”
“The Prophet is good,” said Earth, “he is the friend of the long
rifles;” then turning to Rolfe, he told him of all he had learned.
“Then let us leave,” said Rolfe, “I shall breathe more freely, and we
can resolve what to do, when we get out of sight of these grim and
statue-like faces.” Earth then turning to the Prophet, said, “The long
rifles wish peace to the Prophet, and will return to their wigwams.”
“They will go,” he replied, “after they have broken our bread, and
smoked with us the pipe of peace.” He then motioned his hand, and with
its wave the warriors disappeared, and a few moments after, an Indian
girl approached with a rude breakfast, though composed of the choicest
game of the prairie; and the hunters having partaken of it, since to
have refused would have been regarded as an insult, smoked with the
Prophet, and bidding him adieu, received many kind wishes. They were
then conducted without his tent, and left to shape their course as
inclination might suggest.
Having gotten clear of his camp, Rolfe said, “well, Earth, come, tell
us what is best to be done.”
“Why, make tracks for the settlements as fast as we can.”
“And leave the poor girl to her fate?”
“Yes; what else can we do? If what the Prophet says be true, they have
carried her up the Wabash, and I don't know that we could find her.
Moreover, the Ingens are constantly skirmishing in that quarter, and
they might jirk it into us.” “I think there's a storm brewing, and
have my doubts if this Prophet don't know more of this thing than he
has told us. So I think we had better return, and tell all we know,
and the governor can then do about it as he chooses.”
“We will of course tell,” said Rolfe, “and unless these Indians are
given up, I have no doubt it will lead to war, but I do not believe
that the Prophet knows any thing about them or the captive, other than
what he has told us. If he had, he would not have made us smoke and
eat with him.”
“Come along, Rolfe,” said Earth, “when you live in these woods as long
as I have, you wont believe every thing an Ingen tells you. You'll
find out, as I said before, that they are mighty like 'possums;” and
bending their way they began to tramp back in the direction they had
come.
The sun was fast sinking below the horizon when leaving the path they
were travelling, they turned off into the tall grass of the prairie,
and using the same precautions as though they were followed by a
warlike party, passed the night. With the light of morn they again
resumed their journey.
The day had now several hours advanced, when in passing through the
forest and amusing themselves with idle dialogue, their attention was
arrested by an unusual number of carrion birds.
“Ah!” said Earth, “I wish every red devil was in the same fix. I
suppose you know, Rolfe, why those birds are collected?”
“Yes,” answered he, “I well recollect, it reminds me again of that
poor girl. I wish I could forget her.”
“Well,” said Earth, “I will go and bring the pack he was carrying; who
knows but from it we may learn who she is.”
“Well, do,” said Rolfe, eagerly, “I had forgotten it, but now I am all
anxiety to see it, come, make haste, Earth, I will walk on, you get
it, and overtake me.”
“Very well,” said Earth, who leaving him, soon found the secreted
bundle, and bore it along to his friend. Seeking the first spot which
presented an agreeable shade and a seat, they stopped and proceeded at
once to examine its contents. It was made up chiefly of blankets and
articles of clothing, among which were some belonging to a female
wardrobe, which were carefully drawn out, and laid aside. Rolfe's
anxiety increased as he inspected each article, for they served to
confirm somewhat the vague suspicion his mind had already adopted. The
search continued, yet his fears were not diminished, nor was his
suspicion much strengthened, when drawing out a cambric handkerchief,
he saw traced on it, in his own hand writing, the words, “R. Rolfe.”
Had a ball entered his heart, the pang would not have been greater
than upon the recognition of those words. He grew pale and almost
livid, and said, in a scarcely articulate voice, “Earth, it is she, we
exchanged handkerchiefs the day I left her;” and with an agonized
face, he gazed fixedly on the words “R. Rolfe.” Not a tear came to his
relief. Earth kindly endeavoured to console him, by combating his
suspicions with such reasons as his mind suggested, and then examined
again every article of the bundle. There was not one but would as well
have belonged to any other person. The handkerchief, however, had
already carried conviction to Rolfe's mind. But with Earth's arguments
against the probability that one rich and happy as Rolfe represented
the lady of his love, should have emigrated, hope began to dawn in the
shape of uncertainty. “Yes,” cried Rolfe, “I left her rich and
contented, surrounded with all the comforts of civilized life, and
aware of the unsettled state of the west. Her father even ridiculed
the idea of my emigrating.”
“Then, rest sure, there is some mistake, it cannot be her,” said
Earth, and the thought that the captive maiden was not his first and
only love took possession of his mind. But it was only for a moment,
for when he recollected the face and figure of her, of whom he had
only caught a passing glance; and then when he gazed upon the wardrobe
spread out before him, and saw the handkerchief with his own name,
which he himself had traced, and believed, from the manner in which it
had come into her possession, that she would never have parted with
it, conviction forced itself upon him and his only relief was tears.
Then sprung up her light form before him, then crowded thick upon his
memory associations of former days, and he saw her only in those
moments in which she had been kind to him, or else when touching her
guitar, with so much feeling and tenderness in her countenance, so
much _naiveté_ in her manner, that all those graces which give power
to females, seemed to settle upon her without any effort of her own.
And when these recollections swept over his mind, and then, when her
present situation with all its startling horrors followed on, his
heart grew deadly sick, and nature seemed almost to yield to the
struggle. It was like the whirlwind which lasts for a moment, but
during that moment, threatens to annihilate every thing which opposes
its progress. So was it with Rolfe, the storm of passion and grief had
vented itself, threatening for a time to unthrone reason, yet it had
passed, and he now remained comparatively calm and unmoved, and was
again capable of action. To an uninterested spectator this scene would
have afforded some amusement. For Earthquake could not exactly
comprehend the cause of Rolfe's grief, yet sympathized so deeply, that
when he beheld the struggles of his friend, and saw tears burst forth;
involuntarily they rushed from his own eyes like a spring flood. A few
moments and they ceased to flow; yet another struggle from Rolfe, a
flow of feeling, and Earthquake's floodgates were again opened.
“Come, Rolfe,” said he, blubbering, “no more of this, let us be
moving, for my eyes leak like a cracked gourd, but the way I'll pay
some of 'em for this, will be a caution for the future.”
“Where do you propose going, Earth?”
“Any where you please.”
“Shall we return to the camp, and follow on after the maiden?”
“No, I think we can fall on some better plan.”
“Then give it to us.”
“The only hope I see,” said Earth, “of finding the maiden, is to go up
the Wabash, and learn where the gathering is, of which the Prophet
spoke. The party he said were probably going there, and I think so
too. If we can hear any thing of them, we will get some help and
rescue her. This is the best plan that I know of, and if you say so,
we will go along at once.”
“Thank you, Earth,” said Rolfe, “I will trust every thing to you, you
know best what to do. But think you they will kill her?”
“No,” answered Earth, “if they intended to kill her, why didn't they
do it at the river? it would have saved them a good deal of trouble.
No, they will give her to some old squaw, who will perhaps take her in
the place of a child she has lost.”
“Then, Earth, let's go, for I am almost dead to know something more
about her.”
“Agreed,” said he, “but I think you are scaring yourself before you
are hurt. I don't believe it's the same gal you think it is. But it
makes no difference, Rolfe, who she is, if we can help her, we ought
to do it; and I am determined to go on.”
“Earth, the more I think of it, the more sure am I, that she is the
same, for in no other way can I account for finding my handkerchief.”
“Well, now there are forty ways in which I can account for it,” said
Earth, “she might have lost it, or some other gal might have stole it,
or some servant might have wiped it up, or she might have give it
away, or,”—
“Stop, Earth,” said Rolfe, shaking his head sorrowfully, “I don't
believe she would have done that.”
“Then come along,” replied Earth, “we shall see,” and a few moments
after they were already on their march, bending their course
North-east.
The following morning the air was mild and soft, and the sun shining
out, sparkled in the dew drops. The hunters felt its cheering
influence; their spirits became buoyant as the dewy grass which
rebounded from beneath their footsteps, and they continued their
journey amusing themselves with border stories. They had not ceased to
feel for the maiden, nor were they at all unmindful of the errand upon
which they were going, but, as it often happens, the mind, when long
and painfully depressed, breaks through the thraldom which confines
it, and assumes suddenly a degree of cheerfulness sometimes mistaken
for levity, and which, when contrasted with its previous melancholy,
seems an enigma in its character. I do not know that this idea is
clearly expressed, nor do I know how to account for the fact, yet
often have I seen persons suffering under intense grief, without any
apparent cause become wild with joy.
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “we might just as well laugh as cry; 'twill do as
much good.”
“That is very true, Earth, but at what shall we laugh?”
“Oh! I don't know; you spin us a yarn.”
“No! Earth, you are the man for yarns; give us one of your hunting
stories.”
“A 'coon hunt?”
“Yes.”
“No, I won't give you a 'coon hunt. I'll give you a bear fight.”
“Well, give us a bear fight.”
“I know so many, I hardly know which one to tell. Did I ever tell you
how near a panther was using me up.”
“No, give us that.”
“Then you shall hear it. It happened while I was living down by the
big swamp. I was sitting in my cabin one night alone, thinking of a
heap of things, and not thinking of much neither, when a notion struck
me, that I should like some 'possum and hominy for supper. Well, I
wa'nt hungry much, but the coals,—they were these large oak coals, you
know; they looked so hot and clean that I thought it was a pity to let
them burn out, as they were so nice for roasting. So I gits up. Says
I, if there's a 'possum in these capes I'll have him, and calling
along my old bitch Jupiter, I started out.”
“But,” said Rolfe, “Jupiter is of the masculine gender.”
“Do what!” said Earth.
“Jupiter,” said Rolfe, “must be the name of a dog, and not of a
bitch.”
“Well, now I wan't speaking as to that; but if I don't know the name
of my dog, who does? I tell you she was named Jupiter, and if you dont
want to hear the story, I'll drop it.”
“Oh! by no means, Earth, go on.”
“Well, as I was saying, I called up old Jupiter and started;—the thing
seemed to know directly I got out, what it was I wanted, for the way
that she began to poke her nose in among the bushes was to the 'possum
family quite curious. You see I had left my gun and took 'long with me
an axe, and old Jupe seeing that, would no more have noticed a bear or
a deer, than she would have done a horse. Well, I had'nt been out long
before she opened. The trail was right warm, and she streaked it: I
could'nt see her, but she fairly whistled as she came by me, and the
first thing I know'd, she treed, from a mile and a half to two miles
off. I started to go to her, but I soon found out from the vig'rous
manner in which she barked, that it was no 'possum, but an old 'coon;
and as old Jupe was never known to leave a tree, I concluded to go
back.”
“Well,” said Rolfe, laughing; “that is the way the panther used you
up, is it?”
“Now, Rolfe, that's no way to interrupt a man; if you want to hear the
story, you must let me tell it in my own way.”
“I beg pardon, Earth, I did not at the moment recollect, that a hunter
must tell all the particulars of a story, or he will tell none of
them.”
“Well, that is a fact; if there are three or four out after a bear,
and they kill him, when they get around a fire, they must all tell how
it happened; each in his own way.”
“Well, as I was saying, I concluded to go back, and started off. It
was some distance to my cabin, and after getting on a piece, the night
was so very moony and pleasant, that I thought I had just as well
sleep out; and, upon looking around, I discovered a piece of oak bark,
about seven or eight feet long, which came off a large tree, and
which, if shut up at each end, would make something like a trough,
and, if turned oven, would make a safe cover, so I wheeled it over and
crawled under.”
“Why did you take such precaution?”
“Because the panthers were mighty bad, and if you were out by
yourself, and did not have a fire, they would crawl over you to a
certainty. Did I never tell you how one lit upon me while I was
stooping down drinking out of my spring. You know where my spring is?”
“Yes, I know where your spring is; but go on with your first story.”
“Oh, yes; where did I leave off? Old Jupe had treed”——
“No, you told that,” said Rolfe, “you had just crawled under a
trough.”
“Ah! I recollect; but, Rolfe, I wish you would'nt call it a trough,
for I told you plainly that it was a piece of bark,—oak bark
too,—seven or eight feet long;—came off a right smart tree.”
“I am all attention, Earth.”
“Well, I had crawled under,—every thing was very quiet,—there was no
noise, except every now and then Old Jupe would give a short yelp, as
if she was tired waiting; and I had fallen into a sort of doze, when I
was waked up by something scratching at the bark; my waking up made
some noise, and it went off a little distance, and then I could hear a
low restless whine, and hear it moving its tail. I knew by the noise,
'twas a panther. Said I, there will be tough work to night, and just
as I said so to myself, the thing lit all in a heap, right over my
breast, on the bark; the bark creened up a little, but I soon gathered
it down and gave a whoop; the panther squalled, and cut dirt, and
which was the worst scared, I never knowed. Well, I hugged the bark
down agin, and thought all was quiet, and was getting into another
doze, when what should I hear, but that same low whine, and with the
whine came the panther, right upon the top of the bark agin. I pulled
it down, and whooped like thunder, and the panther went off a little
way, and screamed. I heard another one answer it, and, shortly after,
I could hear them both walking round me. I now whooped agin and agin,
and made a big noise; but they did'nt mind me, and if they did, it was
only for a few moments; and then they would come back and scratch
around the bark. All I could do was to keep them from turning it over,
and hard work it was. I never slept a wink more that night; but worked
hard until day, when they went away, and I got out;—and wa'nt I mad?
Yes, I was swelled up like one of these high land moccasins. I do
believe I could have poisoned any thing by biting it. Old Jupe was
still at the tree, and I made right for her; and did'nt I make that
old 'coon pay for all I suffered that night.”
“Well, now, Rolfe, give us a story, you have heard mine.”
“Thank you, Earth, I can't tell stories; but I would have let that
'coon off.”
Thus whiling away their time, they journeyed along through a country
as beautiful and wild as boundless forests and extensive prairies
could make it, and to all appearance untenanted, save by deer and
buffalo, together with the hungry howling tenants of the waste.
Avoiding the high bluffs and rivers, where the Indian villages were
most likely to be situated, they travelled through the wildest portion
of the country, and continued their journey in safety, governing their
direction by the sun when it shone, and at other times by the moss,
which indicated to them the north, as plainly as it could have been
marked out by the magnet.
For subsistence, they had many wild fruits, and choice of all the game
the country afforded. Herds of deer and buffalo, would browze along
before them, seemingly fearless of the hunters, in the universal
stillness of the scene around them. Yet when the sharp crack of the
rifle was heard, and some selected victim fell prostrate to the earth,
the remainder, both deer and buffalo, looking about them, and snorting
wildly, bounded forward until they were lost to the view. Game was so
abundant, that they rarely shot it, except at meal times, when a hasty
fire was kindled, and a repast served up from the yet reeking carcass.
In a march through a country so wild and unsettled, there must have
occurred many incidents sufficiently striking to impart an interest to
our narrative; the sleeping out, night after night, in an enemy's
country, surrounded only by wild beasts, or the still wilder savages;
their long journey, and the loneliness of their situation, all
conspired to create sensations, which are never felt under other
circumstances.
On an evening, after a long day's march, the hunters selected a spot,
whereon to pass the night, and while Earthquake prepared a fire, Rolfe
was sent out to get a supper from a few buffalo which were seen
feeding at no great distance. Moving along cautiously, he was enabled
to approach sufficiently near, and having selected as his victim one
which was separated from the herd, he fired; the ball entered, yet the
animal seemed to regard it not, and Rolfe proceeded to load again. But
no sooner, in order to do so, did he stand out from the tree behind
which he was concealed, than the buffalo made at him; for security, he
again retreated behind it, and the bark flew off, as the enraged
animal dashing by, grazed its side. Turning as quickly as possible, it
again bounded towards him, and for some minutes, the struggle was kept
up with the most determined spirit, Rolfe only saving himself from
destruction by means of the tree. The animal, after many fruitless
attempts, became tired, and Rolfe seizing the opportunity, retreated
to some distance, from which, still within rifle shot, he kept up a
regular fire. The buffalo received it with great sullenness, only
twitching his muscles as the balls plumped him, or else shaking them
from his matted forehead, as he would have done a buzzing fly.
Earthquake attracted by the constant firing, had set out in search of
Rolfe, whom he found posted at a safe distance from the buffalo, and
each eyeing the other, with the most marked ferocity. He had shot
until he began to think his rifle had lost all virtue; and upon
Earth's coming up, detailed to him the narrow escape he had made, and
also his inability to bring him down.
“I am surprised at you,” said Earth, “you have thrown away balls
enough to kill half a dozen Ingens, and I had much rather go without
any supper, than that you should have made so great a waste.”
“Waste or not,” said Rolfe, “I have never had a harder battle than I
have had with that buffalo, and if it takes every ball I have, I will
not leave here until he drops.”
“Then pass me your rifle, for I am tired waiting, and if we have not a
steak soon broiling on the coals, from any part of him that you
please, my name is not Earthquake.”
Rolfe did as desired, and Earthquake, having thrown up the rifle,
before its report was heard, the buffalo had sunk upon the ground, and
already lay quivering in the agonies of death.
“Earth, where did you shoot him?”
“In the heart, to be sure.”
“Well, if in the buffalo, that lies in the same place that it does in
other animals, I have shot into it half a dozen times.”
“Ah! there is where you have missed it, the heart of a buffalo lies at
least six inches lower than it does in any other animal;—you should
have shot it just under the fore legs. Now mind this, Rolfe, and it
will save you many a ball, which you can stick into an Ingen to much
greater advantage.”
Having stripped up the hide, and cut therefrom as much as they wanted;
they repaired to their fire, where they supped, and slept away the
night.
CHAPTER VII.
“Why art thou thus in beauty cast,
O lonely, loneliest flower!
When the sound of song hath never passed,
From human hearth or bower?
I pity thee for thy wasted bloom,
For thy glory's fleeting hour,
For the desert place, thy living tomb,
O lonely, loneliest flower!”
MRS. HEMANS.
Nearly a month had passed away, and the hunters might be seen on the
lands of the Wabash, where they searched every avenue for information,
which promised the least hope. Telling their story to the border
settlers, they readily obtained assistance, and ranged the country for
miles in every direction, yet nothing could they learn tending either
to allay their fears, or remove their suspicions. The greatest
excitement prevailed in consequence of several murders having been
committed a short time before, by either party, and nothing was heard
but threats of vengeance. To quiet this disturbance, and keep the
Indians from breaking out, Tecumseh had been sent, and in accordance
with that deep policy which enabled him so long to conceal his
intentions, he had succeeded in persuading them to accompany him, and
had gone, no one knew whither. With the departure of this party, went
from the hunters all hope of finding the maiden. They would have gone
to the residence of the Prophet, which was still higher up on the
Wabash, but they had left him encamped with a roving band afar off in
the prairies; and thither he in his wisdom had gone, to avoid the
storm of excitement raging immediately on the frontier, which he
himself had raised, and which, by means of his brother, he was now
endeavouring to quell.
The hunters possessing now no clue whatever by which they could hope
to find the maiden; and the unsettled state of the frontier rendering
it dangerous as well as unpleasant to remain longer where they were,
determined to return at once to Kentucky. The suspicion of Rolfe, that
the lost maiden was she whom he had known in former days; and she whom
alone he had ever loved, preyed upon his mind, until, what was before
doubt, now almost became certainty. Earth did all in his power to
cheer him, but his exertions produced scarcely any effect; worn with
fatigue, and disappointed in the hope which had so long sustained him,
that of finding her he loved, he became gloomy, and spent his time,
brooding over visions of the past. This state of mind brought on a
burning fever, and Earth, with a hope of recruiting him, rested on the
bank of a streamlet which murmuring along, wound its way through the
forest, and finally contributed its quota to the waters of the Wabash.
The intense anguish which Rolfe suffered, added to the fever, produced
delirium, and while labouring under its effects, he gave vent to the
smothered feelings of his bosom. Earth watched over him, not with the
care of a friend, but with affection deep as that of a mother, bathed
his heated temples, supplied all his wants, and still held out the
hope of recovering her, who was the cause of all his sufferings. It
was the second day, and Earth was still watching over his friend,
when, approaching him from the direction in which his own journey lay,
walked with hurried steps, one whose garb proclaimed him a border
settler. He approached the hunters, and after the first civilities
were over, addressing himself to Earth, said, in an audible whisper,
“I've got him,” and turning, as he said so, peeped over his shoulder.
“Who?” said Earth.
“An Ingen,” was the brief reply, in a still lower whisper, and he
looked back again.
“What do you keep looking back for,” said Earth, “afraid of a dead
Ingen?”—
“No,” whispered the stranger, “I'm in a hurry, good morning;” and he
hurried away.
“There, Earth,” said Rolfe, who had been roused by his presence, “you
see the cause of the hostilities of the Indians; that fellow, most
probably without the least cause, has shot one whom he caught out
hunting.”
“Then, there's a devil less;” said Earth, “But I don't believe I would
have cared much if the Ingen had killed him, for he is good for
nothing; you see he is scared now.”
Soothing Rolfe, Earth gradually drew him into conversation, and
finding that his fever was leaving him, obtained his consent to
recommence their journey on the following day. Making short stages,
his health began to improve, and they wound their way along the banks
of the rivulet on which they had rested. The close of evening found
them at a point, where the lands sinking, became flat, and the little
stream, unconfined by its banks, spread over their surface, and
lingering, coursed slowly away in many rills, which parted but to meet
again at a place not far remote. The marshy ground over which the
hunters would have to travel in pursuing the direct line of their
journey, was, with Rolfe, as he was just recovering, an objection to
proceeding farther; and he proposed to Earth to stay where they were
until morning should enable them to compass the difficulty. Earth
readily consented, and selecting a dry and agreeable spot, they seated
themselves, and after a few moments, unloosing his wallet, he emptied
out the remains of his breakfast, which served them for supper.
Night had advanced an hour or two, and the hunters were still awake,
when a flickering flame shooting up, threw abroad its glare, and often
changed its position. It was soon observed, and at once gave rise to
excitement and to speculation.
“What can it be,” said Earth, “is it a spirit?”
He had scarcely spoken when another light began to dance in the air,
then a third, and a fourth, flitting about, and changing position with
the rapidity of thought.
“A four handed reel, by the powers above! Rolfe, Rolfe, it is all
over,” and Earth, crouching upon the ground, sank overpowered with
fear.
“What dost thou fear,” said Rolfe?
“Those spirits,” said Earth. “Hush, Rolfe; hush, or let us fly.”
“Nonsense,” said Rolfe, “they are merely ‘_ignes fatui_.’”
“Fat what, Rolfe?”
“Fat nothing;—they are what are termed grave lights, or _jacks with
their lanterns_, produced in some measure by the decomposition of the
dead animal matter.”
“No,” Rolfe, “it cannot be, see how they cross over, and leap up, and
dart across, and then fly away;—they must be troubled spirits.”
“Earth, you are mistaken; I have seen them often before, and I assure
you I have given the correct solution.”
“Now, Rolfe, tell me, is it true? You know I can face the living, but
I cannot bear to meet the dead.”
“It is, I assure you. Have you never, while hunting, seen a
_jack-a-lantern_?”
“A _jack-a-lantern!_ yes, often; although I don't even like _them_
much.”
“Well, these are the same.”
“Oh, no.”
“Indeed they are.”
“Well, now, Rolfe, if you have any respect for me, hereafter call
things by their proper names; if you had said they were
_jack-a-lanterns_, I would have known at once what they were; but you
said something about _knees fat_, and I took it for granted at once
that they were spirits; although I might have known, if I had thought,
that _jack-a-lanterns_ were _greasy_.”
Rolfe, amused at the idea of their being greasy, laughed outright,
asking, “In the name of heaven, Earth, how did you find out they
possessed that property?”
“Because I once caught one,” said Earth, “and laid it out upon an old
stump, as cold as a wedge.”
Still more amused by this conceit, Rolfe replied, “you are the first
man I ever heard of, Earth, who could catch one. Do tell us all about
it, and rise up; I believe you are still frightened.”
“No, I am not now;” then rising up, he said, “Rolfe, give me your
hand,” and Earthquake seizing it, drew it across his forehead. Rolfe
again burst into a fit of laughter; for the perspiration stood in
large cold drops.
Even Earth was now amused at the groundlessness of his fears, and
together they proceeded to inspect more narrowly the moving lights.
“Suppose I put them out,” said Earth?
“Well, do,” said Rolfe.
“Then, hold my gun,” said Earth, and he passed it to him, and began to
make preparation for stripping.
Rolfe was convulsed with laughter, and Earthquake had already taken
off his hunting accoutrements, before he was able to inquire into the
nature of the attack he proposed to make on them. Having at length
found a tongue, “Earth,” said he, “do tell us how you mean to
proceed.”
“I know two ways to catch 'em,” said Earth. “Now suppose you let me
tell you how I _laid out_ that one we were talking about.”
“Do, I should like of all things to hear it.”
“Well, one night, in the early part of the spring before we met, I was
going through a part of that green swamp you have heard me speak of,
when I _seed_ a jack-a-lantern just ahead of me, dodging about in the
swamp. So it turned out to be, but what sort of an animal it was, at
that time I had not the least idea. I _trapesed_ on after it,
wondering what it was, and expecting every minute to catch it, for
pretty near a mile and a half, when I found myself just about as near
it as when I started. 'Twas a thing that old Jupe was afraid of, for
she kept gitting between my legs and tripping me up, until I was so
mad that I took a stick and beat her up into a big lump.”
“Earth, what sort of a time had you?”
“Hush, Rolfe, I did'nt want to say any thing about that, for the
meanest thing I ever did was to follow a jack-a-lantern through a
cane-brake. You may guess what sort of a place it was, when I tell you
I was obliged to give over hunting, and lay by for two days, to darn
my breeches. It bothered me mightily; and I was sticking fast, up to
my hips in mud, wondering what the devil it could be, when a notion
struck me, that it must be a jack-a-lantern. All at once, I
recollected how they used to tell me to ketch 'em; so I got out, and
followed on a bit farther, and, thinking I should like to see what it
was made of, I determined to put the _thing_ out. Well, I stopped,—the
jack-a-lantern kept dancing before me,—I took off my jacket,—the
jack-a-lantern got scared, and looked sorry,—I turned the inside
towards him,—he grew fainter,—I began to pull the sleeves through, and
by the time the whole jacket was wrong side out, he settled down and
went out upon an old stump. Well, now you may laugh, but it is every
word true.”
Rolfe was scarcely able to speak:—“how do you know,” said he, “that it
did not merely go out for a little time, and then fly away to another
place as these are now doing.”
“What! that jack-a-lantern fly away,—the one that I put out;—I tell
you, it has never troubled any body from that day to this; if it has,
I don't know when a thing is dead.”
“What proof have you of it?”
“Why, I saw it the next morning, _laid out_ as I told you before, as
cold as a wedge.”
“Then, do tell us all about it, Earth.”
“Well, when the thing fell upon the stump, as I knowed it would, when
I took off my jacket,—for turning a jacket wrong side out never fails
to kill 'em,—I look my hatchet and marked the place, that I might find
it the next morning. So, soon after breakfast, I walked down there,
merely that I might satisfy myself; and I had hardly got to the stump,
before I seed the jack-a-lantern lying upon it, as I said before, cold
as a wedge.”
“How was it shaped,” said Rolfe, “and what was its appearance?”
“I don't exactly know how it was shaped,” said Earth, “but it looked
all in a heap, as if you had emptied your two hands full of jelly upon
the top of the stump.”
Rolfe had been convulsed with laughter throughout Earth's narrative,
and now sunk down overpowered at the finale.
“Earth,” said he, “you are mistaken; what you saw was merely the gum
which had exuded from the stump.”
“Gum!”—said Earth, with a contemptuous sneer, “you must think I am a
damn——” then stopping, and looking in another direction, “look there,
Rolfe,—look, look.”
He obeyed, and beheld a torch, borne by a human being.
“Can'st thou move?” said Earth.
“I can,” said Rolfe.
“Then nerve yourself for a contest, if necessary, and let us see who
venture here at this hour of the night. Who knows but this may furnish
some clue to the lost maiden.”
The above sentence infused strength into Rolfe; for it brought hope,
and excitement, and but little time elapsed before he announced to his
friend, that he was ready; and, moving forward, they began at once to
reconnoitre the ground.
“There may be danger here,” said Rolfe, “we must be cautious, or we
shall be offered as a sacrifice to the spirits of those who have been
lately murdered.”
Then crouching down, they remained for some time silent, gazing at the
light.
“It is borne by a woman,” said Earth; “an Ingen woman.”
“It is,” said Rolfe, “and she is alone.”
“I think so, for as yet I can see no one with her.”
“There may be,” said Earth, “but what can they have come for,—what can
they be arter? Rolfe, I tell you what, I feel right ticklish.”
“Hush, Earth, the torch is approaching; let us conceal ourselves, that
we may examine more closely.”
“Agreed.”
“See, she stoops, and searches;—what can it be for?”
“I know not. Let us approach, and obtain her history.”
And leaving their cover, they soon stood before an Indian woman, who,
at the moment of their approach, was stooping down, and examining an
indentation, apparently made by a human foot. Having scrutinized it
for a time, she shook her head, gathered up her torch, and moved on.
“Come, speak to her, Earth,” said Rolfe, “and find out what she is
after.”
Whereupon, addressing her in the language common among the Indians
residing near the frontiers, and which was a compound of the languages
of several tribes, Earth said: “Our mother seeks for something
lost,—does she mark the steps of the pale face, to find out the path
to his wigwam, or does she seek for a red man, whose blood is crying
from the ground.”
At this speech she turned whence the voice came, and gazed on the
hunters, without discovering the least emotion or even surprise, and
seeing the mark of another foot-print, she approached, caused the
light to fall on it, closely examined its proportions, and again moved
on.
“The white man's heart is sorry,” said Earth, “he will help our
mother.—Will she tell him for what she searches?”
Raising herself, and gazing for a moment on the speaker, she said,
with a faultering voice, “I call, and he comes not; the vine has lost
the tree which supported it.”
There was something so touching in her manner that even Earthquake was
affected, and turning to Rolfe, he interpreted her words.
“Earth, she is the mother of that Indian whom that fellow killed.”
“Yes,” said Earth, “I'll lay any thing she is;” and the only feeling
of sorrow which ever crossed his breast for the death of an Indian,
then passed over it. The hunters remained for some moments silent, not
knowing what to do, while the old woman continued her sad yet holy
purpose.
“Come, Earth,” said Rolfe, “speak to her again; speak gently, and try
and make her tell you her story, for there is something about her
which very much affects me.” And following on, Earth again sought to
draw her into conversation.
“Has thy husband gone to the settlements, and returned not,” continued
he, “or dost thou seek in a son, the hope of thy evening hours?”
“He is gone,” said the mother, “he is gone. The tree was just
beginning to cast its shade, the fountain would soon have become a
running stream; but, alas! it is now dry. He is gone, he is gone, I
call, and he comes not.”
There was something beautiful and touching in the mother's grief, and
there was something startling, yet thrilling in her occupation. Alone,
and in the dark hour of night, searching the forest that she might
again behold the face of the dead. Her affection was so pure and deep,
that even the hunters felt awed by the holy feeling which influenced
her, and forgetting their own situations, sank for a time into
silence, overcome by the emotions of the moment. Never was there a
scene more striking, never was there one better calculated to make an
impression lasting as memory itself.
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “how often have I thought of a battle-field, the
scene of glory and of triumphs. While the contest rages, and victory
having hovered doubtful of the issue, at last perches on some favoured
standard, Oh! what a moment of thrilling interest, of wild delight.
Yet view the same field, the day after the battle, how sad the
contrast! When the loud thunders of war have given place to deep
silence; when the unburied dead still sleep upon the surface, and the
helpless dying are seen writhing on the cold ground. So is it here;
the border settler who caused the distress we see, was proud of his
victory, and perhaps, at this moment, is telling its details; yet,
think you, he could look upon the scene before us, and feel happy, in
what he deems his hard won laurels?”
“I think not,” said Earth, “I have never seen a sadder sight.”
“And, yet,” said Rolfe, “it is to gaze on a scene like this, that we
peril our lives, and our fortunes. I have never felt satisfied, Earth,
of the justice of the war we have waged, and perhaps ere a month
passes may wage again; and there are moments, when I cannot but think,
Heaven will pay us off with a just retribution at last.”
“I know not how it will be,” said Earth, “when I am in open warfare
with them, I am clean without conscience, and I haint got much no how,
where an Ingen is. Rolfe, I'll tell you some of these days how they
sarved me. But in old mad Anthony's time, that was long before you
ever heard of an Ingen, we use to use 'em up till I was right sick and
tired of the business; and then, when I was so very tired, I use to
think it wrong. But what are the opinions of Heaven upon the subject,
I don't know, for the Ingens have done some shocking deeds?”
“Nor do I,” said Rolfe, “but we were the aggressors, we have forced
them into hostilities, and the time will come, I fear, when they will
live only in story.”
“And do you seriously think, Rolfe, that Heaven will hold us
accountable for merely killing Ingens?”
“Perhaps not us, Earth, but when we shall sleep with our fathers, and
our little republic become the first power upon earth, their fate may
then rise up in judgment against it.”
“How; what is to happen?” said Earth, then stopping abruptly,
“hush,—hush,—what noise is that?” and the next moment there galloped
by a gang of wolves, frightened from their anticipated prey by the
torch of the Indian mother, and having fled but a short distance
within the forest, their dismal howls broke upon the stillness of
night.
“See,” said Rolfe, “those howling beasts have been feeding upon the
dead, or else, perhaps, watching for the death of the dying; let us
again seek the mother and aid her in her search; her son may yet
live.”
“With all my heart,” said Earth, “for we cannot sleep while she
continues it.”
“Earth, is it not strange, that, entertaining so much hatred for the
whites, and knowing that if her son be dead, a white man must have
killed him, she did not vent either abuses or curses upon us.”
“Yes, it is;—if she had, I should have felt less sorry than I do, and
can only account for her conduct, by her whole soul being taken up
with the object of her search.”
“Is she not unusually devoted for an Indian mother? I always thought
their feelings were less ardent than ours.”
“That is a mistake;—the way they are brought up causes them to
suppress their feelings, and to seem indifferent towards each other.
Yet, there is no race under heaven who will suffer more privations for
their children than will the Ingens.”
Thus conversing, they again sought the mother, sympathized with her,
and assisted in the search; and Earth, drawing her into conversation,
learned the following particulars of her history:—
She resided several miles within the forest, and was seeking a son,
her only child, who, a day or two before, had left her wigwam in
search of game. Circumstances had induced her to believe that he had
been murdered by the whites, and to confirm or remove her suspicions
was now her object. Owing to the deadly enmity which existed between
the two races, she feared to venture far from her wigwam during the
day, and had prosecuted her search chiefly at night. One entire night
she had passed in this way, and she had now commenced the second in
the same fruitless manner.
Earth, with a view of consoling her, said, “Mother, thy son may think
the long knives seek his death; he is swift of foot as the deer on the
prairie; the deer, to avoid the dogs, flies.”
“Stop,” said the mother, “tell me not he fled:—could I believe that
he, in whom my blood flows, would flee from a pale face, I would seek
him, but it would be, to bury my knife in his heart. Oloompa fled!”
and she burst into a flood of tears;—“No, no, my son, thou didst not
know how to flee. Thy blood lies clotted on this cold ground. Leave
me, leave me,” she continued, “my son would rise from the dead, didst
thou tell him he would flee from a pale face.”
Rolfe and Earthquake perceiving her distress, and appreciating her
feelings, again endeavoured to soothe and console her.
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “talk to her; try, and persuade her to quit, she
can do no good by remaining here.”
“I wish she would,” answered Earth, “for I am tired of it;” and again
approaching her, he said, “Mother, thou hadst better give over thy
search, and return to thy wigwam.”
“And wherefore shall I do that?” she replied; “Is it that my lodge
shall tell of past joys no more to be enjoyed. Is it that I may listen
to the voice of the lost, in every whispering breeze that passes? or
is it to watch and see pass away the last tint from a drooping
flower?”
“Thou hast spoken of a drooping flower, lives she still in thy wigwam,
mother?”
“The sun gilds the morning and we are here,” said the mother, “evening
comes, and we are gone.” And forgetting the question of Earth, she
cried, “Oloompa!—Oloompa!—why wilt thou not answer me, my son?”
“Is the drooping flower thou spokest of a plant of the prairie,” said
Earth, “or grew it far off on the lands of the white men?”
“It may have come from the clouds;” said the mother:—“I sat in my
wigwam, and cried for Oloompa, a vision appeared, and a maiden
remained.”
“And is she a pale face? mother, tell, we too seek the lost.”
“Yes; as pale as the moon-beams which sleep on the snow.”
“And lives she still?”
“The sun gilds the morning, and we are here,” said the mother,
“evening comes, and we are gone.”
Earth, turning to Rolfe, quickly communicated the information
obtained, and a vague impression was made on the minds of both that
the maiden alluded to was she whom they sought. Rolfe was all anxiety,
and repeated question after question in rapid succession for Earth to
ask the mother, but he himself was now deeply interested, and
addressing himself to her, continued; “Mother, if thou knowest any
thing of the maiden, tell us, and make our hearts glad. She is dear to
us; we seek to protect her. She had friends, they were many, they were
happy, but the red men came among them, and she alone is left. Make
glad our aching hearts, and accept our blessings.”
“And what shall I tell thee?” said the mother. Then forgetting the
hunters, again she cried, “Oloompa! Oloompa! Oh! answer thy mother,”
and she continued searching the forest.
Rolfe was now excited to the highest degree, and continued begging
Earth to elicit quickly some particulars which would either dispel or
confirm their suspicions.
“Let me alone, Rolfe,” said Earth, “I'm doing all I can; don't be in
sich a swivet; if the gal is there, we'll git her;” then turning to
the mother, he said, “Remains the maiden thou didst mention in thy
wigwam still? If she does, mother! wilt thou tell us her condition?”
“Hast thou seen a deer,” said the mother, “when after a long chase it
escapes the dogs? It is fatigued,—it pants,—it lies down and
sleeps,—so does the maiden.”
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “the old woman says the gal is there, and that
she is tired and asleep.”
“Then, oh! Earth, ask her if she is very beautiful, if her hair is
light, and if she is very timid,—come, quick!”
Earth put the questions desired, and the mother replied: “Hast thou
gathered the loveliest flower which blossoms on the prairies,—cast it
away, and a short time after seen it again? It is still beautiful, but
withered,—the maiden reminds me of that. Knowest thou the golden
colour of the sands on the Wabash? The same is the colour of the hair
of the pale face. Hast thou caught a bird, and felt it tremble, and
its little heart beat, when thy fingers pressed it? It is timid,—even
so is the maiden.”
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “I have asked the old woman.”
“Oh! tell me what she says, Earth?”
“She says, the gal is like a flower, that her hair is like yaller
sand, and that she trimbles like you were to squeeze a bird in your
hand.”
“She is the same!” cried Rolfe.
Believing that he recognized her even in Earth's unpoetical
description, tears of joy gushed from his eyes, and falling upon his
knees, he poured out in fervent prayer, a thousand thanks to the God
of heaven, for having so conducted his footsteps as to create a full
hope of finding her who was the object of his search. Earth and the
mother listened to it, as to the voice of inspiration. It was
beautiful as an act of devotion, and, regarding the time and
circumstances, nothing could be more impressive.
While Rolfe was speaking, Earth several times drew his sleeve across
his eyes; but scarcely, however, had the last words of the prayer died
away, and silence again resumed her reign, when a voice as if of
anguish seemed to rise up from the ground. It was startling, and a
feeling of horror thrilled through the frames of the hunters. But it
touched a kindred chord in the ear of the Indian mother; and, moving
forward, again she cried, “Oloompa!” and a voice answered, “Mother,
art thou here?” Then burst forth a woman's shriek, and a shriek so
loud, that the feeding beasts fled, galloping away,—owls flapped their
wings, and hooted,—and the startling scream seemed to leap from tree
to tree, as it entered the depths of the forest.—There was silence,
and the Indian mother lay bending over the sinking frame of her son.
“Heard you that scream, Earth?”
“Do you see that Ingen, just behind you, Rolfe?”
“Where?” said Rolfe, starting, and at the same moment throwing up his
gun, he looked about him.
“I don't see him now,” said Earth, “but I thought I saw one when that
woman screamed.”
“You are mistaken, Earth, it was mere fancy.”
“Nancy who, Rolfe? I wish we were well clear of her; if I was, I'd
bind myself to quit chawing tobacco; that is, except a piece of red
streak, now and then, if ever she laid eyes on me agin:—I don't like
her any how.”
The entire misconception of Rolfe's speech, by Earth, caused a smile,
sad as the moment was; but he suppressed it, having no time for
explanation.
“Come, Earth, we must assist the mother.”
“I don't wish to do it, Rolfe; for since she screamed, I have my
doubts.”
“Then you must lay them aside, Earth, for you know the maiden whom we
seek is at her lodge; moreover, humanity requires that we should
render all assistance in our power.”
This remark brought Earth quickly to his duty, and approaching the
mother, he began to make a light, and tenderly to inquire into the
situation of her son. He proved to be an Indian youth, who had been
shot down two days before, as was expected, by the border settler, and
who with the constancy of a hero, had suffered until the present time,
without either nourishment or assistance. The call of his mother, had
for a moment aroused him; but the first flow of excitement having
subsided, he again sunk into a stupor, and life seemed fast ebbing
away.
The mother was still bending over her son, and moistening his cheeks
with the tears of affection,—when, “Rolfe,” said Earth, “do you make a
large fire, and assist her, while I run to the stream we left, and
bring some water.” It was soon done, and Rolfe returned with his
hunting cup filled, moistened the lips of the Indian boy, and gave him
drink; and with it, came returning animation, and with returning
animation, came hope; and with hope, came cheerfulness to the heart of
the mother.
Raising the boy, they discovered that both legs had been shot through,
and yet no murmur escaped him. Even Earth, touched by his fortitude,
now became more gentle and attentive, and lent his assistance to make
him comfortable. A few moments sufficed to determine, that the only
hope of recovery lay in his being carried to his mother's lodge, where
he might receive such attentions as were absolutely necessary.
Although this proposition was made in a spirit of humanity, still the
hunters had another inducement, namely, the desire of proceeding at
once to the lodge of the mother, for the purpose of finding the
maiden. It was agreed to, and Earth at once began to prepare a litter.
Every moment now seemed to give renewed strength to the Indian boy,
and he was soon able to converse a little. As Earth trimmed the sticks
for the litter near the fire, the light fell on his features, and the
boy observing this, asked, “Mother, is not that a pale face?”
“It is, my son, but he is kind to the red men.”
She had scarcely spoken, before her son stretched out his arm, as if
to strike. It fell feebly, and only gave intimation of what he would
do, if he had the power. He then said in the Shawanee tongue, “go
away.”
“Do you see that, Rolfe?” said Earth, “that fellow is all pluck; 'tis
a pity he is a red skin. I am sorry for him, and I will try and set
him up, if it is only to have a fair crack at him some future day,
when he gets well.” Then turning to the boy, he said, “when Earth
shoots you, my good fellow, he will not leave you to lie suffering for
two days; he won't be so barbarous.”
The boy turned his eyes towards Earth, but said nothing. Rolfe, who
understood Earth's character, who knew how much kindness and
gentleness there was under his rough exterior, gave in to his humour,
and said, “you have a queer way of giving consolation, Earth.”
“Did you not hear the mother say I was kind to the red men? you know I
am, Rolfe. I never let 'em suffer long, I do the thing genteely. Now,
I should like to meet this lad when he gets well, just to show him how
much difference there is between being killed, that is, as I would
kill him, and that is genteely, and being mangled up and left to die
for two days.”
“I don't imagine, Earth, he feels much curiosity on the subject; if he
gets over this, he will no doubt be satisfied.”
“Get over it, indeed!—surely he will, the Ingens know the use of so
many yerbs, that, with them, I believe they can make a leg, much more
cure one that is only shot; they are proper nice hands with yerbs, I
tell you.”
While thus conversing, Earth was diligently at work, preparing the
litter for the removal of the boy; and having finished it, the hunters
approached, and with as much tenderness as if they had been about to
remove a brother, lent their assistance. The boy, though evidently
very weak, still manifested some displeasure against Earth, and having
discovered that Rolfe was likewise a pale face, he grew still more
agitated. The mother said many soothing things, and endeavoured to
appease him;—the boy spoke not, but pointed to his mangled limbs. The
mother then requested the hunters to assist her in placing her son
upon the litter; they did so, and though every possible kindness was
used, their acts were as wormwood to the Indian boy.
Every thing being now prepared, and the party ready to set out upon
their journey, the mother took up one end of the litter, while Earth
held the other, and with Rolfe carrying a torch, and leading the way,
which the mother pointed out, they moved forward. Repeatedly, however,
had Earth to check the ardour of his companion, and cause him to walk
more slowly. The excitement, under which he had been labouring for
several hours, had imparted strength to his weakened frame, and the
hope of soon seeing her, who, for so long a time, had been the theme
of so many waking dreams, urged him on;—“Yes,” he communed with
himself, “but a few hours more, and I shall embrace her, who has been
the guiding star of my earlier days; her, whose recovery is to me the
goal of all my earthly hopes.” And then, when he reflected upon the
surprise he would create, the pleasure it would give him to restore
her to her friends, he grew wild with joy, and could scarcely restrain
himself. And then the fate of her family would pass before him, the
loss of her friends, and her desolate condition, and seeing her
wretched, dejected, and heart-broken, he was plunged in the deepest
sorrow. Then these thoughts would fade away, and there would rush by
the first moment of recognition, with its wild delight, its joy, its
heavenly bliss;—and then would follow on the thought, that she must at
once be restored to her friends in Virginia, that his lot was cast in
a different land, and then, that she might have forgotten him, and
that some one more fortunate might possess her affections. Then again
he grew sad. Thus alternating between different passions, he gave full
play to the suggestions of his fancy.
While these thoughts occupied the mind of Rolfe, Earth and the mother
had been slowly wending their way along with the litter, having
stopped several times from fatigue. Rolfe attended them closely, but
with them he seemed to have no communion of feeling; his thoughts were
of other things, and he heeded not the conversation which was passing
between Earth and the Indian mother.
“Rolfe, heard you that story?”
Rolfe was silent.
“Rolfe!”
He started from his reverie:—“What will you have, Earth?”
“Why, I have been talking to you for several minutes, and you hav'nt
heard a word.”
“Indeed, Earth, my thoughts have been pretty constantly in the wigwam
of the mother.”
“Your thoughts had better rest elsewhere, for from what I have gleaned
from the mother, I now have a doubt, if the maiden lives, and if she
does, she may not be the same we seek.”
This was perfectly startling to Rolfe, for the suggestion had not
before entered his brain.
“How! what! what is the matter,” cried he;—and he made Earth again
detail every circumstance of the conversation he had held with the
mother.
Here were two additional sources of trouble, and harrowing were they
to the soul of Rolfe. But his spirit was a sanguine one, and the
examination only served more fully to confirm him in his opinion.
“Yes!” he cried, “she is the same, and she still lives!”
“I wish it may prove so,” said Earth.
Day had now dawned, the Indian boy was gently sleeping, and Earth and
his mother were bearing him slowly along, when she announced that her
wigwam was at hand. Rolfe, buoyed with hope, eagerly moved forward. A
few moments passed, and a small cabin was seen in the forest. Rolfe
darted forward,—“it is not mine,” said the mother. He stopped,
dispirited, and dejected. A few moments more elapsed, and another
appeared,—“it is mine,” said the mother. Again Rolfe bounded forward,
reached the cabin, and entered.
Earth and the Indian mother also hurried on, and having reached her
lodge, they gently deposited the litter,—the mother, that she might
make preparations for the reception of her son,—and Earth, that he
might gaze on her who was the object of his search. Having entered her
wigwam, what a startling vision met his sight! Stretched on a rude
frame, over which were spread a few skins, lay a female figure, but
partly covered, and over it, with eyes fixed in horror, bent Rolfe.
The figure was youthful and delicate, and her hair, which was damp and
cold, having fallen somewhat over her face, veiled her features; but
she was pulseless, lifeless; and the cold dews of death had already
settled upon her! and yet, no word escaped Rolfe. Still he gazed in
the fixedness of horror. Earth, equally incapable of acting, likewise
remained a silent spectator, until the mother entering, approached,
and removing the hair from the face of the maiden, saw that her eyes
were set, and glazed, and cried, “she is gone, she sleeps, and will
wake no more.”
At this annunciation, Earth turned away, with tears streaming down his
face, while Rolfe, as if waked into life, bent nearer, gazed more
intently, and cried, “it is not she.”
The best tidings could not have given Earth more comfort; he
approached, and waited with fearful anxiety, a farther examination of
her features.—“No,” said Rolfe, “it is not she whom we seek;” and
turning away, he also found relief in tears.
Earth seemed happy that things were no worse, and but little time was
now allowed for sympathy with the dead; for the mother approached, and
told Earth, that the frame on which the maiden lay, she wished to
spread with skins, for her son, and added, “to the ‘Drooping Flower’
it is now a matter of little moment, whether she lies high or low.” So
thought Earth, for wrapping the delicate figure in the skins which
partly covered it, he placed it on the floor, in a corner of the
cabin, saying, “mother, let it remain here, until we shall determine
what to do with it.”
“While I prepare a bed, wilt thou make a fire?” said the mother. It
was soon done, and Earth and the mother, bearing along the Indian boy,
placed him on the rude couch prepared for his reception. While these
little arrangements were making, Rolfe, overpowered by disappointment,
and the rush of feelings which crowded upon his mind, had left the
lodge, and afterward Earth having joined him, they withdrew to a short
distance.
“Earth, what thinkest thou of the scene we have just witnessed?”
“Indeed, I know not what to think. I am glad, however, she was not the
maiden we seek.”
“I scarcely know whether I am or not,” said Rolfe, “if she had been
the same, her sufferings would now have been ended, and I should have
performed the last sad office she could have required from man. As it
is, I shall no more see her, and if she has not already writhed at the
stake, pain and suffering, and a broken heart will be her fate.”
“It is sad,” said Earth, “think of it as you will; all hope for the
present is gone, and when we leave here, my advice is that we make for
the settlements, and by mingling with men, try and forget the past.”
“It is well to do so; but, Earth, did you ever know so many sad events
to occur in so short a time? The scene last night, I shall never
forget.—Yet, what can be more startling than the one this morning?”
“I have witnessed many sad scenes, Rolfe, and so must every one who
lives as long as I have in these woods. I have seen the suffering of
years packed into a few short minutes, and yet I must confess, nothing
has ever come over me with more icy coldness than the fate of that
gal.”
“She is young and beautiful,” said Rolfe, “and, oh! the intense
anguish she must have suffered! Did you see how her feet were torn,
and bruised by travel? and it seemed to me, that in addition to her
other sufferings, she died of hunger. But who is she? and where did
she come from?”
“Even the mother can't tell that,” said Earth. “She has been taken
captive by the Ingens, and made her escape, or else wandering off from
some emigrant family, was lost.”
“Then she is gone,” said Rolfe, “and there is no possible clue by
which we can trace her history; and I was about to say, she died, and
there was no friend to see her buried; but, though strangers to her,
Earth, we are friends in misfortune, and her last sad rites shall be
performed by us, as brothers would do it over an affectionate sister.”
Earth's eyes filled with tears,—he spoke not.
“Come, we must perform the last duty,” said Rolfe, “let us select a
spot for her grave.”
“I hate,” said Earth, “to leave one so young alone in a wilderness,
and among strangers;—even her little spirit will be afraid to go
abroad, lest it should meet a red skin.”
“Her spirit, I hope, is in heaven,” said Rolfe, “and though I regret
the duty we are now to perform, still, since it must be done, let us
begin.”
The preparations were soon made, and the hunters returned to the
wigwam, explained to the mother the course they were about to pursue,
and demanded the body of the maiden. She gave it up, but was
dissatisfied that the burial was to be a silent one, and, in her
kindness, suggested the propriety of hiring some Indians to come and
weep over the dead.
Earth explained to her, that to hire persons to mourn, was not
customary with the whites; “and her spirit will not rest easy,”
continued he, “if the Ingens sit howling and yelling over her grave.”
These reasons seemed to satisfy the mother, and she left the hunters
to wait upon her son.
The spot, as I before mentioned, having been selected, a grave was
dug, and the hunters leaving the mother, bore along, shrouded in
skins, the last remains of the stranger maiden. She was, no one knows
who;—she came, no one knows whence, and now rests in a strange land.
Yes, on a little knoll, which rose hard by, and which receives the
full beams of the morning sun, broken only by the wild vines which
creep over it, sleep the last remains of the stranger maiden!—No
tell-tale stone is reared where she rests; yet she lives in story, and
many a dusky maid has sung her fate in the following lines:
Indian maidens, come and weep
O'er this lowly mound;
Let your grief within be deep,—
Whoop not, howl not, for the sleep
Of the pale face is not sound.
No mother watched her parting hour,
No sister cheered the “Drooping Flower.”
Know ye whence the rippling stream,
Whence the wintry blast,
Whence the mad storm-spirit's scream,
Whence the vivid lightning's beam,
Or whither it has past?—
Thus was the maiden to us borne,
Thus from us has her spirit gone.
For as she droop'd, and ere she fell,
She said her spirit did not love
With her below on earth to dwell,
And oft times has been heard to tell,
That it would soar above.
It claim'd no home on earth below—
It would not stay—it long'd to go.
Great Spirit! lend thy gracious ear,
Tho' not for dusky maid we pray,
Let thy protecting care be here,
Let the pale face know no fear,—
Guide her spirit on its way.
Far beyond the Eagle's flight,
To the realms that know no night.
Indian maidens, weave the vine,
Weave the sweetest blooms among;
Plant the rose and eglantine,
And a shady bower we'll twine;
While each morn shall hear our song:—
Blow softly breezes,—gently wave
The wild flowers o'er the stranger's grave.
CHAPTER VIII.
“With various converse thus they whiled the way,
Till lengthening shadows marked the closing day.”
PARNELL.
Rolfe and Earthquake deeply sympathized with the Indian mother, and
remained with her several days for the purpose of supplying her and
her son with food. As their stay was prolonged, each day the aversion
of the Indian boy to the hunters, seemed gradually wearing away, and
the mother was sensibly moved by their kindness. She expressed great
gratitude, was even assiduous in her attentions, and pressed upon them
again and again the rude hospitality of her wigwam. Upon conversing
with her, Earthquake ascertained that her name was Pukkwana, and that
of her son, Oloompa; and observing that she seemed kind in her
feelings, he narrated to her the story of the captive maiden.
Her feelings were much enlisted in favour of the hunters by the
recital, and she spoke harshly of the Indians who had committed so
great a crime. Earth then dwelt upon the anxiety of Rolfe, and begged
her, if she could suggest any plan which would probably enable them to
find the maiden, to do so, and accept their blessings.
Pukkwana, in answer, said, she could suggest nothing, but again
renewed her professions of gratitude, and stated, that as soon as her
son should recover, they would cheerfully use all their exertions to
discover the fate of the maiden, and if she lived, forward
intelligence of the fact to the hunters at their own residence. Earth
hearing this, repeated it to Rolfe, who was delighted at having
interested Pukkwana in the search, and he begged Earth to try and
obtain the same promise from her son, and at the same time to press
upon them both his conviction that only through their endeavours was
there a hope of obtaining any information. Earth made the request as
desired, and the Indian boy readily complied. They were grateful for
the kindness of the hunters, and promised not only to extend their
search through their own, but also through the neighbouring tribes.
The difficulty of conveying the information in the event that the
captive was found, was then adverted to. But Pukkwana stated that with
not more speed, would the eagle wing its way to its nest, than, if
successful, should the tidings be borne to Rolfe. With this the
hunters were satisfied, and began to make preparations for their
journey.
“Stay, Earth,” said Rolfe, “suppose they were to find her, and some
how or other I have great hopes they will, how would she know who it
is that seeks her.”
“The boy and the old woman both know your name, and also, where you
live,” said Earth, “they will tell her.”
“But suppose I write a line, Earth, it will not take long, and in case
it ever reaches her, will explain every thing.”
“Very well, then, do so.”
In a moment Rolfe trimmed into a pen a quill which was lying on the
ground, and gathering an oak ball, which grew near at hand, traced on
the back of an old letter, the following lines:—
“With what emotions, my love, I now write, you can never know. Am I
right in the supposition that your family lately left Petersburg for
the west, and that you are now alone and a captive among the Indians?
Oh! distracting thought!—how the bare suspicion of it maddens me. And
yet, if it be true, know that I witnessed the scene on the Ohio, and
have been in constant search of you since. Recollections of the past,
connected only with you, are still the most pleasing reminiscences of
my life; and oh! if so sad a calamity as that which I dare not mention
has befallen you, name it to the bearer of this, who will tell it to
me, and I will fly on the wings of love, to soothe, console, and
restore you to your friends. I am now residing at Bowling Green, in
Kentucky, and should these lines ever meet your eyes, believe me,
dearest, I remain, what I have ever been, your most affectionate
friend.
“R. ROLFE.”
Then folding them up carefully, he requested Earth to give them to
Pukkwana, and enjoin it upon her, that they were to be given to the
maiden, in the event of her being found. Firm relations of friendship
were now established between Rolfe and the two Indians, and even Earth
seemed to forget in his conduct toward them, the deep bitterness of
feeling he entertained for their race. Requiring a renewal of the
promise, on the part of Pukkwana, the hunters made many kind wishes
for the welfare of herself and son, and again resumed their journey.
“Well, Earth,” said Rolfe, “as they proceeded along, the scene we have
witnessed here has been a sad one.”
“You may say that,” replied Earth;—“it is to me like a dream. But it
is now over, and I say, let us return, and trust to Providence; it is
idle to attempt any thing more. If we should hereafter hear any
tidings of her, we can then act according to circumstances.”
“God only knows what will or can happen,” said Rolfe. “I fear my fate
is sealed. The loss of her for whom alone I lived, will embitter the
remainder of my days. Poor girl, how sad must be her fate.”
Earth's eyes filled with tears:—“Come, Rolfe,” said he, “no more of
this, let us go home and go to work.”
“I have no spirit for exertion, Earth; my hopes are blighted: the
future is to me a dark and dreary waste, and through it I care not
what my path may be.”
“Ah! Rolfe,” said Earth, “now you go too far. In the first place, you
don't know whether she is the same girl, and you had better write to
Petersburg, and learn that; and if she is, pity her, and talk of her
as much as you please; but don't talk of giving up; no body ever made
any thing by that. If you give up, you have got to live afterward, and
one had better go to work, and be respected, than to poke about, and
do nothing. But your country needs your services:—man! go, mingle in
her councils, and make Earthquake proud of his adopted brother. Though
times are rather squally, I hardly think there will be a war, and if
there was, you are not overly clever with a gun; and you don't think
right about killing Ingens no how; but, perhaps in a legislature or a
court-house, you might make the wool fly.”
“I dare say your advice is good, Earth, and we will talk of this
matter another time; but it is hard to surrender the cherished hope of
years. Earth, were you ever in love?”
“Ah! Rolfe, there you are too hard for me, I hardly know what to say
about that.”
“Surely,” said Rolfe, “you must know whether you were ever in love or
not.”
“No, I don't,” said Earth;—“I have sometimes felt queer.”
“How? what do you mean by queer?”
“Why, don't you know what I mean by queer?”
“No,” said Rolfe; “how should I know.”
“Well, I mean that sometimes, when I have seen some of our Kentuck'
gals, I've felt right funny;—felt as if somebody was drawing a briar
over me. Now, if you call that love, I have been in love.”
“Well, I think you have,” said Rolfe, “and that you have felt one of
its strongest symptoms. Do you know any body that you would marry?”
“No, not a living soul; nor, for the matter of that, a dead one
either. I marry! what for? To be always toating a wife through the
woods, or across the swamps, to keep some damn'd red skin from taking
her hair off? Wouldn't she see rough times? Fool who?—She'd be all
sorts of a gal who catches me.”
Rolfe could not resist laughing, and observed:—“You have queer ideas
of wedlock, Earth.”
“Oh! I don't know,” said Earth, “a wife is a queer thing; and getting
one is like taking a varment out of a hollow;—you don't know until you
have got it into your hand, what sort of a thing it is.”
“That may be the case sometimes, Earth; but how delightful it must be
to have for a companion, a lovely woman, whose every thought is
virtuous and innocent; and then to have that woman so devoted to you,
that her only pleasure consists in doing those things which make you
happy.”
“That may be very fine, Rolfe; but I know that there ain't sich a gal
in these parts, and I don't believe sich a thing ever happens.”
“Yes, Earth, it happens, when persons of congenial minds and
dispositions are united, before they reach that scheming period of
life in which interest sways all their actions.”
“Oh! now, Rolfe, you are talking too pretty for me; I don't know what
it all means. I can only say this, that if I was to marry, I would
pick a wife as I would a horse, and be governed altogether by looks.”
“And then, Earth, you might have just cause to think of wedlock as you
do now.”
“Oh! I don't know; its well enough in its way. I shall never marry; I
don't like your small gals no how you can fix it, and if I was to
choose one for myself,—and you know I wouldn't let any body choose for
me,—I should have a mighty heavy team; for, besides going for good
looks, I should like a very large wife.”
“Then your taste is fortunate, Earth, and you will be the less apt to
be plagued by rivals.—They are troublesome things.”
“I don't care what my taste is,” said Earth, “I will never have a
rival; for, if I was to see a lady and love her, and any body else was
loving her before me, I would back out. But if I was to see her first,
and take notice of her, I should regard her just as I would a 'coon
which I had treed:—I suppose you know, Rolfe, what I would do with a
man if he was to trouble a 'coon which old Jupe had treed?”
“I think I can imagine, Earth; but come, let us be serious, and talk
of something else.”
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “I never saw a good reason for a man being
serious when he could be cheerful.—Now, if you want to be serious,
I'll tell you a story:—I'll tell you one that made me serious once for
a whole day.”
“Then give it to us,” said Rolfe.
“Very well,” said Earth, “be all attention, and you shall hear it.”
“I am,” said Rolfe.
“Well,” began Earth, “I was living, when it happened, upon that piece
of land I bought of the 'squire, and a hard bargain it was,—I think he
gouged me in that trade; but that's neither here nor there;—as I said
before, I was living on it. I had been hard at work, for several
weeks, killing a parcel of trees, and trying to get ready a small
clearing for my next year's crop, when I thought I would step over to
one of my neighbours, swap a lie or two, and hear what was going on.
He lived about ten miles off, by the near way, but much further to go
round by the swamp. So, taking the near path, I went over one evening,
and, what I hardly ever did before, I forgot to take my gun along. I
found the old fellow at home, and as soon as I got seated, I went hard
to work and talked him full. After a while he got a chance, and come
at me, and he made up for lost time;—he talked me all over and about
in spots, until I was tired. Then he was just getting under way, so I
turned in and the next morning, rising up very early, I started back.”
“Well, I think it ought to have made you serious,” said Rolfe.
Earth was a little confused at Rolfe's remark, but replied:—“Come,
Rolfe, don't judge a man so hard,—you won't hear me through,—I was
just greasing a little before starting out.”
“Go on, then, Earth.”
“Well, as I said, I had started back, and had got along some two or
three miles;—the sun was rather better than an hour high, and every
thing was right still, when I saw 'long the path, where a great big
bear had turned over a log,”——
“How did you know that a large bear turned it over?” said Rolfe.
“Because,” said Earth, “the log was a large one, and it was rolled
over and over, to some distance—a small bear could hardly have moved
it, and then you know he would only have slipped it one side.”
“Earth, what do they turn them over for?”
“Rolfe, you ax too many questions. They turn them over to get the bugs
and insects which are generally under them.”
“Then go on, Earth.”
“Well, when I saw the signs, I felt mighty bad;—I had no gun—old Jupe
wan't with me, and I never had been known to pass a bear in that way,
without taking any notice at all of him; so, I considered:—my knife
was in my belt, sharp as I could wish it:—I took it out and drew the
edge across my thumb; I felt satisfied that it would stand me good
service, and I started off, determining in my own mind that I would at
least take a look at him; and, if I couldn't do any thing, that then I
would go home. Keeping a sharp look out, I got upon his tracks, and
followed on; I kept seeing where he had been feeding, and after going
along for nearly a mile, in a thick place, just ahead of me, I come
upon him. He didn't notice me at first; so I stood and looked at him,
and raised up my arms and took sight off my finger, just as if I had a
gun. I could have blowed him to pieces. But 'twant nothing;—Oh! I did
hate it.”—Saying so, Earth took off his hat, and rubbed his hair. “He
was a peeler; it fairly made my mouth water to look at him. But there
was no use in staying there: so I began to talk to him, and treating
me with the utmost disgust, he buckled off, and began to let himself
out, link at a time. I wan't much pleased at his conduct, and I
knowed, if he would only keep out of the swamp, that I could run him
to the girth; so I started after him:—he saw me coming, and the way
that he and I did curl it for about half an hour, was curious. I tell
you what, we made every thing clear the track as we moved along.
“We were going up a hill, and I was gaining upon him right fast, when
all at once I saw him jump up, as if over something, and then change
his direction; and then sich a rattling I never did hear. I thought
there were at least forty snakes all up in a lump. So I forgot the
bear, and stopped to look at 'em; and as long as I had been in the
woods, I had never seen any thing like it before. As I stopped, they
separated, and I saw that there were only two,—that they were the real
rattles, taking a regular fight. A fight, Rolfe, you know I always
see, if there is any chance; so I jest planted myself, determining to
look on, and see that they had fair play. Both of 'em were larger than
the biggest part of my arm, and as near as I could guess, about six
feet long. When they first separated, they crawled off in different
directions a few yards, and then stopping, began to lick themselves,
just as if they were a couple of dogs. While they were doing this,
they would occasionally raise their heads, and look about 'em for a
time, and then begin licking agin. They were so long at this, that I
began to think that they were not the real genuine pluck, but that
they were getting tired of it, and wanted to crawl off. However, I
begged their pardons for thinking so hard of 'em, for after resting a
while, just long enough to cool out a little, one of 'em roared; he
made a noise like an ox at a distance, and I tell you what, I trimbled
all over. I then noticed them agin, and saw that they were very nearly
the same size,—that one was of a dark, dingy brown colour, while the
other was a bright yaller, covered with dark spots. It was the yaller
looking one that first roared; and as soon as he finished, he raised
his head about a foot and a half high, curved his neck like a horse,
and then bringing his tail over his back, jest as if he had been
nicked, he began to wave it horizontally. There was a string of
rattles to it, about as long as my hand, and he shook 'em
occasionally. It made the chills creep over me to look at him, he
seemed to do it so boldly, and I thought he merely did it, to have
some music to go to war with.
“Well, when the yaller one roared, it was just like putting a shovel
of hot coals on the old brown;—he fairly squalled. He was so mad, that
in an instant he raised his body nearly half as high as he was long,
and began to peep about him, at the same time, raising his tail up
about six inches, and rattling as if he would shake every bone out of
his skin. He was proper mad, I tell you, and trimbled like he had an
ague.
“But he wan't satisfied with merely squalling and rattling; for he
quit that, and opening his mouth about wide enough for me to get my
fist in, began to stretch his head out, and draw it back; and then
sich hissing, Rolfe, you never did hear. The yaller one stood his
ground like a man:—there didn't seem to be any back out about him, and
when the old brown began to hiss, he opened his mouth until I thought
he would swallow himself, and the way he did blow was nothing to
nobody. I thought there was a small hurricane coming up. Well, now
their dander was so high, they couldn't stand it any longer:—so at it
they went. They glided off,—their heads and tails were both up;—there
wan't more than about three feet of their bodies on the ground;—and
they began to encircle each other like a couple of chickens. They had
now quit hissing and squalling, and only rattled once in a while,
looking each other straight in the face all the time. Every time they
went round, I saw that they were getting closer and closer, and they
looked to me just like two fellows of the true spunk, who had stripped
and were eyeing each other, before taking a round. They were going at
it so seriously, it naturally made my hair rise up. They were by
themselves,—there was no other snake present, to cry hurra for one, or
well done for the other, a thing you know which helps mightily
sometimes;—but they were going to try it, rough, roar, and tumble for
life.
“Well, now I was jest as much interested as if I had come across a
couple of men who were going to take a brush. I clean forgot the bear,
and if the snakes had fought till sunset, I meant to see 'em out, and
give 'em all the fair play that I knew how. I left them, you know,
circling round:—they went round, I think, as much as three times, when
the first thing I knowed, they were both in a knot, and sich squeezing
and swelling, and rattling, and creeping through one another, I never
seed before in all my born days. They would lock their bodies
together, and twist 'em just like the working of a worm into a screw,
and all the time their mouths were so wide open, that I thought each
one was trying to swallow the other.
“Rolfe, I don't care what people say, I won't believe that snakes have
bones in 'em, for you couldn't have tied a thread into more knots than
I saw them get into that day. They may be filled with small gristles.”
“Go on with your story, Earth,” said Rolfe.
“Well, I left 'em kinked up,—they were tangled for nearly half an
hour;—and what do you suppose I was doing, then?”
“Ah! God knows,” said Rolfe, “it is more than I can tell.”
“Why, jest looking at 'em, and straining and twisting every joint
almost out of place, following them in their motions. I did this
without knowing it, and I never should have found it out, if I hadn't
begun to feel sore all over.
“Well, to go back to the snakes:—I now saw that the old brown had
ketched a double on the bright yaller, and was spinning his neck out,
to about the size of my thumb. His body now began to unkink, his
tongue come out several inches, and soon after, poor fellow, the old
brown had laid him out, straight as a fishhook. However, it had been a
fair fight, and a hard one, and after it was over, the old brown
blowed jest like he had ris up from a pond of water, where he had been
under longer than he wanted to, and crawling off to some distance,
stretched out, and began to lick himself.
“Well, I was right sorry, and I looked on for some time, and hardly
knowed what to do; but I saw 'twas all over, so, drawing my knife, I
walked up to the bright yaller, and lifting up his tail, fetched a
wipe, and took off his rattles.—I thought they belonged to me, for
seeing fair play. But to my surprise, as I did so, I felt his tail
slip through my fingers, and saw that the poor fellow had come to, and
was moving off. But, Rolfe, in cutting them off, I made 'em rattle,
and sich another squall as the old brown did set up,”——Here Earth
whistled. “He hadn't been mad before:—he now doubled himself up in a
hoop, and made after me. I streaked it; the faster I run, the more
noise I made, and looking behind, I saw him rolling on; every time he
turned over his eyes come up like two coals of fire in a dark night.
He gained upon me, so I dropped the rattles, and as I did so, he
settled down upon 'em, and spun round jest like he was a top. I
thought it was a good time to get clear, so I slipped off, and
continued my way home.”
“And that's what made you serious,” said Rolfe.
“No, it ta'int,” said Earth, “it might have made me serious; but since
you think so lightly of it, I should like to know what would make you
serious.”
“You mistake me, Earth, I do not, it is a good story, and I merely
asked for information, come, go on.”
“Well,” said Earth, “since I see you believe in what I told you, and
know how to appreciate the snakes, I will.”
“After I left the old brown spinning round, as I was saying, I took
the nearest direction, and started off for home; I had walked along, I
suppose, that is, as near as I can come at it, about two miles, when
here 'twas agin.”
“What?” said Rolfe.
“Why the same bear that I had gin sich a race in the morning. He was
setting up in a tree eating acorns.”
“How do you know 'twas the same?” inquired Rolfe.
“Do you know your horse?” said Earth.
“Yes.”
“Well, then I know my bear. And as I was saying, he was setting up in
a tree; I looked at him for a while, and then he looked at me. He
knowed I hadn't a gun, for he went up a little higher, and getting out
upon a limb began to eat as if I want there. 'Twas a mighty trying
thing to me, to see him do so, for 'twas conduct I wa'nt at all used
to; so I scratched my head a while, and begun to think, and a notion
struck me.”
“What was it?” said Rolfe.
“Why, I saw in the first place, that he was a tre-mend-ous fellow; and
that the limb he was on was so far from any other, that he couldn't
jump off it, without coming down upon the ground; and if he did that,
he was so heavy, I was pretty sure he would break some of his joints.
So I drawed my knife once or twice across my shoe, and started up;
every thing went well, the higher I got up, the further out he went
upon the limb; his head was from me, and the limb was so small I
knowed he couldn't turn round. So I crawled right at once to where it
branched off from the tree, and drawing my knife, I determined if he
left that limb he should jump off. He now began to think how ticklish
he was situated, and he was mightily scared; he trimbled all over, and
kept squatting as if he would jump, but he couldn't git his courage
up; he then tried to turn round, and would have come at me head
foremost, but the limb was so small he couldn't, and he squatted down
and cried like a child. He thought he could make me forgive him, but
tw'ant nothing. I began to shake, and he slipped, but he caught and
swung with his body under the limb; he made a mighty pitiful cry, and
scrambled up agin. He knew it wouldn't do to stay so far out, that I
would shake him off, so he began to back right to where I was,
thinking he could back by me. I was laying on the limb, and he run
upon me so fast, that he like to have knocked me off, he pressed agin
me mighty hard, and I hadn't fair play, but I got at my knife, and
making over hand licks I popped it into him every time. I hadn't a
good purchase, and he stood it so long, that I began to think there
was no point to my knife. But after a while the metal told, and he
backed out, and crawled towards the end of the limb agin. I kept
seeing him turn his head towards his rump, and I knew then I had been
into him. But I had done no good, for there he seemed resolved to
stay, I hollowed and shook, and did every thing I could, but he
would'nt budge an inch. So I resolved to crawl after him, knowing that
if I could only git one more lick, he would be sure to jump off. It
was a mighty ticklish business, but I stretched out, and began to pull
myself along, I felt the limb bend, but I saw if I could only get one
foot further, I could reach him. So I drawed myself up, and stretched
out:—I heard a mighty crash,—and the first thing I knowed I waked up
about sunset, jist as if I had ris from a sound sleep. I did'nt know
where I was, until I looked about and saw the limb which had been
broke off; then it all come upon me like a dream. The bear was gone, I
saw the print where he fell, and that was all he left me, so I made
tracks for home, determining that I would'nt get into another scrape
that day. Now, Rolfe, that's the time when I was serious, when I was
lying under that tree.”
Thus amusing themselves, they continued their journey, to perform
which, we must leave them, while we bring forward other parts of our
story.
CHAPTER IX.
“But winter has yet brighter scenes, he boasts
Splendours beyond what gorgeous summer knows,
Or autumn, with his many fruits, and woods
All flushed with many hues. Come, when the rains
Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice,
While the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light.”
BRYANT.
Netnokwa, whom we left journeying to the lands of the Wabash, visited
the friends whom she was seeking, remained there sometime, and then
with her daughter and captive proceeded up far into the regions of the
North-west. Several months had elapsed, and the maiden, of whom no
tidings had been heard since her capture, might be seen standing in
the door of a bark hut, situated on the borders of Rainy Lake, and
gazing anxiously out as if expecting the arrival of some one. She was
closely muffled up in firs, and with increasing anxiety in her
countenance, would ever and anon step forth, and search in every
direction the dreary waste. Yet she remained out but a moment, for the
snow was falling fast, the earth was already covered to some depth,
and the winds as they hurried eddying past, drifted it up in heaps.
Forced in by the pitiless storm, she again resumed her situation at
the door.
A few months, what changes they sometimes produce! Yes, only a few
months had passed, and how changed in appearance was the captive! The
joyous expression of countenance which marked her happier days had
fled; gone was the beauty which mantled her cheeks, and in its stead,
there was melancholy stamped in every feature of her pale and delicate
face. Still she was beautiful, or perhaps I should say interesting
rather than beautiful. The fire of her dark eyes was undimmed, and
when in her anxiety, she moved them restlessly about, they served to
light up her pale and settled features, as beautifully as the moon
does a fleecy cloud when it passes over its face.
Night was now fast setting in, and still the storm abated not, but
rather appeared to drive on with more fury; dreary in the extreme,
would have been the prospect even to an old hunter, then doubly so
must it have been to our heroine; still she uttered no lament,
ventured no accusation against the authors of her misfortune, but
continued to search with the eyes of affection, the waste before her.
Netnokwa had not yet reached her place of destination, and being
prevented from journeying farther by the intense cold of the weather,
had here stopped to wait for a more auspicious season. Her conduct to
the captive maiden had been marked in its kindness, and the attention
of Miskwa might be regarded as sisterly, so freely, and with so much
apparent pleasure did she seem to bestow it. They treated her not as a
prisoner, they required no offices of drudgery from her, but supplied
all her wants, and endeavoured to make her as comfortable as possible.
This disposition on their part to please, sprung up from the meek and
unoffending manner of the captive, from the gentleness and timidity
which encircled her, and from the uncomplaining silence with which she
bore her misfortunes. She was an object of sorrow, and Netnokwa and
Miskwa pitied her, and regretted that she had not been permitted to
escape to the settlements, and would at that time have restored her to
her friends but for the dread fear of calling down upon their head the
wrath of the Prophet. Another reason was, that both Netnokwa and
Miskwa from their intercourse with the traders in selling their
peltries, had learned the meaning of a few English words, which
enabled them to comprehend the wants of the captive, and to make
themselves acquainted with many of the sad particulars of her story,
which, savage as the Indians may generally be deemed, only served to
awaken in their breasts feelings of the deepest sympathy.
As I have no fancy for broken dialects, I shall in the further
developement of this story, give a free translation to such
conversations as may occur between the captive and the two Indians who
have her in charge, and if in this I err, my apology must be, that it
is done with a hope, that on that account they may prove more
interesting to the reader.
As the life of one who depends on the casualties of the chase for
support is frequently one of great hardship and suffering, we must not
imagine an exemption in the case of Netnokwa and Miskwa, accustomed as
they were to the woods, and skilled as was the latter in the use of
her bow. No, far from it.
But to return to the captive, situated as we have described her. She
was alone. No living thing was at that time an inmate of her lodge,
and even if there had been, there were no means of sustaining life.
The last particle of food had been eaten hours before, and nothing now
remained but a few dried skins. About the centre of the cabin were the
embers of a dying fire, which she now proceeded to rebuild. While
engaged in this duty, there entered a light, graceful figure, clad in
rich skins, which fitted closely, and imparted to their wearer
somewhat the appearance of an Indian boy. A small rifle hung at his
back, yet a single glance at the delicate formation of his features
proclaimed him of a different sex. Gazing around but for an instant,
“where is my mother, Sweet Flower?” she said.
“I have not seen her since the morning,” replied the maiden, and a
partial gleam of joy shone for an instant on her wasted countenance,
upon the entrance of her friend.
“The storm hurries on, the snow is drifting fast in heaps, and
mother's blood courses slowly through her veins; I will go seek her.”
“Oh! do not, Miskwa, do not leave me,” cried the maiden, “you can
render no service this dark night, and will most probably be lost in
the snows. Oh! you know not how anxiously I have watched for you. Now
will you leave me? Let us raise a large fire; Netnokwa is wise in her
knowledge of the woods, and will be here presently.”
Yielding to the persuasion of the captive, Miskwa laid aside her cap
and rifle, and seated herself near the fire. Her dress consisted of a
kirtle or short frock, of English manufacture, fitting closely to her
chest, and extending down to her knees. Her feet were encased in
moccasins beautifully embroidered; the embroidery, the work of her own
hands, and tightly laced they displayed the proportions of a foot and
ankle which many a fairer face would envy. Her hair was simply parted
in front, and drawn behind her ears, it floated loosely over her
shoulders. She was beautiful, and withal, she was sprightly, and
playful, and seemingly unconscious of her situation.
“Did you kill any game to day, Miskwa?” inquired the captive.
“No,” said Miskwa, “not a foot print have I seen to day. The game is
wise, and the falling snow has driven it to its cover.”
“And did you walk far, Miskwa?”
“My path was long. I told thee I saw no foot-print. I mistake; I
followed a moose until the falling snow effaced its steps.”
“This is a hard life you lead,” said the captive, “you had better
carry me to the settlements. I have friends, and you and your mother
shall live with me. Several times, even since I have been with you,
have we been near starving, and if this snow storm continues, it will
end all our sufferings.”
“Never fear,” said Miskwa. “The red people are children of the Great
Spirit, and he will provide for them. The wild woods shall be our
home, and I will take care of ‘Sweet Flower.’ I will love her and give
her food.”
The captive needed no assurance of this, as far as it lay in the power
of Miskwa; for she had already received from her the most devoted
marks of affection, and if she now felt a doubt, it was because the
figure before her was so slight and delicate that it seemed rather to
need assistance than to be capable of affording it to others. Yet,
delicate as Miskwa seemed, few were able to undergo more fatigue. In
the chase she was not excelled. No one let fly a more unerring arrow,
no one shot with a rifle closer to the mark, nor was the bounding roe
of the forest more fleet. She owed her acquirements entirely to her
mother, who, as before stated, was one of the most remarkable women of
her age, and as much noted for her acquaintance with every species of
skill which belonged to her race, as she was conspicuous for the
clemency and humanity which adorned her character. She was likewise
superstitious in a great degree, so much so, that she mingled it with
all her acts, and it served to impart a mysterious colouring to her
character which only tended to increase her power.
However, the night wore on apace, and still the storm continued. Even
Miskwa's apprehensions for her mother began to increase, and she, with
the captive, sallied out to examine the state of the weather, and see
if any thing would offer itself as the means of relief. But all hope
of rendering any assistance was cut off; the night grew darker, and
the driving storm indicated that it would be madness to venture.
“Let us return,” said Miskwa, “I will pray to the Great Spirit:—he
will preserve me and my mother.”
“With all my heart,” said the captive, “and I too will unite in
prayer.”
Having entered the lodge, they had scarcely thrown themselves on their
knees, before a noise was heard at the door, and at the same moment,
Netnokwa entered, as calm and composed as though her journey had been
but an every day occurrence. Shaking the snow from her clothes, she
disencumbered herself of some of her garments, drew near the fire, and
lit her pipe.
“My children hunger, and have no food,” said she.
“None,” said Miskwa;—“no game has crossed my path to-day:—it heard the
storm in the whistling wind, and went to its hiding place.”
“And was Miskwa wise?”
“Miskwa searched for food for her mother; the path was far from her
lodge, yet she returned, and reached it before the night grew dark.”
“Thou wer't more wise than thy mother, Miskwa. Her blood is now like a
sluggish stream; it creeps slowly. The howling storm spent its force
upon the old oak, and racked it to its roots. Had Netnokwa remained
out an hour longer, she would not now want food; her spirit would be
in the happy hunting grounds with her warriors who have gone before
her. What would have become of her children?”
Miskwa renewed the fire, and drawing closer to her mother;—“Miskwa
always begs her mother that her path may not be far from her
wigwam,—She has seen many years, and should rest. Her daughter will
supply her with food.”
“We hunger now,—when morning comes, will it bring forth food?”
inquired Netnokwa.
“It will,” said Miskwa;—“the Great Spirit will take care of his
children. When morning comes, if Miskwa can find no game, she will
break the ice, and catch the dory.”
“Thou art good, my daughter. The Great Spirit will take care of his
children who love him. Let us pray to him, and ask him to give us food
in the morning. The pale face cannot live so long as we can without
food.”
“Be it as the Great Spirit wills,” said the captive, “but I had rather
do without it than that you should go out such weather as this to seek
it.”
“He that does not seek, shall never find,” said Netnokwa; “the Great
Spirit will not help those who do not help themselves.”
She then knelt, and prayed.
Some time was spent in prayer by Netnokwa, and then spreading their
pukkwi, and kindling up the fire, they lay around it, and nestling up
close to each other, slept away the night.
What a contrast had a few short months exhibited in the fortunes of
the captive;—one too so young, so beautiful, and so innocent that one
would have deemed her well calculated to disarm even fate of its
ire.—Yes, but a few short months had elapsed since she was in the
possession of parents, of friends, and the comforts of life. They have
passed, and she is an orphan, dwelling in the wilderness, and
suffering with want. Yet it was not hunger, nor bodily suffering which
caused her melancholy, but the loneliness of her situation, and the
gloom which hung over the future, brought up and educated as she had
been, and yet doomed to wear out her days in an Indian wigwam.
For some time she slept not, but thought of the past. She was sad, and
as the storm hurried howling around her little dwelling, she clung
closer to Miskwa, and felt a sympathy, in the driving blast, whose
notes touched a chord in unison with her own feelings, and even made
her more sad;—yet it was the joy of sorrow! for she contrasted the
present with the past, and her mind separating the sweet from the
bitter, dwelt only on the brighter recollections of her earlier days.
At last, day came, and with it came want, and knawing hunger, and the
prospect of starving to death; but with all this, never did a more
beautiful morn greet the children of Adam. The atmosphere was pure and
cloudless, and the reflection of the sun from the wide unbroken waste
of snow which lay before them, created a light as bright as though it
were reflected from so much burnished silver. The inmates of the lodge
having ventured out, were warmed into buoyancy of spirits by its
genial rays, and bright gleams of happiness for a moment passed before
them, upon beholding the dazzling splendour of the scene. Even
Netnokwa's swarthy features were moved, and the flow of earlier
feelings seemed struggling with the infirmities of age; but they soon
departed, and her present situation, with its sad circumstances, was
all she saw; calling her children to her, for she was pleased to
regard the captive in that light, she said:—
“My children, Netnokwa prayed last night to the Great Spirit. When you
slept, he came in a dream to me, and said: ‘Netnokwa, you shall feast
to-morrow, and plenty shall be in your wigwam.’ And a vision passed
before me, and in it I saw a stream, which found its way to the lake
now before me, and near its source, I saw a slaughtered bear. Will
Miskwa bring this meat to her mother?”
“Yes, and thank thee too,” said Miskwa;—and filled with life and
animation, she entered the hut, wrapped herself in furs, and seizing
her rifle, was equipped for the chase. Walking to the door, she
discharged it, saying, “Mother, the bear will be lucky which escapes
me to-day,” and then commenced reloading it.
“Thou art right, Miskwa,” said her mother;—“thy gun should not fail
thee when thou art hungry.”
“Say when my mother is hungry,” said Miskwa, “and ‘Sweet Flower’
drooping in our wigwam.”
Having rammed down the powder, she thrust her little hand into her
pockets, and drawing forth several balls, held them out to the
captive, “Wilt thou by choosing, give good luck to the red maiden,
‘Sweet Flower?’” said she.
Her companion complied, and thought these words, though she spoke them
not, “good as thou art pretty, Miskwa, may my fortune never betide
thee.” Miskwa being now ready, tripped out, as graceful and pretty a
figure as eyes ever beheld, and though not fashionably, she was
beautifully dressed. Closely muffling her neck was turned a rich fur,
as pure in whiteness as the fresh fallen snow, and which formed a
beautiful contrast with the jet black glossy hair which fell far below
it. Her cap was formed of the richest beaver, and that so tastefully
fashioned, that a maiden alone could have made it. She was a sweet
creature, and many a lassie who can boast the refinements of
civilization was far less interesting than the maid of the forest.
The captive went to the door, to see her labour her way through the
snow; but away she ran, like the bounding roe of the forest, and as
playful, and as happy, as though she were only running for pastime.
With so much cheerfulness did she hurry on to fulfil a dream. Yet
there was a holier purpose, it was to relieve the sufferings of a
mother and a friend.
Now, if the nature of her errand seems incompatible with the
gentleness of her sex, and the delicate formation of her frame, I pray
you, gentle reader, be not startled, for we are the creatures of
habit, and Miskwa had been trained to exercises of this kind from her
infancy; and if any fears should arise in your bosom as to the result
of the conflict, let me endeavour to allay them, as Miskwa did her
own, by saying, “one who shot so well, need fear no danger.” And if,
still unsatisfied, you should wonder that Miskwa, with so much
alacrity, would in such a season venture forth, merely to fulfil a
dream, let me say, that she lived surrounded by superstition, and that
her mother's dream was to her, pretty much what an authenticated
statement would be to one in civilized life; and furthermore, that
Netnokwa, though she had detailed a dream, always endeavoured to
produce ordinary events by supernatural means, and consequently, what
she had detailed as a dream, was but knowledge gained by previous
labour.
The captive having watched until Miskwa was lost to her view, entered
the lodge, and with much anxiety in her manner, said, “Mother, will no
harm come to Miskwa?”
“The Great Spirit will take care of his good children,” said Netnokwa,
“Miskwa is a good child.”
“But will not the beast she is gone to seek, harm her?” said the
captive.
“It will not bite so much as hunger,” said Netnokwa. “Miskwa is
prudent; fear not, daughter.”
I know not why, but at the close of this speech, the captive sat down
and wept, while Netnokwa prepared to enlarge the fire. A few hours
passed, and Miskwa returned successful from the chase, having found a
bear in such a place as the one described. Plenty was now in their
wigwam, and game soon after becoming abundant, they remained until the
melting of the snow enabled them to proceed on their journey to Red
River, which flows into Lake Winnipeek, whither they were now bound,
and where, at the period of our narrative, Netnokwa resided.[1]
[Footnote 1: See note C.]
CHAPTER X.
“Regions of beauty there the rovers found;
The flowery hills with emerald woods were crowned;
Spread o'er the vast savannas, buffalo herds
Ranged without master; and the bright winged birds
Made gay the sunshine as they glanced along,
Or turned the air to music with their song.”
MONTGOMERY.
To preserve unity, and also to explain some portions of our story,
which may seem to wear a mysterious colouring, the thread of our
narrative requires that we should again return to the brothers,
Tecumseh and Elkswatawa. As will be recollected, at the treaty of
Greenville, in '95, they were too young to be allowed a voice in
council; for, among the aborigines, wisdom and age are regarded as
almost synonymous terms, and no exploit, however daring, nor
reputation, however well earned, is ever regarded as a sufficient
equivalent for the want of years. Previous to that date, however,
Tecumseh, as the leader of a roving band, had, in the estimation of
his countrymen, won for himself the reputation of a great warrior; and
when, although it was stern necessity which forced them, he saw the
chieftains of his own and other tribes, about to surrender all for
which they had so long contended, he would not witness the humiliating
compact, but beckoning to his brother, they left the council, that
they might avoid the hated face of the white men, and plunging deeper
into the forest, rove where yet they could be wild and free.
Satisfied that, under existing circumstances, they could do nothing
which would materially benefit their tribe, or tend in any way to
effect a restoration of their lands, they passed several years
wandering far in the wilderness, and were rarely known to mingle with
their countrymen. But when the tidings that a firm peace had been
established were spread throughout the country, and the uninterrupted
quiet of a few years proclaimed those tidings true, swarms of
emigrants were seen hurrying on to the west. With their arrival,
encroachments were commenced on the lands of the Indians, and with
these encroachments, again appeared Tecumseh and his brother. They
ranged the frontier from north to south, and viewed in silence the
ravages which the great influx of strangers was making upon their
lands. They then returned from south to north, that they might more
fully acquaint themselves with the power and resources of the whites;
but when they returned, they found that their former footsteps had
been effaced by the rapidly swelling flood; and they made for
themselves a new path, farther in the forest, upon lands which were as
yet untouched by the inundation. And often did they pause, and in
silence contemplate the tide which was sweeping along, and which they
saw they had no means of opposing; and their bosoms heaved, and they
wept, when looking a few years into the future, they saw the fate of
the red men.
But when the brothers beheld these things, although no star of hope
shone to illumine their path, they resolved to make an effort to free
their country; to unite the tribes in one desperate struggle, and at
least die nobly in its defence. History assigns the summer of 1806, as
the period at which Elkswatawa and Tecumseh, who had resided apart for
some time, met by appointment, to discuss matters of grave import. And
since their meeting at that time exerts a serious influence on the
story we are telling, or rather since the incidents arising therefrom,
told almost without colouring, are to form the chief subject of the
following pages, we must be pardoned for going somewhat minutely into
detail.
To give vent to their feelings, and arrange their plans, was the
object of their present meeting. The morning was beautiful, and the
place selected by the brothers, far from their wigwams, was wild and
picturesque, and as quiet as it could be, surrounded by breathing
nature. The gravity of the speakers, indicated that indeed no
common-place theme was to be discussed, and the spot selected for
their conference, seemed chosen that its associations, if necessary,
might stimulate them in the execution of the plans they were about to
adopt. An Indian mound, beneath which might have slept a thousand
warriors, was the chosen spot; rising up some forty or fifty feet
above the plain, which lay spread out before them, it presented a
beautiful landscape of prairie and forest,—the former dotted with many
wild herds, browsing on its pasturage; and the whole scene untenanted
by human beings, save alone the two above mentioned lords of the
forest. Reclining an its top, and gazing upon the deep blue heavens,
they were for some time silent, showing by that silence, the deep
interest they felt in a subject, for the discussion of which they had
now met.
At last, Tecumseh rising up, said:—“Brother, I have sought this
meeting that we might hold a talk. I have visions of the future. Our
people must wake up, or the plough of the pale face will upturn the
hunting fields of the red men.”
“When, obeying thy call, I left my wigwam,” said Elkswatawa, “I knew
not thy purpose. I knew not there was a red man who would dare speak
of the wrongs of his country. But thou art of my mind, brother.” Then
pausing:—“Where are the fields over which in boyhood we hunted? Gone.
Where rest the bones of our fathers? They whiten the fields of the
stranger: they make grow the corn of the pale face.”
“Yes,” replied Tecumseh, “far, far, from the home of his children. But
they are crying unto his sons for vengeance; I hear their voice in the
running streams, I hear it borne on the winds as they sweep along.”
“Then we will dig up the tomahawk,” said Elkswatawa. “Onward be our
battle cry, and the red torch shall blaze until no red man is left to
kindle it, or until no wigwam remains to shelter a pale face.”
“Thou speakest well,” said Tecumseh, “we must brighten our tomahawks,
and the war whoop must ring. The pale faces like a mighty river are
sweeping over our lands. We must make a dam to resist them, or we
shall have not a hole to hide in, not a lap of earth whereon to lay
our heads. They are always hungry. If you give them land to day, they
want more to-morrow. They are never satisfied, but will drive us away
into the big Salt Lake.” Then, pausing for a moment, he burst forth
with renewed energy. “No; it shall never be. Sooner shall our streams
run red with the blood of the dying, our plains grow white with the
bones of the slain. Shall the children of the sun be wronged, and not
seek vengeance? Yes, brother. But it shall be when the mountains fall,
and rivers cease to flow.”
“Shall the red men be like the beasts of the forest,” said Elkswatawa,
“and seek for holes to hide in? No; let us sharpen our knives and
feather our arrows, and in coming years the red men shall ask, ‘lives
there a pale face?’”
Tecumseh, wrapped in gloom, turned to Elkswatawa, and his face
betrayed that some unwelcome thought lingered in his mind.
“Knowest thou, Elkswatawa,” said he, “the numbers of the pale faces?
Countless are they as the leaves of the forest.”
“I know not,” replied Elkswatawa. “Hast thou counted the tribes of the
red men? Call on the north, the south, and the setting sun; bid them
pour forth their dusky warriors, and a cloud would arise so dark, the
sun would be hid; cause it to roll on to the homes of the white men,
and burst over their wigwam. Hast thou seen a whirlwind when it sweeps
through the forest? It lasts but a moment, and 'tis gone; the leaves
are stripped from the trees and scattered to the winds. Thou sayest
the white men are like the leaves of the forest.”
“Thy words are sweeter to my ears than the running of waters,” said
Tecumseh. “War shall rage, but not yet. When again we kindle the
torch, and grasp the tomahawk, every red man who lives shall cry out
for vengeance. The Great Spirit wishes it. What makes the power of the
‘Father of waters?’ The rills which flow from the mountain tops, and
hurry to meet him, through a thousand valleys.”
Elkswatawa grasped the hand of his brother. “The vision is bright,”
said he. “It was the same to Pontiac, and the settlements trembled at
the gathering of his warriors. He was great among the tribes. So shall
be Tecumseh. The mind of Elkswatawa has long been troubled. He has
slept upon the graves of the red men, and their spirits have sung to
him in the winds of the night. They cried for vengeance, and said they
were not happy in their hunting grounds.”
“They shall have it,” said Tecumseh, “and the pale faces, like snow
drifts, shall be gathered in heaps upon the plains.”
“Then we agree,” said Elkswatawa. “The red men must be united. They
must be all tied strongly together. They must think alike, and one
spirit must lead them on to battle.”
“We must become one people,” said Tecumseh; “without it, there is no
hope. But here lies a log in our path; it is this; dissensions exist
among the red men. Not only is one tribe arrayed against another, but
even members of the same tribe against each other. There are fathers
who would raise the tomahawk against their children, and there are
children who would drink the blood of their fathers. Can'st thou
reconcile these differences, and unite all by one common tie?”
“I can.”
“How?”
“Are we not all children of the Great Spirit?”
“We are.”
“Then,” said Elkswatawa, “the Great Spirit must unite us, and one
common wrong incite us to action. A messenger from the Manito must go
among the red men, and preach the word. It must tie them together,
until a wrong done one, is felt by the whole; until one mind, is the
mind of all. Then let the war club be raised. Hast thou seen the
torrent when it rushes from the mountains? or the wild horse of the
prairie when he flies along with his countless troop?”
“Yes,” cried Tecumseh, animated by the glowing vision, “the music of
coming feet seems already floating in the air. Like the heavy tread of
a herd of buffalos, I hear them tramping across the plains. Yes, let
the red men come on, and every leaf of the forest shall be stirred as
they move along, and the war whoop shall ring, and the red torch
blaze. Then the Indian warrior shall cry out ‘where is the pale face?’
and there shall be none left to answer. They shall sleep, and wake no
more.”
“It shall be so,” said Elkswatawa, “but time and toil and labour must
be borne with. We must work and not tire. Nothing must drive us from
our purpose. Like a steady stream we must continue our course. Our
ears must not hear what people say of us. Though they laugh at us, our
passions must go to sleep. Still the red men must be aroused. To the
strong, we must give honey. Over the weak, we must hold the tomahawk.
And to what all this is to lead to, for a time, must be buried deep in
the ground. No one must know it.”
“Then to our purpose;” said Tecumseh, “you have thought upon this
subject; give me your plans.”
“Superstition must do our work,” said Elkswatawa, “and by it we must
master them. We must excite their fears. We must seem to work
miracles. We must see into the future, and the red men must be
troubled until they say, ‘behold the agents of the Great Spirit!’ When
we have done this, we lead them as we please.”
“Then a Prophet must arise.”
“Even so.”
“Where shall we find a Prophet?” said Tecumseh. “Shall I turn
Prophet?”
“No, brother; you are wise above most of the red men in the gift of
speech. Your words flow sweet as honey from the hive. But you cannot
dissemble. I can. I am the Prophet, you are my convert, and as such,
must paint to them what they were before the stranger came among them,
and make their misfortunes a judgment from the Great Spirit on account
of their dissensions and evil deeds. Tell them how they may wipe it
away; but above all, talk to them of the glory of their fathers; tell
them that their spirits are unhappy in their hunting grounds; talk to
them of days that are gone; when the children of the sun were masters
of the world; then change the scene, and dwell upon their present
condition. Preach to them peace, aye, peace; yet make them dream of
war and of vengeance, and cry for their lands which have been taken
away. This must you do, and you must have no home; let your wanderings
be from the big lakes to the setting sun, from where the ‘Father of
waters’ takes its rise, even unto the far south; wherever an Indian
fire burns, there must be heard the voice of Tecumseh.”
“And thou art the Prophet.”
“I am. This very night shall the Great Spirit hold a talk with me, and
to-morrow will I tell it to the red men. Then will I be troubled, and
fast, and sleep in the forest; and the Great Spirit shall again appear
to me, and again will I preach, and again, and again, until anxiety
shall appear in every face, and wandering about each one shall ask,
‘what is the matter?’ Thou thyself must wonder and disbelieve; let
time intervene, then be convinced; commence thy wanderings, and
support as thou knowest how my doctrines. For our tribe alone, at
first will we labour; having gained a mastery over that, and bound it
to us by fetters which none but the wise know how to forge, then will
we commence the campaign.”
“Hast thou studied thy character?” inquired Tecumseh. “The power of a
Prophet is great when established, loud in its voice as the rolling
thunder, fatal in its decrees, as the forked lightning; yet, in its
origin, 'tis but the gush of a fountain, or the twig of a tree.”
“I have. Philip and Pontiac endeavoured to do what we intend; they
failed, yet the earth trembled under their operations. I have studied
their histories. Many Prophets have arisen in days past and been for a
time all powerful. I have considered their plans, I have learned their
tricks, their deceptions, their practices; gathering something from
all I will perfect my character, and form my medicine bag, and with it
will I trouble the red men, and they shall know no quiet until the
same spirit animates every wandering tribe.”
“And to-morrow thou beginnest?”
“To night I have a vision, to-morrow I tell it.”
“Shall our purpose be known to a living soul?”
“No;” said Elkswatawa, “not yet; bury it deep, deep in the ground.”
“Then,” said Tecumseh, “let a moon pass away, and we will again meet;”
and rising, they sought their respective wigwams.
How inadequate sometimes are circumstances to their results? Is there
one of us whose life has not been influenced by a circumstance deemed
at the time trivial in its nature, or is there one of us who cannot
trace many of the most material events in our own lives to
circumstances apparently so trifling, that at the time of their
happening, we would not have changed them, if we could, by a wish. Not
only have individuals felt the force of the above remark, but even
empires. It is said, with how much truth I know not, that Buonaparte,
when leaving the military school at Brienne, applied for employment in
the Turkish army, and contemplated entering into the service of the
Grand Seignor. If it be true, what a source for speculation! What a
multitude of events hung suspended upon that application! How many
lives were numbered upon its refusal? What if the blood which Napoleon
caused to flow, had at that moment rushed by in a torrent? What a
startling vision for the Mussulman, could he have seen in the future,
that his employment of Napoleon would change his destiny, and reserve
for a different fate the countless thousands whom his mad ambition
sacrificed? What a source of speculation in the conduct of the Pasha!
was he an instrument in the hands of high Heaven, settling the fate of
the thousands whose destiny depended thereon, or was his refusal but
the result of blind chance?
It is but comparing small things with great, to advert to the meeting
of the Indian brothers in connexion with the alleged application of
Napoleon. Though less in its consequences, it was not to some extent,
less fatal in its results; and served to produce events darker than
which none are to be found on the page of history.
How sad were the effects of that conversation! How many, while it was
going on, were in the possession of health and happiness, who
afterward, on account of it were made to writhe at the stake; and how
many, both red men and white, did it hurry on to an untimely grave!
The consequences are remarkable, because the character was assumed by
one aware of its weakness, not by a fanatic believing what he
preached, and led on by a bigoted zeal; but by one who knew that it
must be founded in deception, and supported by trick, cunning, and
treachery. Aware of this, it will be a source of interest to trace the
petty devices which were used by the new made Prophet, in order to
enable him to obtain a mastery over the uncultivated minds of the
aborigines; and it will be the more interesting, when we reflect, that
he so far succeeded, as to establish for himself a power, which not
only spread terror and dismay along our frontiers, but which enabled
him to order to the stake those of his own race who opposed his
schemes, even though they were the chiefs of their tribes.
CHAPTER XI.
“'Tis said thou holdest converse with the things
Which are forbidden to the search of man;
And that with evil and unheavenly spirits
Thou communest. I know that with mankind,
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude
Is as an anchorite's.”
BYRON.
In accordance with the resolution adopted by the brothers, as
mentioned in our last chapter, Elkswatawa suddenly appeared as a
Prophet among the Shawanees. Meek and humble in his manner, he was not
characterized by the frivolities of dress, which, among the Indians,
always distinguished those who have attempted to play similar parts,
nor was there indeed any thing about his apparel at all calculated to
render him conspicuous. A blanket thrown loosely over his shoulders,
formed his upper garment, and when removed, disclosed a frock or
kirtle, of blue cotton cloth, closely fitting his person, and
extending down nearly to his knees. From his ears were suspended large
silver medals. These were the only ornaments worn by him. His
countenance was unpainted, and, although it was the invariable custom
of his countrymen never to move without the implements of war, or
those of the chase, yet he had neither, but went forth apparently as
incapable of doing mischief as when first he came into the world.
His appearance as Prophet for a time produced no excitement, and he
was regarded only as one of the many impostors who often sprung up
among the various tribes, and assumed the character either for the
purpose of gratifying private feelings of revenge, or else for the
sake of personal aggrandisement. But not at all discouraged by the
manner in which he was received, he kept steadily in view the object
for which he had set out. Regardless of the reproaches and taunting
speeches which often met his ears, he pursued the even tenor of his
way, content to tell to every circle, however small, that he was the
chosen agent of the Great Spirit, sent to warn the red men of their
evil deeds, and beg them to do better. An example of all that was
patient and meek, he was found wandering from village to village,
preaching as long as he had a hearer, and satisfied when his task was
finished;—he then seemed to have performed his duty, and again
continued his journey, apparently careless whether his words were
heeded or not. He asked nothing at the hands of any one, and refused
to accept when any thing was offered. Conduct so singular in an
Indian, gave rise to conversation, then to surprise, and finally to
excitement. His words were now eagerly listened to, but to what they
tended, or what was their ultimate object, no human being could
foresee. He was enigmatical in his expressions, and to all his
followers, seemed shrouded in mystery. He had been playing his part
for about two months, when leaving the scene of action for a time, he
was again seen in secret conference with Tecumseh. They were now less
gloomy than when first they met, and a gleam of satisfaction already
shone in their countenances.
“Welcome, brother,” said Tecumseh. “Have the winds of night sung to
you the words of the Great Spirit, and have you put them into the ears
of the red men?”
“Yes,” said Elkswatawa; “night after night I slept in the woods, and
dreamed as no one ever dreamed before.—Seeking the red men, I begged
them to listen:—they passed me by;—they heard me not. I then told the
words of the Great Spirit to the trees,—to the streams. I sung them to
the winds, as they moved along. The red men wondered:—I left them, and
they followed me to listen.”
“And what say they?” inquired Tecumseh.
“Their hearts are troubled,” said Elkswatawa; “their ears have heard,
but their eyes cannot see; they are in the dark.”
“Then our dreams of vengeance shall yet be realized,” said Tecumseh.
“The white man shall tremble when the red men are one people. But to
make them so, keep thy words wound up; let nobody see their meaning.
When the Prophet is great, then he will tell his wishes.”
“The Prophet is wise,” said Elkswatawa. “He is a clear spring to his
brother, but he is midnight to every body else. He has already
troubled the red men, and the words of the Great Spirit shall ring in
their ears until they know no quiet. They shall say, ‘Elkswatawa is
the true Prophet, and we will do what he tells us.’ The time shall
come when this is to be;—I see it in the future. And when it does
come, I say, Tecumseh, the plains shall be covered with warriors, as
far as the eye can reach. Their tomahawks shall glitter in the sun,
and with you to lead them, they shall pass like a swelling flood over
the homes of the pale faces.”
“Oh! brother,” cried Tecumseh, “it is good,—it makes my heart glad.
Let it come true, and the lightning's flash shall be dark to the fires
which light our path, and the rolling thunder shall not be heard, when
the war-whoop rings of countless thousands. But, brother, it will take
a long time. We must work hard, and many must help us. Ah! the white
man little dreams of the storm which is gathering.”
“No, nor must he dream,” said Elkswatawa; “the tomahawk must lie hid,
and the white man must think we will never dig it up. We must preach
peace to the Indians, get power over them, and make the white man say,
‘the Prophet is good; he calms the troubled waters.’ But we want help;
we must have converts, and they must go and talk to the far tribes.”
“I am already thy convert,” said Tecumseh.
“And what did the red men do,” asked Elkswatawa, “when Tecumseh said
that there was no crook in the words of the Prophet.”
“They were surprised,” answered Tecumseh.—“It was like a blow they did
not expect; they looked at each other, and waited for some one to
speak.—I left them.”
“Thou didst well,” said Elkswatawa:—“at first be indifferent whether
they believe or not. Let it satisfy thee that thou believest; but when
once we have power, who is there that will then dare doubt? The
Prophet has only preached to small numbers. He must have a large
crowd;—he must tell them all together, what the Great Spirit will do
for them, if they follow his words.—And listen, Tecumseh, fear must
seize upon their hearts, and we must make them believe.”
“Yes,” said Tecumseh;—“the words of the Prophet must move their
hearts, as the wind stirs the leaves on the trees. Tell them who they
are;—tell them that the stranger came among us, and begged for
bread,—we gave it; he asked for a wigwam,—we made him one; he wanted
lands,—we told him to take them. Was he satisfied? Tell them to ask
the bones of their fathers! Or, point to a son, whose father's blood
was spilled by the whites! Ask, where does he sleep? Tell him the
white man's house is built over his grave! And thus speak, if you wish
to stir them to the bottom. It would be well that they should fear.
Let the place of meeting alarm them. Canst thou do it?”
Elkswatawa was for a moment silent; he pressed his hands to his head,
then suddenly smiling as if a happy thought had struck him, replied,
“I have it; hast thou forgotten the Ween-bah-sho-ke-kah?”
“What, the haunted cavern?” said Tecumseh.
“The same,” replied Elkswatawa. “Fear will seize upon their hearts as
soon they enter it. It will suit our purpose.”
“It will,” said Tecumseh, animated by the thought; “you visit it, and
prepare for the coming assembly. I will spread far and wide the
tidings that the Prophet of the Great Spirit will hold a talk with the
red men in the haunted cavern.”
“Then do so,” said Elkswatawa, “name the time of meeting the twentieth
day from this. The Indians are troubled and they will come, though
they fear. Terror shall seize upon their hearts, for none as yet have
penetrated its recesses, and they shall say, ‘Elkswatawa is the true
Prophet.’”
“I augur well,” said Tecumseh, “the cave alone will fill them with
fear; Elkswatawa knows how to make them tremble.”
“Trust me,” said Elkswatawa, “even Tecumseh himself shall tremble.
Hast thou ventured far into the Ween-bah-sho-ke-kah?”
“No; never to its end,” said Tecumseh.
“Then thou dost not know how well it suits. A word more. When we meet,
Prophets must be made. Let them travel to the farthest tribes. Think
of those best suited, and name them to me. I will clothe them with the
prophetic spirit, and they shall wander forth believing what they
preach. Say, that Prophets will be made, and more will come to the
cavern. Now, farewell, play well your part, Tecumseh, and trust to
Elkswatawa for his.” They then separated.
The brothers having adjourned, Elkswatawa again commenced his
wanderings; the words of the Great Spirit were told to every person in
whom he could find a hearer, and he now for the first time, began to
affect singularity. He mingled in none of their amusements, he was
reserved and mysterious in his manner, and when not preaching, would
wander about and commune only with his own thoughts. He was rarely if
ever seen to eat, and when he did, the most frugal fare formed his
diet. He would never sleep in a wigwam, but as night came on, wrapping
a blanket about his shoulders, would retire far into the forest, and
appear again only with the rising sun.
His doctrines had already with the Indians become a theme of general
conversation, and given rise to speculations as undefined as they were
general. His opinions were seized upon with avidity, and propagated
with impassioned zeal; and that they were to produce any other effect,
than merely to better the condition of the Indians, no human being
could foresee. Nothing could be more humble than his mode of address,
nothing more pacific than the measures he recommended. He inculcated
reform in the manner and habits of the Indians, begged them not to
imitate the examples of the whites, but to live as their fathers did
before the stranger came among them; entreated them no more to go to
war with each other, but to live united as a band of brothers; to give
up the use of ardent spirits, to which mainly their misfortunes might
be attributed, and to stop at the same time, all intercourse with the
whites. He urged them never to lie, to steal, or to quarrel with each
other; and having pressed upon them the necessity of refraining from
these things, he then depicted in glowing terms, their once proud and
happy condition, when their lands lay spread out so far around them,
that no one knew their boundary; when their plains were covered with
deer and buffalo, and their streams were filled with the otter and
beaver, when peace and plenty were abroad in the land; and when
gathering under their own shady trees, without a care for the morrow,
they would teach their children to dance on the green, to throw the
tomahawk, or draw the bow. He contrasted this with their present
situation, and attributed the change to their doing those things which
he now commanded them not to do; then declared to them, that he was
the agent of the Great Spirit, who had revealed to him his will, and
sent him to warn them of their evil deeds, to unite them as a band of
brothers, and reinstate them in their former happy possessions.
These doctrines had been reiterated for some time by the Prophet,
principally to individuals of his own tribe, and to the few, who
having heard of the Prophet, came from a distance to look upon the
agent of the Great Spirit. But as yet he had addressed individuals
only, or small groups whom accident had brought together; he had never
spoken to a large crowd. Thus was he situated when, apparently without
any design of his own, messengers were found going in every direction,
to noise abroad his existence as a Prophet, and invite the red men to
hear him preach and expound the doctrines of the Great Spirit. Rumour,
no one knew whence it came, already attributed to him miracles without
number, and sketched his appearance in such singular characters, that
anxiety now sat on every face, and all were on tiptoe with curiosity
to see him; so that when the time and place were appointed for a
general exposition of his doctrines, and when also it was told that he
was about to parcel out among some of his immediate followers portions
of the holy and prophetic spirit which animated himself, crowds of
persons, with agitated and restless countenances, were seen hurrying
on in every direction to the “Haunted Cavern.”
This cave, which was then well known as the “Haunted Cavern,” and now
equally well known by a different appellation, lies within the bosom
of a range of hills, situated within the limits of the State of
Indiana. On the evening preceding the day on which the Prophet was to
preach, might be seen near their southern extremity, and at the base
of a hill, which, shooting up several hundred feet, stretched away
until it was lost to the view, hundreds of red men, with their wives
and children, gathered in groups, in the beautiful grove which lay
spread out far around them. They were engaged in various discussions,
and, altogether, manifested more excitement and animation than ever
before was known to pervade an Indian camp. Within this hill, was the
“Haunted Cavern,” the place of rendezvous. Roving bands were still
occasionally coming up, although the night was now somewhat advanced;
and morning was to witness an exposition of the doctrines of the
Shawanee Prophet.
The night wore on;—large vessels were simmering over the Indian fires,
containing the suppers of the late gathered crowd, and a more quiet
aspect seemed settling over the camp, when the blast of a horn rang
through the forest. Its echo died away, a breathless silence reigned,
and a voice breaking upon the stillness of the scene, was heard
proclaiming, “the Prophet's throne is in the bosom of the hill;—when
morning comes, let the red men seek it, and hear his words:—it is the
Prophet's will.”
The voice was hushed:—a low murmuring sound, like the suppressed
whispers of a multitude, was heard for a time to pervade the
camp;—silence then resumed her sway, and nought more was heard until
morning came. At the very first dawn, a dusky line of Indians might be
seen in single file, ascending the hill, a distance of about two
hundred feet, to a point, where were posted two warriors, gaudily
painted, and armed with heavy war-clubs. Here halting but for a
moment, they disappeared, by descending through a high arched
door-way, far down into the hill up which they had been climbing. The
procession lasted for about an hour;—the last of its members had just
entered the hill, when the horn again sounded, and the warriors who
had been standing guard, leaving their post, followed on, bringing up
the rear of the crowd which had entered. It was morning, yet it
availed not;—the light of day had never penetrated the dark recess of
that cavern;—no lost sunbeam had ever struggled through a nearly
closed fissure, to make glad with its presence that dim abode;—yet
there it had existed for ages, wrapt in its own gloomy obscurity, and
untenanted, save by nature, which had converted it into a chemical
laboratory, and there silently and incessantly, time out of mind, had
been engaged for its own wise purposes, in excavating spacious
caverns,—forming an infinite variety of stalactites,—creating wreaths
and festoons, by the process of crystallization,—erecting pillars,
fluted and adorned with the most beautiful incrustations,—and
embellishing every part of the immense area with the richest
frost-work. Descending through the fissure which conducts you into the
hill, you tread a gallery varying in its elevation and width for a
mile and a half, and throughout its whole extent, decorated with
crystallizations, cast in every shape, and of every hue. You are then
introduced into a suit of spacious halls, arched over some thirty or
forty feet above you, and supported by huge fluted columns of satin
spar. How tame and common are the most splendid palaces, with all
their decorations of art, when compared with these secret dwelling
places of nature. How tasteless are the most exquisite specimens of
architecture, when compared with the rude gothic grandeur of these
huge subterranean abodes.
Within the largest hall, arose the throne of the Prophet. This
consisted of a scaffold, elevated some few feet, and covered over with
skins;—from which also hung a rich drapery of the same material,
reaching to the floor, and effectually concealing every operation
which was going on within. From this throne, was the prophet to make
his appearance,—here promulgate the wishes of the Great Spirit,—here
tell of the numerous times he had condescended to visit him,—here
divide among his chosen followers portions of his own holy nature.
Gathering close together, in small circles, in various parts of the
hall, the Indians sat;—anxiety was strongly marked in their
countenances,—many gazed wildly about, and some trembled, as though
they were suffering with fear. A single taper burned in that dark
abode, serving only to indicate the situation of the Prophet's throne,
and leaving shadowy and undefined, the spacious hall in which they
were assembled. Silence reigned, only interrupted by a suppressed
sigh, or a single whisper, when an owl was heard to complain to the
bare walls. It ceased, and Tecumseh rising, lighted a match, and set
fire to several large piles of wood, which had been prepared for the
purpose. The fire rapidly caught, and as its flames burst forth, a
scene presented itself, of which language can convey no adequate idea.
A thousand suns would not have created a more dazzling light than did
those fires, when reflected and refracted at every possible angle,
from the myriads of crystals which studded the walls. They gave life
to that which was before gloomy and obscure,—presented a scene as
brilliant as though every crystal were a diamond, and called into play
imaginations which required but little exertion to form and fashion
into perfect models of huge and uncouth animals, the many wild
assemblages of spar and stalactites which hung above them.
While the Indians, wild with astonishment, were gazing on the scene
which had just burst forth, a low rumbling noise was heard,—the skins,
which hung from the throne, were pushed aside, and a very singular
figure made its appearance. An involuntary start was the effect of
their first beholding it. It was, however, a man, and a tool of the
Prophet. He was clad in one or more bearskins, selected on account of
their being very black, and thrown over him so loosely as to enable
him to assume any attitude or shape, whether it was that of the animal
he personated, or of a man, which he less resembled. His face was
enclosed in a bear's head, which seemed grinning with all its native
ferocity, and exhibiting its long, white, keen tusks; while its eyes
were somewhat enlarged, and surrounded by a deep red fiery belt,
creating a savage horror. Where the animal's tail should have been,
protruded one of enormous bulk, terminating in a large black snake,
which had been so well stuffed and preserved, that as this object
whisked about, the snake had all the appearance of life. This man had
been chosen, and thus equipped by Elkswatawa, for the purpose of
guarding his sacred person, together with several other small
articles, which he denominated portions of the flesh of the Great
Spirit, and which he stated, were given him that his chosen followers
might touch them, and thereby imbibe the prophetic spirit. Having made
his appearance, he circled the throne several times on the outer edge
of the scaffolding, howled, and disappeared.
A warrior, then, a chosen friend of the Prophet, stepped from the
crowd, and began howling a dismal song, in a low grumbling voice, and
at the same time to move in a slow trot around the throne. The
multitude now rose, and joining in the song, followed on in the dance
until they had circled it three times, when the Prophet rose, and
stood erect upon the highest pinnacle of his throne. The song was now
more loud and animated,—the multitude moved with greater activity, and
nothing could be more impressive than the reverberation of their
voices afar off, in the hollow windings of that huge cavern.
At a given signal, all was hushed, and the Prophet stood erect, with
his bare arms stretched towards heaven. His attitude was one of
prayer, and his countenance was singularly expressive. His hair,
simply parted over his forehead, was drawn tightly back, and fastened;
falling thence unconfined, in straight lines, far below his shoulders,
and serving from its deep black, to impart to his face a redder tinge
than it was wont to wear. His dress was plain, and he wore no
ornaments save the rings which were ever suspended from his ears;—but
as he moved his arms about, a couchant tiger, beautifully tattooed,
and representing the totem of his tribe, was seen to move with every
action of his muscles. The humility of manner which marked his first
announcement as a Prophet, had now left him, and with a calm and
composed look, he gazed for several minutes around him, when he thus
spoke:—
“Brothers,” begun the Prophet in a soft, low tone of voice, which
gradually increased, until like the rushing noise of a swollen
torrent, it was heard forcing its way through every winding of that
spacious cavern. “Listen. It is the voice of the Great Spirit who
speaks to you in the words of his Prophet. He lives in the winds, he
rides on the tree tops, he walks on the rivers, he stands on the
mountains. From all he has cried unto me and said, ‘Elkswatawa, go and
talk to the red men.’ Tell them of their evil deeds, warn them of
their danger and beg them to do better. Elkswatawa was sleeping in his
wigwam, when the spirit first came. It said ‘Elkswatawa, awake, awake,
go unto the red men and preach the word.’ It told me that the red men
had evil ways, that their sufferings were very great, that their
hunting grounds were going away far from them, and soon they would
have no homes to rest in, no game whereon to feed. It told me that the
bones of your fathers were now lying upturned on the fields of the
stranger, who once came to you hungry and you gave him food! who came
to you naked, and you clothed him in skins—and saying this,” continued
Elkswatawa, “the heart of the Great Spirit was sorry, and he said, ‘I
made these hunting grounds for my red children, but on account of
their evil deeds the white man has taken them away.’”
And here the animal which was concealed within gnashed his tusks and
ran howling around the stage on which the throne was erected.
“But,” resumed the Prophet, “while the Great Spirit was sorry for his
red children, he told me how to relieve their sufferings, and make
them happy as they were before the white man came from beyond the wide
waters,—make them happy as our fathers were, when nobody could say
‘this belongs to me, that belongs to you;’ but when the fruits which
grew belonged to him who gathered them, and the red man built his
wigwam wherever he wished it.
“Brothers, listen! give me your ears while I put his words into them.
He is sorry for his red children, and wants to see them happy. He says
they must not lie, they must not steal, they must not go to war with
each other, nor with the white man—that the white man was bad to his
red brothers, and that they ought to go away and leave him—that they
ought not to trade with him, nor associate with him, nor follow his
example, but above all not to drink his whiskey—that it was poisonous
to the red man, and made him give away his lands—that what was good
for the white man was not good for the red—that they were two people,
and ought to live each after their own ways. The Spirit told me to
talk to you, to tie you together, until you were all like brothers—to
tell you that though you had different tongues, yet you were one
people—to tell you that what was good for one was good for another,
that you should think alike, and feel alike, until a wrong done one
was felt by all.
“Brothers, listen! I have now spoken to you the words of the Great
Spirit; I ask you are they good? Does he ask of you a sacrifice? No.
He promises all you wish. Obey his words as the Prophet has spoken,
and your lands shall be given back to you, so vast, that the sun shall
never go down upon them—and they shall be covered with deer and
buffalo and elk, as many in number as the leaves on the trees. The
tomahawk shall be buried, and peace like a large bird shall spread his
wings over the land—the white men shall go over the waters, and the
red men shall again be masters of the country. But, disobey him,
continue in your evil ways, and the Great Spirit will sweep you away,
and your hunting grounds will be given to the pale face.
“The Prophet has finished, you have heard the words of the Great
Spirit, and they stand as firm as the sun in the Heavens.”
He then ceased speaking, and was silent:—the multitude seemed struck
with awe and astonishment at the exposition of his doctrines; they
were so plain, they were so easily followed, they required no
sacrifice, yet promised so much. Each looked at the other and
whispered, until the Prophet again rose; then all were silent, when in
substance he stated “that in obedience to the will of the Great
Spirit, he would now empower some of his chosen servants to aid him in
preaching the word, that setting out in different directions, they
might spread far and wide the words of the Great Spirit, turn the red
men from their evil deeds and give them peace and plenty.”
He then called over a list of the chosen, about a dozen in number,
each one being conspicuous in the circle to which he belonged. They
approached the throne, and fell prostrate before the Prophet. After a
few moments he ordered them to rise, detailed to them the course that
each must pursue, the doctrines they must preach, the holy errand upon
which they were about to set out, and the great good which was to
result from their labours. He adverted to the many privileges to which
they were entitled as agents of the Great Spirit, and dwelt upon the
evil consequences to which those would be exposed who treated them
amiss. Having given a detail of their various duties, enjoined upon
them the mode of life they were to follow, and the habits they were to
adopt; he ordered them to approach nearer, that they might touch the
flesh of the Great Spirit in token of their acceptance of the holy
mission. They obeyed, and foremost among the applicants for holy
orders now stood Tecumseh. They having approached sufficiently near,
the Prophet stepped from his throne, seized a broach which had been
lying at his feet, and began to wind up the thread which had been
drawn off. At this moment several of the immediate followers of the
Prophet, were seen to slip unobserved from the crowd and disappear in
the cavern, each one carrying a coal of fire. The Prophet continued
winding the broach and seemed as if searching for the end of the
thread. A few moments sufficed to show that it had found its way among
the skins where the singular figure before described was now reposing,
yet the Prophet continued to wind, and as the thread came more slowly
and was pulled with some difficulty, the animal within, for so I must
designate it, became noisy and restless, making the cavern re-echo
with the most hideous yells, and contorting and twisting himself into
various shapes, and lashing the staging with that part of his body
which terminated in a snake. A moment more and out it burst, screaming
and yelling, and rolling around the throne, with eyes like coals of
living fire—at the same time was drawn out the end of the string, and
to it was attached a motley mass of mouldy beans, lizards tongues, and
birds' livers. At their appearance the Prophet trembled from head to
foot, and knelt in the humblest attitude of prayer, while at the same
time, the most vivid coruscations of lightning were seen to burst
forth from various parts of the cavern, accompanied by a dull heavy
sound, so violent as to bring from the walls a shower of small
crystals, broken loose by the violence of the concussion. With a
tremulous hand, and scarcely articulate voice, the Prophet seized the
string, and bade his chosen band touch the flesh of the Great Spirit.
“This was given me,” said he, “that you might touch it, and thereby
receive the Holy Spirit:—take it and draw it through your hands, and
you are Prophets, and the bond of union is irrevocable between you and
the Great Spirit.” Then passing it to them, each one did as he
desired.
While they were doing this, the sides of the vast cavern looked like
burnished silver, so thickly were the walls studded with crystals, and
so incessant was the lightning's flash. Every object was now
visible;—the dull heavy sound was still heard reverberating in the
windings of the cavern;—the animal still howled and rolled itself, as
if in an agony of suffering; and the crystals fell like falling
snow,—when the Prophet said, “Quick, quick, the flesh of the Great
Spirit must not longer be exposed, or some misfortune will befall us,”
and clutching it from the disciple who had last drawn it through his
hands, he placed it, with the broach, beneath the skins. The animal
ceased howling, and returned to its cover,—the lightning, with its
accompanying dull noise, died away,—the crystals ceased falling, and
all was silence.
The converts were now ordered to kneel, and the Prophet having again
commanded them to wander far and wide, and preach the word;—and having
in a brief manner recapitulated his doctrines, and given them his
parting benediction, they, with the crowd, were dismissed.
He then descended from his throne; began to mingle familiarly with
all,—to narrate his dreams,—to sketch visions of future happiness,—and
dwell upon the necessity of obeying his injunctions.
The newly made Prophets pursued the same plan, and for some time there
was a general interchange of opinions, when the crowd, well satisfied
with the exposition they had seen, left the cave and returned to their
wigwams.
CHAPTER XII.
“Flaming piles, where'er he turned,
Cast a grim and dreadful light;
Like funereal lamps they burned
In the sepulchre of night.”
MONTGOMERY.
Some time had now elapsed since the exposition at the Haunted Cavern,
and the disciples of Elkswatawa were still zealously engaged in
disseminating his doctrines far and wide. Many converts were made,
although a warm opposition had been organized, by some of the chiefs
of the neighbouring tribes, who did not hesitate to denounce him as an
impostor,—to declare that his prophecies would prove false,—and who
exerted all their influence to destroy the ascendency which he was
fast attaining.
That Elkswatawa, who pretended to hold intercourse with the Great
Spirit, and only do his bidding, should in so short a time acquire a
more than ordinary ascendency over uncultivated minds, is not much to
be wondered at, when we reflect upon the peculiar situation of the
persons upon whom he operated. When we reflect that superstition was
with them a part of their education, and that they were suffering
under wrongs both real and imaginary, which created much excitement,
and rendered them eager for any change, however wild, which promised
to better their condition. When, also, we advert to the fact that his
doctrines at first were propagated with much gentleness, and required
the performance of duties which all were satisfied would conduce to
their general good, and which, several years after their first
propagation, had wrought so remarkable a change, as to create wonder
and astonishment both among the red men and white. By Elkswatawa alone
were the habits and manners of the Indians entirely changed, and good
order and sobriety made to prevail where but a few years before,
disorder, riots, and drunkenness were an every day occurrence. This
fact alone, that he, chiefly by his own exertions, had established a
new organization of society, and that upon principles of morality in
direct opposition to long established customs, is a proof of the vast
power he was enabled to wield. And the conception of the plan by the
brothers which was to give them so great a mastery over all the
wandering tribes;—their commencing with the propagation of doctrines
to which no one could object, and the deep policy which enabled them
to conceal their designs for so long a time, evince much wisdom and
profound sagacity.
Having gained an ascendency by mild measures, it was now necessary
that he should move a step farther, in order to develope more fully
his plans, and increase the influence he had already obtained. A
radical change as we have already observed, had been introduced among
the Indians, tending to better their condition; and so gentle had been
the means, and so unobjectionable the doctrines taught, that the
suspicions of the whites had not as yet been aroused. It is true, that
the traders, who were in the habit of selling spirit to the Indians,
and thereby amassing large sums of money, had often made complaints,
and stated that the intentions of the Prophet were hostile; but his
doctrines conflicted directly with their interests, and consequently,
their communications were disregarded. Moreover, up to this time, no
single act had been committed, calculated to create the least
suspicion; so far from it, the Prophet, on account of the favourable
changes he had introduced, had won the regard of most of the whites
along the frontier, and was looked upon by them in the most favourable
light. It would have been well for him and better still for the red
men, had he stopped here. But this would not have been in accordance
with the plan which he had formed with his brother, and which they had
prosecuted with so much untiring zeal and perseverance. So that
Elkswatawa now, in order to ascertain the amount of his influence,
began in the name of the Great Spirit to require sacrifices on the
part of his followers.
The first edict he issued, simply required that the fire in an Indian
lodge should never be permitted to go out under penalty of the
declared displeasure of the Great Spirit. Secondly, he ordered that no
Indian should suffer a dog to live, together with many other things,
too tedious to mention. To these which I have specified, ridiculous as
it may seem, it is stated that the most implicit obedience was paid by
all who ranked themselves as his followers. These sacrifices were,
however, of different kinds, and in themselves, but of little moment,
and were required merely that he might see whether or not obedience
would be paid to his orders.
This having been done, other changes were daily introduced, all
tending to increase the influence which he already wielded. Latterly
he had begun to dwell more on the necessity of a perfect union among
the tribes; indeed, it was now chiefly the burden of his song, and at
his request was urged with much zeal by all his agents, although they
themselves were ignorant of his ultimate intentions. Having now for
some time endeavoured to obtain a mastery over all the tribes, and
finding that the chief obstacle to the success of his plans was to be
found in the opposition of some neighbouring chiefs, he determined at
once to consult his brother as to the propriety of getting rid of
them; and with this view sought him immediately upon his return from a
wandering expedition.
“Thy moccasins are worn with travel, brother,” said Elkswatawa, “thy
path has led thee to far tribes; what say they of the Shawanee
Prophet?”
“I bring great joy,” said Tecumseh, “I have poured out words like a
rushing river, and the hearts of the red men are bleeding. I have
preached to them peace, but they dream of war; and were Tecumseh to
say, ‘come on,’ they would follow, though they know not whither.”
“My heart is glad,” said Elkswatawa. “But some of the red men grieve
me, they have placed logs in our path. We must remove them.”
“How?—what has happened?”—said Tecumseh.
“The chiefs of the Delawares and Wyandots have said,” replied
Elkswatawa, “that the words of the Prophet have no truth in them; that
he deceives the red men, and cannot do what he promises.”
“Ha!” said Tecumseh, “I warned you of this. You have placed the
Shawanees above the Delawares and Wyandots. It was wrong. But the
Prophet has spoken. His words must always seem straight, they must
never be changed.”
“No, brother; and he who says the Prophet speaks false, must die, or
the work we have begun will never be finished.”
“It would be well:—if they lie in our path, they must be taken away.
But how can this be?—they have friends, and are powerful.”
“I have sworn in my heart, they shall die,” said Elkswatawa, “I have
the means. Knowest thou the virtue of witchcraft?” His sides shook
with a low chuckling laugh, and he continued, “Our enemies are
witches, let them die as such, the Great Spirit orders it.”
“Witchcraft among the red men is like a large fire,” said Tecumseh,
“when once you kindle it; but how will you start it?”
“There are many red men,” replied Elkswatawa, “who say, Elkswatawa is
the true Prophet. Wherever I go, they follow. Whatever I order, they
do;—so far, good. When I preach again, I will attribute the misfortune
of the red men to witches or evil spirits, and the Great Spirit shall
order the red men to remove them from among them. At first, evil
spirits shall enter the bodies of those whom nobody cares for; they
shall die, and the Prophet will say the Great Spirit is glad. Then
they shall enter the bodies of those whom many hate, they shall die,
and the Great Spirit shall say he is pleased. Then will I pray and be
absent many nights, and the Great Spirit shall say to me that the
chiefs, our enemies, are witches. I will tell it to the red men; they
are excited, and once having tasted blood, will readily believe. I
will attribute to them the loss of our lands, I will show the working
of the evil spirit in all their actions. I will call them the friends
of the white men and show their names to the treaties. Will not this
do, Tecumseh?”—
“Thy wits are sharp,” replied Tecumseh. “But, brother, thou speakest
of the stake, as you would order a fire for a morning meal. I would
have your heart sorry at what you propose. The red men, not white, are
those whose deaths you seek; remember, we have often given them our
hands, we have smoked in their wigwams, and we have hunted the deer
and buffalo with them far out on the prairies. If our plans require
it, let your heart be sad.”
“Ha! brother,” cried the Prophet, “art thou white livered? Dost thou
talk of freeing thy country, when like a woman, thou dost sicken at
thought of the stake? If thou canst not open the veins of a sleeping
child, and lap its blood like a thirsty dog, I pray thee leave me; I
will kindle the torch of war, and lead our warriors on, until not a
tomahawk is left, which is not rusted red with the blood of the
whites.”
“And thou dost call me white livered, Elkswatawa,” said Tecumseh, his
frame dilating, and his eyes glowing with indignation, “thou hast said
so;—now did not the same current flow in our veins, and were we not
travelling the same path to the same place, and to reach it requires
that we should travel as friends, my tomahawk should drink thy blood,
base slanderer as thou art. What! because when the sky is clear, I
cannot dabble in the blood of the aged, nor derive pleasure from the
scalping of children, thou shouldst brand me as a coward—thou!
Elkswatawa! Thou art my brother, I must stop,—yet recollect this, when
the battle rages, if thou, Elkswatawa, wilt follow Tecumseh in the
fight, thy name shall be associated in future years with all that is
noble and daring in Indian warfare.” And saying this he began to walk
hurriedly to and fro.
While Tecumseh was delivering the above, the Prophet stood cowering
beneath his fierce glance, and appalled by the storm of passion he had
raised; at length he answered:
“Thy anger is strong, Tecumseh; it is a mighty wind, but Elkswatawa is
a blasted tree; the wind passes by, and harms him not. Elkswatawa did
not wish to touch the heart of his brother. When his brother is angry,
he wants it to be with the pale faces and not with him. We have
started upon a journey, and we have travelled a long way. We now find
our path stopped up. Shall we turn back, or shall we clear it out, and
go on? Elkswatawa says go on, clear it out; burn the red men who stop
it up, and our path will then be open to our journey's end. Let us do
this, brother, and then when they speak of the Prophet, they shall
fear and tremble, and when he orders they will obey.”
“Then be it so,” said Tecumseh, “I like it not, but, since our plans
require it, let it be done.”
“Tecumseh is dark to his brother, he cannot see through him. He wishes
to make the red men one people, and yet his heart is sorry, when a few
must be burned for the good of the many. Tecumseh's heart does not
pant for the blood of an enemy. Elkswatawa's heart is glad when an
enemy dies, be he white or red. He would drink up his blood as the
summer earth does the rain. Tecumseh likes not human blood, and the
stake is dreadful in his eyes.”
“Thou sayest the shedding of human blood is painful to me; thou
knowest me not, Elkswatawa; let it flow when the battle rages, and let
its source be the bleeding bodies of the white men. It might then rush
along like a mountain torrent gurgling and leaping over its rocky bed,
and in it I could bathe, or could stretch myself along its brink, and
sleep by its murmuring sound. But enough; let us each to his post, and
do his duty, you to practice witchcraft, and I to wander and preach to
the red men;”—then turning off, he left the Prophet to his own
meditations.
But a short time had elapsed since the above conference, when
witchcraft became a subject of general discussion among the red men,
and the Prophet having detailed his plans and wishes to some of his
immediate converts and followers, was soon after favoured with a
revelation of the will of the Great Spirit, which pointed out the evil
effects of witches, and attributed to them all the misfortunes of the
red men. This revelation was immediately detailed to his assembled
followers, who lost no time in seeking for the supposed witches, the
authors of all their misfortunes. The first act in the drama,
consisted in the execution of several persons of little note. By some
of his emissaries a charge of witchcraft was brought against several
old women who were known to have an undue quantity of roots in their
wigwams, and against whom a suspicion of witchcraft had before been
hinted. Witnesses were ready to prove all that was required, the
stakes were prepared, and they suffered death protesting before Heaven
their innocence, to the last moment. These trials, which were mere
mockeries, for the victims were always doomed to death when they were
marked out, generally took place in the presence of large crowds of
assembled spectators, served to create excitement, and at the same
time whet the native ferocity of the savages. These exhibitions were
followed by continual preachings, and revelations of the Great Spirit,
through the Prophet, in which he was pleased to express his
satisfaction at the executions which had already taken place.
The state of ferment and excitement had now arrived at the highest
pitch, and the red men having tasted of blood, like blood hounds
thirsted for more. Other persons of little note who were obnoxious to
the Prophet on account of having derided his doctrines, or to his
followers on account of personal differences, soon experienced the
same fate. Stakes were prepared in many of the neighbouring tribes,
and the awful and deadly denunciations of the Prophet against all who
were even supposed to be touched with witchcraft, gave to his
followers unlimited power over all whom they chose to accuse.
Witnesses to prove whatever the Prophet wished, were at his call, and
in the executions which had as yet taken place, it had so happened,
that all had been satisfied with the proof which had been adduced. The
possession of crooked pins, rusted nails, or roots were always fatal
to the possessor, and no difficulty was found in clandestinely placing
them about the persons of the accused. This is all literally true, and
the few who may be sceptical on the subject, I would refer to a
history of scenes somewhat similar, in New-England, where the actors
were civilized and enlightened. Here the actors were entirely
uneducated, addicted to superstition, and consequently formed of
materials more fit to be operated on.
The Prophet and his band were still going on with their work of
destruction, many victims, although none of them were chiefs, had
already suffered, and still the Great Spirit, through the Prophet,
enjoined them to prosecute the work they had begun, until no evil
spirit should lurk among the red men, and that then they would have
future days of untold happiness. He had now operated upon the band who
were with him, until a wish was law, and his emissaries had also
acquired much influence among the neighbouring tribes; when at the
close of an evening during the scenes we have described, he was
observed to retire alone into the forest at a distance from his camp,
where apparently in great trouble, he passed the night in prayer, and
in howling songs of vengeance; but against whom, no one knew, for they
dared not intrude upon the secrecy of his devotions. At the camp, his
followers were in the highest possible state of excitement, for they
knew that some matter of great interest occupied the Prophet, although
what it was, no one could tell, nor could they know until he should be
pleased to reveal to them the source of his sufferings. All believed
that he was holding communion with the Great Spirit, and waited with
anxious solicitude the coming of morn, when they believed that he
would reveal to them the nature of the intercourse he had held,
together with the wishes of the Great Spirit. The entire night was one
of anxiety and care, dark and undefined visions troubled the red men,
serving in a great measure to banish sleep, and if for a moment some
one, overpowered by fatigue, sank to rest, he was startled by the
restless howling of the Prophet, and arose more feverish and excited
than when he lay down.
But morning came, the voice of the Prophet was silent, and yet he
appeared not. The sun rose, and a lovelier sun never shed his lustre
over the wild woods—the birds sung praises to the God of day from the
neighbouring tree tops, and the dew was fast disappearing, when the
Prophet was seen with hurried steps striding along towards his
encampment. A wild shout burst forth, and many of his band ran eagerly
forward to meet him, and conducted him to his tent. His features were
thin and haggard, and his appearance was that of much suffering; but
he refused to take any rest or refreshment, and having called together
his followers, the first words that fell from his lips were,
“Teteboxti, Billy Patterson, and Leather-lips must die!” A short but
deep silence followed, and a cloud passed over the features of the red
men, for the two first mentioned were chiefs of the Delawares; the
latter a chief of the Wyandots, and all were persons high in favor
among their respective tribes. They had always supported
unexceptionable characters, and each possessed the influence which
always attaches to a long and well-spent life. The Prophet continued:
“The evil spirit dwells in them, their knives are sharp, and they
would draw them against their brothers. They are the friends of the
white men,—they have sold our lands to the pale faces—see their names
to the treaties—and they are now trying to take from us the few
hunting grounds we have. Should they live, the red men will have no
homes to rest in. I prayed last night, as you know, to the Great
Spirit, and begged him to say to his Prophet what should be good for
his red children, and a voice cried, saying ‘let no witch live.’ And I
slept, and had a vision, and in it I saw Teteboxti, Billy Patterson
and Leather-lips gathering herbs, both deadly and poisonous, and on
their persons they had many crooked pins, and ugly nails, with which
they were about to exercise their infernal rights to the great injury
of the red men. They are witches, prepare the stakes and let them
suffer.”
The Prophet had no sooner finished speaking, than there burst forth a
wild and savage yell, with cries of “lead us on, lead us on!” and
placing himself at the head of his gang, they all ran away howling in
search of the doomed. Like an unkennelled pack, fresh for the chase
they coursed away through the woods, bending their way to the Delaware
tribe—scouring the country for those they sought, and spreading terror
and desolation, wherever they swept along.
Several days passed, and it was evening when the Prophet was seen in
the Delaware country, seated on a small grass plat, which had been
swept and prepared for some purpose and surrounded by many Indians,
some of whom were Delawares. They were all more grave and taciturn
than usual; and upon examining more minutely into the preparations
which had been made for the assembled crowd, their silence was easily
accounted for. Hard by them, and at a distance of about twenty feet
from each other might be seen two freshly cut poles which had been
trimmed, and inserted deep into the earth. Around them for several
feet, the ground had been swept, and over them were thrown several
little bunches of twisted mulberry strings. A quantity of light wood
and dried sticks had been gathered, and lay near at hand, while also
at a short distance, smoked a small fire, which seemed to have been
kept alive merely to answer the purposes of a match.
It was now near the close of evening, when, afar off, was heard a
confused noise, which seemed to approach and gradually increase, until
one could identify it, as an Indian hymn of joy, proceeding from a
mixed multitude of persons, hurrying on to the present encampment of
the Prophet. In the rear of the approaching band, were collected a
number of boys and women, with long switches, who seemed to be urging
something forward. It was Teteboxti and Billy Patterson, pinioned,
whom they were forcing along to the Prophet's camp. Having arrived,
there burst forth a simultaneous shout of savage joy, and then for a
time was wild revelry and mirth, and confusion and disorder, and all
cast taunts and reproaches upon the accused.
The Prophet afterward having formed a ring, called them to order, and
in the centre stood those who were already doomed to death. Then came
on the mockery of a trial;—it lasted for a moment;—it was over, and
the victims were ordered to the stake. Among some of the red men there
now seemed a little wavering of purpose, and but for the excitement
under which they were labouring, they must have relented, when they
saw dragged to the stake two of their own citizens, worn with years,
and covered with honours. Teteboxti had ever supported the most
exemplary life; he was even famed for his wisdom and his many virtues,
and the breath of suspicion had never as yet been blown against him.
In the language of one who described the scenes of that day, “his head
had been bleached by more than eighty winters,” and he now stood at
the stake, trembling with age, and leaning on his staff for support,
while they prepared to fasten the strings around him. Compassion now
for a moment appeared to gleam forth, for the Prophet advancing to
Teteboxti, told him if he would deliver up his medicine bag, and
confess himself a witch, his life should be spared. The strength of
the old man's mind had departed, and age had imbued him with the
weakness of a child. He consented, and designated a spot where he said
his medicine bag was concealed. He was released, and the crowd led him
to the place he had mentioned;—yet his little bag, which in the eyes
of the Indians, was all powerful, for it was filled, as they supposed,
with roots and crooked pins, and such other substances as were
necessary for a witch to work his incantations with, was no where to
be found. The old man was frightened, and gasped for breath, and named
another place. They led him there, and searched, yet nothing could
they find. He still named another place, and begged them to lead him
thither, but it was apparent that procrastination was his only object,
and they dragged him away to the stake, with tears flowing in a stream
down his face as they urged him along. He was bound, and the fire
kindled,—a light current of air which swept along, fanned the fire
into a flame, and at the same time parting the white hair of
Teteboxti, caused it to float off in the wind. At this moment, a young
warrior, who was near, moved by compassion, sank his tomahawk into his
head:—he fell, quivering upon the ground, and as the yet warm reeking
weapon was returned to its sheath, a shudder passed over the features
of Elkswatawa.
While this was acting, Billy Patterson remained pinioned to a stake, a
silent spectator, at the distance of only a few feet. So calm and
unmoved was he, that no one would have supposed him interested in the
events which were occurring. But now the crowd gathered around him,
and the Prophet stepping forth, made the same propositions to him
which he had made to Teteboxti. Many begged him to accept them, and
give up his medicine bag;—his life had been irreproachable and useful,
and they wished it spared. He had served his apprenticeship as a
gunsmith among the whites, where also he had imbibed the doctrines of
Christianity, and to the Prophet's proposition, he replied:—“I am a
Christian, and have no connexion with the devil;—you have intimidated
one poor old man, but you cannot frighten me,—proceed, and you shall
see how a Christian and a warrior can die.”
His speech irritated the crowd:—they abused him as a witch, and
drawing nearer to him, sat fire to the pile. The fire, at first, burnt
slowly, but soon after increasing, it rolled upwards, in a sheet of
dense red flame. You might now hear his skin crack and parch, and yet
he uttered no murmur or complaint; but, opening a small hymn book,
began to sing and pray, with a loud voice. The Indians who surrounded
him, danced about with savage glee,—made jocose speeches when his
muscles twitched, from the action of the fire, and taunted and reviled
him. Yet he quailed not, but sung and prayed, as though he were freed
from all bodily suffering. The fire still increased, and a judgment
from heaven seemed suddenly to have passed over his persecutors, so
silent at once became that noisy rabble. Not a sound was now heard,
but the cracking of the fire, or the dropping of blood, as trickling
from some fresh wound, it fell upon a burning coal, causing a frying
or hissing sound. All gazed in wonder, and each one sorrowed for the
part he had borne, when he beheld the firmness of the dying man. His
chest still heaved, but he triumphed over nature, for no sound
indicated the anguish he suffered. A few moments more elapsed and a
skeleton lay doubled up at the foot of the stake, the bones of the
right hand, clutching with a strong gripe, a small black smoking
substance,—it was the hymn book; and the spirit of Billy Patterson had
returned to its God.
For some few moments there was silence, and contrition seemed to have
entered their hearts. But the Prophet discovering it, called them
together and harangued them. He finished speaking, contrition
disappeared, and all were joyous; not only joyous, but happy, and
inclined to mirth and festivity. Feasting and dancing were at once
resorted to, and they indulged in all the unrestrained freedom of wild
revelry:—surrounding alternately the body of Teteboxti, and the
skeleton of Billy Patterson, they performed various dances, and sung
hymns of joy, and ever and anon they laughed until their sides shook,
at the different positions in which they placed the body and the
skeleton, at one moment twining its arms around the body, at another
causing it to sit erect at a short distance, and look as if it was
gazing on the body of Teteboxti from sightless sockets.
The night was now wearing away, the middle watch was at hand, and the
Prophet prepared to close the scene. His followers were ripe for any
act, so he called them together, and harked them on in pursuit of
Leather-lips. The camp was soon cleared, their baggage slung, and with
the Prophet all were off in pursuit, leaving their present camp
unoccupied save by the unburied body of Teteboxti, which remained
sitting in an upright position, and the skeleton of Billy Patterson,
which was left hanging upon the fork of a tree.
It was early the next morning when the crowd was seen coursing their
way through a small field, to a cabin where resided Leather-lips,
whose Indian appellation was Shateyaronrah. He was surrounded by his
family, and several friends were also casually present, among whom
were two white men. Leather-lips was at this time aged sixty-three,
and had always supported the most exemplary life. He had often mingled
in battle, and had won for himself the reputation of a brave man. But
unfortunately for himself his signature was attached to the famous
treaty of Greenville, and he had ever manifested a partiality for the
Americans as opposed to the English. Notwithstanding this, he was
conspicuous among the red men far and wide, and wielded great
influence.
When Elkswatawa assumed to himself the character of a Prophet, and
announced that he was commissioned by the Most High to preach the word
to the red men, to change their condition, increase their possessions,
and make them sole masters of the land, Leather-lips denounced him as
an impostor, and urged the Indians not to place full credence in his
promises. He had been silently watching the character of the Prophet
while he was struggling for power, and spared no endeavour to thwart
his views. He was acquainted with the executions which had already
taken place on account of pretended witchcraft, and when he heard the
shouts of the band which was hurrying on, and saw their numbers, he
knew but too well, the pack which was unkennelled against him. But
hark! they are rushing on, and first among the foremost, comes his
brother. They arrive, they seize, and prepare to bind him.
“No,” cries he, “let me be free, I know your purpose, and am ready to
obey.”
“Haste then;” cried Elkswatawa, “witch, we thirst for blood.”
“Witch!” repeated Leather-lips, and he looked him in the face, and
entered his wigwam. Then returning to the door he addressed the crowd,
and begged them to spare his life. His entreaty was answered with
scorn, and they cried for blood. All hope was now gone, and he
re-entered his wigwam, to prepare for his fate, while his executioners
commenced digging his grave at the sill of his door. Having dressed
himself in his best war clothes, and partaken of a hasty meal of
venison, he came out from his cabin calm and dignified, and knelt upon
the brink of his grave. His executioners then stepped forward, one of
whom was his own brother, and kneeling before him, prayed to the Great
Spirit in his behalf. The Indians were all silent, and the prayers
being over, they withdrew to a short distance, and seated themselves
on the ground. Leather-lips then bent over his grave, rested his face
upon his hands and his hands upon his knees. The executioners stepped
forward, performed their duty, and the body of Leather-lips rolled
into its grave. The Indians then huddled around it, and Elkswatawa
calling the attention of the two whites, pointed to the body. “See,”
said he, as the chest still heaved, “see how hard he dies; he is a
witch, he is a witch.” All were satisfied, and they shovelled the
fresh earth over the dying Leather-lips, and left to his last sleep,
one who, an hour before, was cultivating his little field.
APPENDIX.
NOTE A.—_Page 25_.
“Roof of the boat.” This seems an awkward expression, yet there is no
other word which will convey the idea. The flat boats of the west are
in shape parallelograms; they have but a single story, and closely
boarded over, form a flat roof upon which in good weather emigrants
lounge or walk about for exercise.
NOTE B.—_Page 56_.
I have often been amused when travelling through the west, at the
inquiries which would be made upon finding out that I was a Virginian,
by persons who had emigrated years before from the same state. It
seemed to them a matter of course that I must know their relations;
and I have been asked after Aunt Polly, Jenny, and other members of a
family of which I knew no more than if they lived in the moon. This
was frequently the case in Arkansas, but lest it should seem to show a
degree of ignorance unequalled by any other people, and perhaps afford
nuts to crack for foreigners, I must tell an anecdote by way of set
off. In the winter of '34, I started in a coach well filled from
Manchester for Nottingham; the passengers were all genteel, well
dressed men, and one seemed affable and talkative above his
companions; he gave me much local information, and discovering that I
was an American from some remark I made, the following dialogue
ensued.
“You are not an American?” said he.
“Indeed I am.”
“Well, you talk just as we do.”
I told him, I thought nothing was more natural, inasmuch as we were
descended from the English.
“Well, now will you tell me one thing I have long wanted to know?”
continued the stranger.
“Certainly, if it be proper, and I can;”—said I.
“Well, do the blacks in your country run wild?”
I could not avoid laughing, and after composing myself, explained to
him their situation, and the nature of the services performed by them;
he expressed himself satisfied on that point, and after a silence of a
few minutes, observed, “I have a friend in America, I reckon you have
seen him.”
I told him I really did not know, and asked him to what part he had
gone; he said he could'nt tell, but added “I can tell you, how you may
know him if ever you should see him?”
“How?” said I.
“He limps a little,” said he, “and his right foot cocks up.”
“Very well,” said I, “when I meet with him, I will give him your
respects.” “And” added the stranger, “I will tell you another way you
may know him, he is mighty fond of swapping horses.” I could now hold
in no longer, but laughed outright, and told him that the United
States were many times as large as England. He believed I was quizzing
him, and turned away in disgust. And these were the directions given
by a well dressed Englishman, to enable me to find his friend in
America. Happily for the confirmation of the above anecdote, there now
lives in this state, a highly respectable and esteemed gentleman who
heard the whole of it.
NOTE C.—_Page 191_.
Netnokwa, who, as we have stated, was at one time regarded as chief of
the Ottawas, married an Ojibbeway and emigrated with him to the Red
River country. He soon after their removal falling in battle, she
continued to reside with his relatives.
See Tanner's narrative.
END OF VOL. I.
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. II.
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.]
WILLIAM H. COLYER, _Printer_,
No. 104 Beekman-street.
ELKSWATAWA; OR, THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.
CHAPTER XIII.
“His was the strength the weak that sways,
The glance the servile herd obeys,
The brow of majesty, where thought
And care their deepest lines had wrought.”
YAMOYDEN.
The circumstances which we have detailed in the last chapter, sad as
they may be, are culled unvarnished from the page of history; and were
that wanting, I believe there are witnesses living who can attest
their truth. They have been brought forward to prove the power of the
Prophet. How great must have been his influence, when he could make a
brother become the executioner of a brother, and order to the stake,
certain that his orders would be executed, the most influential chiefs
of his own or the neighbouring tribes, men, who had worn out the prime
of their lives in fighting the battles of their country, and whose
lips were then regarded as fountains of wisdom and experience. And yet
this in many instances did Elkswatawa do, and so dread was the
influence attached to his name, that even those who differed with him
in opinion were afraid to express their sentiments; and unrestrained,
he continued, by the power of witchcraft, to remove all whom he even
suspected of being hostile to his plans. When we reflect that he was
originally an humble individual, not even entitled to the rank of a
chieftain, and that he should by the assumption of a character
generally deemed of low repute, and the weakness of which he was well
aware of, have pursued such a course of petty devices, trickery, and
cunning as to have established for himself among the tribes so vast a
power, we cannot but wonder at the design, as well as at the mind
which enabled him to conceive and execute it. And yet the deep policy
and prudence which he exhibited for years, in concealing from the red
men as well as the white his chief object, namely, the union of all
the tribes as a warlike measure, is a matter of still more surprise.
But absolute as his power may seem, it was exercised only through the
agency of the band which accompanied him. This generally amounted to
several hundred, they were restless spirits, and many of them spoke
different languages, and yet, so implicit was the obedience which they
paid to Elkswatawa, that even though calm, he could at a moment's
bidding, lash them into fury and set them raging like howling beasts,
or when excited, by the wave of his hand, hush them into silence deep
as that of the grave.
But while he was thus occupied in removing all who were hostile to
him; his emissaries were at work, preaching his doctrines to distant
tribes, and endeavouring to unite them all in one great bond of union.
His conduct now became a subject of discussion among the whites, and
many believed that his ultimate intentions were hostile, although, as
yet, against them, not an unfriendly act had been committed. And there
were many who regarded him as the agent of the English, and believed
that in exciting the Indians, he was only acting in accordance with
orders received from the Canadian posts. The burning of the Delaware
chiefs, however, created so much excitement throughout the frontiers
that General Harrison, Governor of Indiana Territory, within the
borders of which, many of the scenes described had taken place, was
induced, through a spirit of humanity, to interfere with a hope of
preventing a farther sacrifice of victims through the machinations of
the Prophet. And in accordance with this view, he sent a messenger to
the Delawares, where most of these occurrences had taken place, with
the following speech, which we insert for the purpose of making more
explicit the Prophet's answer, which follows.
“My Children,
“My heart is filled with grief, and my eyes are dissolved in tears, at
the news which has reached me. You have been celebrated for your
wisdom above all the tribes of red people who inhabit this great
island. Your fame as warriors has extended to the remotest nations;
and the wisdom of your chiefs has gained for you the appellation of
grand-fathers from all the neighbouring tribes. From what cause, then,
does it proceed, that you have departed from the wise councils of your
fathers, and covered yourselves with guilt?—My children, tread back
the steps you have taken, and endeavour to regain the straight road
which you have abandoned. The dark, crooked, and thorny one which you
are now pursuing will certainly lead to endless wo and misery. But who
is this pretended Prophet who dares to speak in the name of the Great
Creator? Is he more wise or virtuous than you are yourselves, that he
should be selected to convey to you the orders of your God? Demand of
him some proofs at least of his being the messenger of the Deity. If
God has really employed him, he has doubtless authorised him to
perform some miracles, that he may be known and received as a prophet.
If he is really a prophet, ask of him to cause the sun to stand still,
the moon to alter its course, the rivers to cease to flow, or the dead
to rise from their graves. If he does these things, you may then
believe that he has been sent from God. He tells you that the Great
Spirit commands you to punish with death those who deal in magic, and
that _he_ is authorised to point them out. Wretched delusion! Is,
then, the Master of life obliged to employ mortal man to punish those
who offend Him? Has he not the thunder and all the powers of nature at
his command? and could he not sweep away from the earth a whole nation
with one motion of his arm? My children! do not believe that the good
and great Creator of mankind has directed you to destroy your own
flesh; and do not doubt but that, if you pursue this abominable
wickedness, his vengeance will overtake and crush you.
“The above is addressed to you in the name of the ‘Seventeen Fires.’ I
now speak to you from myself, as a friend who wishes nothing more
sincerely than to see you prosperous and happy. Clear your eyes, I
beseech you, from the mist which surrounds them. No longer be imposed
upon by the acts of an impostor. Drive him from your town, and let
peace and harmony once more prevail among you. Let your poor old men
and women sleep in quietness, and banish from their minds the dreadful
idea of being burnt alive by their own friends and countrymen. I
charge you to stop your bloody career; and if you value the friendship
of your great father, the President, if you wish to preserve the good
opinion of the ‘Seventeen Fires,’ let me hear, by the return of the
bearer, that you have determined to follow my advice.”[1]
[Footnote 1: See note A.]
To this speech, which served in a great measure to arrest the mad fury
of Elkswatawa and his followers, the Prophet, who happened to be
present at the time of its reception, delivered to the messenger who
brought it in the presence of the assembled Indians, the following
speech, which he requested him to write down, and hand over to Gen.
Harrison. It will be seen from this that the governor had sometime
previously charged the Prophet with being influenced by the English,
an opinion which was current long before hostilities actually
commenced. The speech of the governor which we have before given was
directed to the Delawares, and the Prophet, being a Shawanee, was not
called upon to answer it, but having been strongly denounced he
thought proper to do so; and one cannot but be amused at the canting
professions which were contained in his answer. It runs thus:
“Father,—I am very sorry that you listen to the advice of bad birds.
You have impeached me with having correspondence with the British; and
with calling and sending for the Indians from the most distant parts
of the country, ‘to listen to a fool that speaks not the words of the
Great Spirit, but the words of the devil.’ Father, those impeachments
I deny, and say they are not true. I never had a word with the
British, and I never sent for any Indians. They came here themselves,
to listen and hear the words of the Great Spirit.
“Father,—I wish you would not listen any more to the voice of bad
birds; and you may rest assured, that it is the least of our idea to
make disturbance, and we will rather try to stop any such proceedings
than encourage them.”
This note or speech, sent at such a time, will give some idea of the
policy pursued by the Prophet; and while he strenuously denied all
interference on the part of the British, it is notorious that at this
very time, they were endeavouring to excite the Indians against the
United States. And, at the very moment that the Prophet was sending
his speech to the Governor, his emissaries were travelling far and
wide for the same purpose.
While this was the state of feeling between the parties, murders were
frequently committed on the Indians, and the treaty of Greenville
violated, by not handing over the murderers to justice. This was the
more galling, because on their part, that stipulation of the treaty
had been preserved inviolate. With Elkswatawa and his followers, this
disregard of the treaty, was a powerful theme. All the irritating
circumstances therewith connected, were collected, and often detailed
for the purpose of creating in the breasts of the Indians the most
unextinguishable hatred against the whites. Yet, although these things
caused much excitement, and were calculated to awaken suspicions,
still the Prophet's declarations were all peaceful; no overt act of
hostility could be proved against him; and as an explanation of his
motives for continual preachings, and for sending far and wide his
disciples, as he termed them, he stated that he wished, in imitation
of the United States, to form a union of all the tribes, for their own
mutual benefit and advantage. Up to the present time, Tecumseh had
been playing a subordinate part, although he was the master spirit,
and indeed the life and soul of the enterprise. He had kept entirely
aloof from the whites, during the peace which had reigned since the
treaty of Greenville, and wandering among distant tribes, had been
preparing them for the great struggle in which they were destined to
act.
We have already seen that he was opposed to the summary process of
removing his opponents, which had been suggested by his brother, the
Prophet; and now, upon the remonstrance of Gov. Harrison, and also
fearing the odium which would attach to their cause, should more
victims be sacrificed, and their shallow devices discovered, he began
to persuade his brother to desist from his persecutions on account of
witchcraft, and to declare publicly, that all the witches were
exterminated, and the Great Spirit appeased; and that then they would
adopt some other plan for the removing of those who were endeavouring
to thwart their views. The Prophet acquiesced. A revelation from the
Great Spirit was soon received, which said that all the witches were
exterminated, and he satisfied with his red children; and, soon after,
the two brothers were engaged heart and hand, in exciting jealousies
among the various tribes, toward their respective chiefs, and in
persuading them to take all authority into their own hands. This plan
was pursued with success:—all the chiefs who were opposed to the
Prophet were dethroned, and the affairs of their tribes managed by the
warriors. Dark and midnight meetings were now continually held;
multitudes were flocking from a distance to see the Prophet, and hear
him preach; and so much excitement prevailed, that constant
information of every proceeding was furnished to Gen. Harrison, at his
request, by persons employed for that purpose.
Information from sources, somewhat vague and questionable, was now
often received by the whites, indicating a hostile intention on the
part of the Indians. But the Prophet's band, or those who regularly
remained with him, were not sufficient in numbers to create much
alarm, and for a time, no active steps were taken. The great
gatherings to hear the words of the Prophet were now generally
attended with petty aggressions on the lands of the whites, and so
many accounts were brought in of a hostile disposition on the part of
the Indians, that the Governor began to organize and discipline the
militia of his territory. Circumstances had also transpired which
indicated an unfriendly feeling on the part of the British, and it now
became manifest that English agents had been tampering with the
Indians, and endeavouring to excite them against the United States.
About this time, also, the Prophet determined to remove his
head-quarters from their present position, near Fort Wayne, to the
upper branches of the Wabash. To this movement, there was strong
opposition, both from the red men and white, yet he succeeded. The
Miamies and Delawares, who claimed the land where he purposed to
locate himself, with a hope of defeating this measure, sent a
deputation to the Prophet, remonstrating with him for so doing. But he
refused to see them, and sent in his place his brother, Tecumseh. He
met them, and gave them such a reception that the deputation returned
with fear and trembling.
Elkswatawa's power was now at its height; yet he still had enemies,
men who would not have hesitated to seize and assassinate him, but for
the mystery which surrounded his character. Fearing for his personal
safety, he had from the commencement denounced the most awful
punishment against any one, who should dare to molest the “Prophet of
the Most High.” And on this account, so much was he feared even by
those who hated him, that his person was by all regarded as sacred.
Having removed to the upper branches of the Wabash, he settled at a
place which he called Tippecanoe, and began at once to build a town.
He also now began to mingle warlike with religious exercises, and
after preaching, it was customary for him to make his warriors to draw
the bow, throw the tomahawk, or wield the war club.
Notwithstanding these preparations, he was not yet ready to strike the
blow he had so long been meditating. The necessity of full preparation
had been urged by Tecumseh, who was the soul of all the proceedings,
and who was to give the signal and lead them on, the foremost in the
fight. Although the ascendency of the Prophet was so great, yet it was
chiefly in the tribes around him, that his power was felt. This was
but a part of his plan. To ensure the cordial co-operation of all the
distant and wandering tribes was likewise his object, and to effect
this was Tecumseh now incessantly labouring.
The mingling of warlike exercises with religious duties, and the
continual assembling of large crowds around the Prophet, partially
disclosed his intentions, and also served to awaken the whites to a
sense of their danger.
In consequence of the information which had been regularly forwarded
to Washington, orders were received from the general government, in
pursuance of an act of Congress previously passed, requiring the
different states and territories to organize, arm, and equip their
respective quotas of one hundred thousand men, and hold them in
readiness to march at a moment's warning. The Prophet was apprized of
these preparations, his plans were as yet unfinished, and all his
energies were directed, to lull the suspicions which his conduct had
created. As a first step he resolved to visit the Governor in person,
and sent him a runner, with a message to that effect, also stating,
that his views and intentions had been misrepresented, and soon after
made his appearance, accompanied only by his own immediate followers.
He was received with courtesy, and remained several days, during
which, in explanation of his views, he delivered to the Governor the
following speech:
“Father, it is three years since I first began with that system of
religion which I now practise. The white people and some of the
Indians were against me; but I had no other intention but to introduce
among the Indians those good principles of religion which the white
people profess. I was spoken badly of by the white people, who
reproached me with misleading the Indians; but I defy them to say that
I did any thing amiss.
“I heard when I settled on the Wabash that my father, the Governor,
had declared that all the land between Vincennes and Fort Wayne, was
the property of the ‘Seventeen Fires.’ I also heard that you wanted to
know, my father, whether I was man or God.
“The Great Spirit told me to tell the Indians, that he had made them,
and made the world—that he had placed them on it to do good and not
evil. I told all the red skins, that the way they were in was not
good, and that they ought to abandon it—that we ought to consider
ourselves as one man, but we ought to live agreeable to our customs,
the red people after their mode, and the white people after theirs;
and that they must always follow the directions of the Great Spirit,
and we must listen to him, as it was he that made us.
“Determine to listen to nothing that is bad. Do not take up the
tomahawk, should it be offered by the British or the Long Knives. Do
not meddle with any thing that does not belong to us, but let us mind
our own business and cultivate the ground, that our women and our
children may have enough to live on. I now inform you that it is our
intention to live in peace with our Father and his people for ever.
“My Father, I have informed you what we mean to do, and I call the
Great Spirit to witness the truth of my declaration. The religion
which I have established for the last three years, has been attended
to by the different tribes of Indians in this part of the world. Those
Indians were once different people; they are now but one; they are all
determined to practise what I have communicated to them, and that has
come immediately from the Great Spirit through me.
“Brother, I speak to you as a warrior. You are one. But let us lay
aside this character, and attend to the care of our children that they
may live in peace and comfort. We desire that you will join us for the
preservation of both red and white people. Formerly, when we lived in
ignorance, we were foolish; but now, since we listen to the voice of
the Great Spirit, we are happy.
“I have listened to what you have said to us. You have promised to
assist us. I now request you in behalf of all the red people, to use
your exertions to prevent the sale of liquor to us. We are all well
pleased to hear you say that you will endeavour to promote our
happiness. We give you every assurance that we will follow the
dictates of the Great Spirit.
“We are all well pleased with the attentions you have shown us; also
the good intentions of our Father the President.”
There was so much apparent frankness in this speech, that it won in a
great measure the confidence of the Governor. The Prophet continued
his visit for more than two weeks;—frequently addressed his followers,
dwelling solely on the evils of war, and the bad effects of ardent
spirits, and persuading them to live in peace and friendship with all
mankind. The Governor was astonished at the perfect ease with which he
governed his followers, and was convinced that they acted on
principle, from not being able to make them drink spirit, which he
tried to do by way of experiment.—Elkswatawa denied all connexion with
the British, and by his manner and address, succeeded in deceiving the
Governor, and even caused him to believe that his intentions had been
misrepresented. He went farther,—he satisfied the Governor that the
influence he had gained was beneficial to humanity, and having created
the impression he desired, returned with his followers to Tippecanoe.
We have now given a sketch of the great plan of union, which was
projected by the brothers, and traced the character of Elkswatawa,
from his first appearance as a Prophet, to the period at which he was
introduced in his temporary camp, on the prairie. His power was then
as great as we have painted it, and had been obtained by the means we
have stated. He was then professing peace, though doing all in his
power to bring about war. And now having brought up the history of the
Prophet to the period of which we are writing, we will proceed with
our narrative.
CHAPTER XIV.
“A hectic pleasure flushed her faded face;
It fled, and deeper paleness took its place;
Then a cold shudder thrilled her—and, at last,
Her lip a smile of bitter sarcasm cast.”
DRAKE.
A year and more had now passed, since the disaster on the Ohio, and
the captive maiden had already gone through more adventures than fall
to the lot of most heroines, or than even it is my intention to
describe. And, with the lapse of time, came changes,—changes that we
must all feel.—The girlish form which we last beheld indicated that
time had added to it strength, and filled out its beautiful
proportions, and the maiden was now as pretty as woman can be. Grief
had left its traces, but even they were beautiful.
Reader, hast thou ever, in summer, watched a coming storm? Hast thou
seen a cloud overcast the heavens, spreading abroad darkness and
gloom?—The storm bursts,—the big drops come dancing to the earth, and
the sky is cleared! How brightly then shines the sun! how the rain
drops glitter in its beams! Beautiful as the rain drops are the traces
of grief. Tears are to grief, what rain is to the parched earth. Oh!
how beautiful are the remains of affection! Such were now the traces
which time had left on the captive maiden. There are the cold and
heartless, who, in the language of the world, would merely have said
that she had broken,—how I hate the word in that sense,—and who would
have thought her less beautiful than in girlhood she promised to be.
With the world, it may be that she was. But to many, she would have
been far dearer than in happier days; though less brilliant, there was
something more touching in her melancholy,—something better calculated
to sink deep into the heart, and call into play the finer feelings of
our nature. The recollection of her family was now like a distant
view, shadowy and undefined, and she rarely recurred to the sad
evening of her misfortunes; but if she did, and would but for an
instant dwell thereon, it was like applying the telescope to distant
objects. The scene arose before her in all its startling horror, and
she gave vent to her grief in a gush of tears.
But these scenes, as I have stated above, now occurred but
rarely:—time had added its soothing power, and the captive now in her
musings, began to turn her thoughts to still earlier days. The heart
is more susceptible in misfortune, and loves then also to brood over
moments which once were happy; probably because there is relief in
indulging in anticipations or recollections which drive away heavier
thoughts. So that now there were moments when she pondered over her
heart's earliest joys, and dwelt with delight on the recollection of
him who first, by his kind and gentle manner, won her affections,
taught her to extract music from the gushing of fountains, and
pleasure from the inspection of a flower, or the sight of a landscape.
This may not be intelligible to all my readers, for there are some
persons who know nothing of the sympathies of the human heart. But is
there one who has not felt his increased capability for enjoyment,
when the heart is first warmed into life,—when the springs of
affection first begin to flow. It is then that, stripped of
sensuality, our thoughts seem purified. It is then, that even nature,
seen through the first springings of pure affection, is lovelier than
it is ever seen afterward, and we can then feel that we live. But
delightful as those feelings are, like dew drops on flowers, they are
beautiful, but last not;—no, an entrance into the world, is to them
what frost is to the flowers. Yes, they wither and die, even while the
functions of life are green on the tree. Feeling is to life, what
malmsey is to wine. Yes, all that is beautiful and bright in life,
dies while we are on the threshold. The loss of early feelings is
beautifully described by Byron in the lines beginning
“There's not a joy the world can give,
Like that it takes away,
When the flow of early thought declines
In feeling's dull decay.”
There is a sad truth in the lines here alluded to, which all who have
read them, must have often felt.
Gentle reader, hast thou ever watched and wept over the loss of thy
early feelings; hast thou seen them fast ebbing away, and felt thyself
growing old, while thou wert yet young in years. I have, and like a
mother over a dying child, like a lover over the sinking pulse of his
mistress, I have watched and wept as they left me.
Reader, I have called thee gentle above, and I feel a sympathy for
thee, though thou art unknown, for thou wilt see my wayward thoughts,
and recollect that while tracing them, I held communion with thee.
Yes, even at this moment, speculations float across my mind, as to the
characters of the persons who may read them, and as to the impressions
which my wayward fancies may produce. They may be glanced over, think
I, by some early associate, and remind him perhaps of some long
forgotten friend. But reader, whoever thou art, and whatever may be
the cast of thy opinions, I sincerely hope, if thou wishest it, that
the perusal of them may have the same effect upon thee, which the mere
exertion of tracing them out has had upon me. It has served to rob
life for a time of the tedium and weariness which often sits heavily
upon me.
It would be tedious were we to trace minutely the movements of
Netnokwa and her party, from the time that she left Rainy Lake, until
her arrival among her own tribe—suffice it, that they all encountered
more dangers and difficulties than belong to ordinary adventures, and
after a long and toilsome journey arrived there safe. A longer
acquaintance with the captive maiden only served to increase their
affections, and they now strictly regarded her as a member of their
family. No act of kindness on their part was wanting, and so devoted
was Miskwa in her attentions, that she won the heart of the captive,
whom she also cheered by giving a promise both for herself and mother,
that as soon as the dread influence which the Prophet exercised over
the tribes, should in some measure subside, or any other circumstance
render it practicable, that they would restore her to the settlements.
This promise rendered her cheerful at moments, and caused her to
entertain for Miskwa the kindest possible feelings, nor was she
otherwise than fond of Netnokwa; but Miskwa was of her own age, and
though of a different complexion, still in her she found a kindred
spirit. Thrown constantly in her company, they soon became inseparable
companions, divided all their duties, and enjoyed together all their
little amusements; and such was the power of culture and of mind, that
Miskwa insensibly adopted many of the habits of the captive, and
satisfied that in doing so she was improved, even attempted to learn
her language. But grateful as was the captive, her heart was sad, her
sources of amusement were only transient gleams of joy, flitting by
like fleeting clouds—her thoughts were afar off—and when she
recollected that it was the Prophet's influence which detained her
from that land which she so much wished again to see—she began to
inquire who he was, and what were his doctrines. The information
received, only served to convince her of the futility of his
pretensions; and when she heard a list of the victims which his
doctrine of witchcraft had consigned to the stake, she no longer
hesitated, but spoke of him as a bad man, and endeavoured to convince
Netnokwa and Miskwa, that he was not even entitled to their good
opinion. She spoke of the Great Spirit as the author of all goodness
and mercy; it was the light in which Miskwa and her mother regarded
him, and then asked them how, thinking as they did of him, they could
believe that he would authorize the acts of the Prophet. Many
conversations on this subject had taken place, and though always urged
by the captive with the utmost timidity, and though Netnokwa and her
daughter at first shrunk from them as from something fearful, yet
their frequency, and the confident manner in which the captive, the
more she spoke of it, now asserted, that his assumed character was a
mere delusion, tended at least to familiarize them with the subject,
and also caused the first dawnings of doubt.
It was a lovely evening, when two maidens were seen standing near the
door of a neat little cottage situated on the banks of one of those
many nameless tributaries which add their quota to the upper Red
river. Many wild vines crept over and around it, and the sweetest
flowers of the prairie and forest, tastefully arranged, bloomed in the
richest luxuriance. It was not like an Indian wigwam, for taste, and
refinement and cultivation, seemed blended in every thing therewith
connected; and the wonder was, that so beautiful a spot, could be
found so far from the white settlements, and embosomed in so vast and
trackless a wilderness. Many hundred miles would scarcely have brought
its inmates to the farthest advanced posts of civilization, and yet at
that distance they now dwelt, and formed and fashioned for amusement
their little Paradise with its garden of Eden which they themselves
had created. One would have wondered and admired; and it was woman's
delicate hands which had wrought it all.
Hast thou never observed that an accomplished and virtuous female
seems, by her mere presence, to impart a charm to every thing around
her, and add a beauty to every thing she touches. I mean not however
to include the dispensers of fashion, or the mere creatures of art,
for accomplished as they may be, there is always a frivolity of manner
about them, which places them lower in the scale of excellence, and
tends in a great measure to destroy their power; but I mean woman,
lovely, beautiful and fascinating as she is, when her time is devoted
to the improvement of her mind, and the cultivation of her heart. As
pure in excellence as the snow in whiteness, was the captive maiden,
for her intercourse with the world had never been sufficiently great
to deform her either by fashion or by art, and the loss of her family
had created in her breast no resentment against the authors of her
misfortune, but had tended rather to soften her feelings towards the
whole human race. This resulted partly from the destitute condition in
which she found herself, and also from the resignation with which she
submitted to the will of Providence.
As Miskwa, with the captive, stood before the door, the latter was
gazing pensively in the direction of her far home, and as thoughts of
the past rose before her, she sighed, and a shade of darker melancholy
than was wont to rest upon her features, passed over her face. At that
moment, Miskwa called her attention, and with a bow and quiver in her
hand, proposed that they should walk. The sun's rays were mellowing
the prospect, and the air was bland and mild. First turning to salute
their flowers, they gathered some, and twining them into wreaths,
decorated their brows. They then started on their walk, and Miskwa,
with the mirth of a happy heart, ran bounding forward. As they
continued it, thoughts which were sad passed from the mind of the
captive maiden, and she too was apparently happy. They had proceeded
in their rambles a mile or two, when their attention was suddenly
aroused, by a stranger coming towards them. He was a son of the
forest, yet there was something singular in his address, and peculiar
in his manner. They knew not what to think, and as he approached,
Miskwa bent her bow, and adjusted a keen pointed arrow. Yet he seemed
not to notice it, but coming nearer, beckoned them to follow, and
started off, leading the way to their own cabin. Miskwa spoke to him,
but he refused to answer, and continued indicating to them signs that
they must accompany him to their lodge. His eyes were cast upon the
ground,—his countenance was grave in the extreme,—there was an air of
mystery about him, and when he moved forward, Miskwa not being able to
explain who or what he was, and feeling a vague fear, why or wherefore
she knew not, spoke to her friend, and advised her to follow; and in
silence they accompanied the stranger, who, to their great surprise,
pursued the most direct path to their lodge. Having arrived there, he
seemed not to regard Netnokwa, who was sitting just without the door,
but uninvited, entered her lodge, and seating himself, began to smoke.
Netnokwa at the same time, entering, made of him many inquiries; yet
he paid not the least attention to her, but continued smoking.—Then
calling in Miskwa and the maiden, they seated themselves to await his
pleasure. None could divine the cause of his errand, and on account of
it fear was felt by Netnokwa and her family. After a deep silence of
half an hour, he stated that his name was Kenah, and that he had come
with a message from the Shawanee Prophet. Then, after a few moments
farther silence, he said:—“Henceforth, the fire must never be suffered
to go out in your lodge. Summer and winter, day and night,—in the calm
or in the storm,—you must remember that the life in your body, and the
fire in your lodge, are the same, and of the same date. If you suffer
your fire to be extinguished, at that moment your life will be at its
end. You must not suffer a dog to live. The Prophet himself is coming
to shake hands with you; but I have come before, that you may know
what is the will of the Great Spirit, communicated to us by him; and
to inform you that the preservation of your life for a single moment,
depends on your entire obedience. From this time forward, we are
neither to steal, to lie, or to go against our enemies. While we yield
an entire obedience to these commands of the Great Spirit, the Sioux,
even if they come to our country, will not be able to see us; we shall
be protected and made happy.”[1]
[Footnote 1: See note B.]
When the speech was finished, the countenances of Miskwa and Netnokwa
seemed troubled, and the captive, not being able to comprehend all he
had said, asked Miskwa for an explanation. Kenah hearing this, and
himself speaking English imperfectly, began in the same mysterious
manner, to repeat to her what he had before said. To his surprise, his
remarks, instead of inspiring her with the same dread which they had
Netnokwa and her daughter, only served to excite her laughter, and
turning to Miskwa, she began to ridicule his opinions, and then to ask
Netnokwa if she thought the Great Spirit wanted her to kill her dogs,
which aided in supplying them with food? and why he should care
whether the fire went out in their lodge or not?
When Kenah saw this, clouds of anger passed over his brow, and he
began to tell how many times the Great Spirit had visited the Prophet,
and what he had ordered him to do for his red children. But as he
talked of it, they became familiarized to his person, and a discussion
of the subject only served to exhibit the folly and cruelty of his
doctrines. The eyes of Netnokwa and her daughter had been before
opened by the opinions of the captive, and the fear of which his words
would but for that have inspired, was now with Miskwa, rather a
subject of merriment, and she with the captive, began to persuade
Netnokwa not to kill her dogs, nor to regard what Kenah had said.
Kenah, seeing that nothing could be effected, was filled with rage,
and internally vowing vengeance against the captive, to whom mainly he
attributed his want of success, and likewise against Miskwa, who
seemed so much under her influence, he sank to sleep. Rising with the
first light of day, he left the cottage before its inmates had risen,
and proceeded on his journey, leaving them ignorant of his intentions.
His behaviour and sudden disappearance, were for some days, with them
a subject of wonder and conversation, but with the lapse of time they
were forgotten, and with them even the remembrance of his visit was
effaced from their minds.
CHAPTER XV.
“They love their land because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why—
A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none,
Such are they nurtured, such they live and die.”
HALLECK.
Rolfe and Earthquake, whom we left journeying homeward, proceeded on,
according to the resolution they had formed, far into the settled
portions of Indiana Territory, intending to communicate at once to the
Governor the disaster which had occurred on the Ohio, and obtain his
influence in having the murderers brought to justice and recovering,
if possible, the maiden who was still a prisoner. Upon telling their
story to many persons, they found that the Indians were generally
believed to entertain hostile designs against the United States, that
the chiefs had refused to exert any authority, in surrendering up
murderers to justice, and that many aggressions had been committed by
them; the consequence of all which was, that the governor of the
territory was arming the militia, and its citizens were clamorous for
offensive operations. They regarded the Prophet as the author of all
their present difficulties, as well as of the threatened ruin which
seemed to impend over them, and had united in petitions to the
Executive, praying for the dispersion of the Prophet's band. His head
quarters were now established at Tippecanoe, and his camp was
considered a place of rendezvous, from which lawless parties would set
out, commit depredations on the settlements and again return to it for
concealment.
This state of things convinced Rolfe and Earth, that, as they did not
even know where the prisoner was, no good could result from their
application, and both entertaining doubts as to the identity of her
they sought, they resolved to return to Kentucky, change their mode of
life, and carve out their fortunes, by mingling with men. This
resolution was carried into effect, and Rolfe soon after arriving at
home, proclaimed his willingness to attend to all business which
should be committed to him as an attorney, obtained an office, and in
a few months was justly entitled to the appellation of a hard student.
One among the first things, however, which he did after his arrival,
was to write to a friend in Petersburgh, stating his suspicions
relative to her he loved, and begging that, as far as lay in his
power, he would either confirm or remove them. As the answer received
is the best explanation we can give, we shall here insert it.
“Truly glad am I, my dear Richard, to see that you once more recognize
me as your friend. For such I have ever been, as many others are, and
your taking up a different impression was not owing to me, or to their
conduct, but to your own over sensitiveness. However, let us remember
only the brightest spots in the past, and ‘look forward with hopes for
the morrow.’ But I am saying nothing of that which most interests you.
The bare suspicion is horrible; it cannot be true;—there could have
been no motive whatever for his emigrating—but as from the tone of
your letter I should judge that you had heard nothing from this place
since you left, I will state to you such changes as have occurred.
Your departure was unexpected to many, and I mean not to compliment
you, when I say that no one could have left, whose absence would have
been more deeply regretted by his friends. I did not see her for
several weeks after your departure, and then her countenance bore
delicate traces of grief; they would not have been perceptible to a
stranger, but to me, who had known her long, they were plainly
legible. She was calm, and I ventured to inquire if she had heard from
you; her eyes filled with tears, she was silent, and after a moment
changed the conversation. Her father has been very much censured for
his opposition by the few to whom the circumstances are known.
“I think about six months elapsed, when he began to speculate largely,
and soon after that time removed with his family to Baltimore, that he
might have a wider theatre for action; and I suppose you will pardon
the rhapsody, when I say that with his removal, went the brightest
star which ever shed its influence over our goodly town. But, by the
by, as you are a lover that is not pretty enough. As a friend of mine
would say, every thing was quite opaque when she left us,—or, as I
with more gallantry would say, for we have still many bright
constellations of beauty, her departure was like the gloom which
follows the bursting of the rocket.
“Now let me say, I think I can remove your fears, for these pretty
things are called up by my having seen her some three months since in
Baltimore. I was at her house, she was cheerful, and not a member of
her family spoke of moving; so, my dear fellow, all your alarm was
unnecessary farther than sympathy with a fellow creature had its
claims. Come, quit hunting, and attend to your profession, and you may
yet realize your early hopes. We lay in some of our goods in
Baltimore, and I shall reserve to myself the pleasure of telling her
in person, the wild fancy which entered your brain; it will serve to
amuse, and yet she cannot fail deeply to appreciate your conduct.
“Now that we have began a correspondence, let me hope that you will
continue it—and do, if you please, tell me more of your friend
Earthquake, for he is perfectly an original, and although at first,
his name prejudiced me against him, yet I think I could love such a
man.
“Believe me, ever yours.”
The above letter served to remove all Rolfe's suspicions, and made him
happy; since besides destroying the many painful apprehensions in
which he had indulged relative to her he loved, it also served to
convince him that he was still esteemed by his friends, and added a
fresh impulse to the resolution he had formed to devote his time
entirely to his profession. Seeking his friend Earthquake, he lost no
time in communicating to him the happy tidings. He was almost as much
delighted at them as Rolfe himself, and urging him to prosecute the
resolution he had formed, he stated, that he was tired of the woods,
and intended to run for the office of sheriff, which was to be filled
in a neighbouring county at their next court. Rolfe suggested to him
that he did not think he was sufficiently well acquainted with
accounts. Earth admitted that he was not as smart at figures as some
people he had seen, but said he knew as much as Bob Black, who was the
only candidate he had heard spoken of, and added, “Rolfe, if I don't
know how to make out a big account agin a poor fellow, why it don't
matter much; and if one is able to pay, and wont, why 'taint worth
while to be so particular, I will lick him until he settles up, so I
think I can make the eends meet.”
“Very well then,” said Rolfe, “take a chance, and, if elected, try and
qualify yourself for the office.”
“Well, now,” said Earth, “you have hit the nail right on the head, for
that is just what I mean to do, and if I don't hull out Bob Black, I'm
a heap worse than I look for.”
Time wore on:—court day arrived, and Bob Black and Earthquake were the
only candidates. Near a large square log building, called the
court-house, and which had been built for that purpose, until a better
one could supply its place, a crowd had gathered, and appearances
indicated that no very ordinary event was about to occur; for the
multitude swaggered about with an important air, and each one felt
larger than on ordinary occasions. Moreover, they seemed excited, not
by artificial stimulus, but by the importance of some coming event.
That the hour which custom had set apart as the time when they should
begin to drink had not arrived, if you are a shrewd observer, you
would have seen at a glance; for many of the crowd would change a
heavy quid from the left to the right side, and cocking up their eyes
at the sun, gaze for a moment to see the hour, then shake their heads
and cast them down as if disappointed; and then, if you had been
present, you would have heard inquiries of this sort:—“Who toats the
silver time of day in his pocket?” and perhaps an answer to this
effect:—“Lawyer Rolfe; he's a gentleman all over, and a nation fine
man.” Then if you would keep a sharp look out, you might have seen
several pressing forward towards Rolfe, who stood in earnest
conversation just before a small tippling shop, and to the remark,
“you toat the silver time of day, 'Squire, tell us the hour,” have
heard Rolfe reply, “twelve, by every good watch, for you know time
flies faster on election than on other days;” and then turning to the
barkeeper, say, “give us a gallon of your best.” At that call, the
tobacco fell in large wads upon the ground, and a pleasing smile
played over their countenances.
Yes, it was both an election and court day.—Rolfe was to make his
first appearance at the Kentucky bar, and our old friend Earth was to
run for the sheriffalty. The space which was marked out as the
court-yard, was merely a clearing in the forest, from which the trees
had been lately removed, and which still presented an unseemly
appearance, from the many stumps which were yet left standing. In this
place, the multitude had collected, and it was as marked in its aspect
as the spot it occupied. There were present persons of all ages, of
all sizes, and of all shapes; and they were clad in garments as
dissimilar as themselves. They were habited in hunting shirts, or
wrapped in blankets, or wore buckskin breeches, which fitted them
tightly, and on their heads they had hats or caps of every shape, and
in the latter were exhibited the skins of almost every animal
indigenous to our country. Besides these I have particularized, there
were also present many well dressed, foppishly dressed, and genteel
looking men, who were in fact no better than those we have described,
for all were frank, honest, and hospitable; and throughout this
multitude were poking about, wherever an opening in the crowd would
permit it, women and children, as dissimilar in appearance as the men
we have already characterized, and from it, the noise of a thousand
jarring voices broke upon the ear. On the outside of the court-yard,
and in every direction, fastened to every tree or limb which would
swing a bridle, was seen a mule, a jackass, or a horse. They were in
every condition, from Don Quixote's Rosinante to that of an
Englishman's best hunter. On some there were saddles and bridles.
Others had no saddles, but meal bags or blankets were made to serve
the same purpose, and with them grape vines or twisted hickory withes,
were used as bridles. They amused themselves in various ways,—the
mules and jackasses by braying,—most of the horses by whickering,
whenever any stranger came up,—and the whole by kicking occasionally,
with the exception of a few, to whom years had given great gravity of
character, and they seemed to derive much enjoyment by scraping, with
their teeth, the bark from the trees.
Of the men who were present, at least three-fourths brought rifles,
and soon began to amuse themselves by shooting for what they
significantly denominated a quart. The remainder, gathered in groups,
were either talking politics or discussing the claims of the
respective candidates, with the exception of those who were in the
Court-House, the Court being in session.
So much for the general appearance. Now let us enter some of these
groups, and see if we cannot make ourselves familiarly acquainted with
at least one of the actors. A tree is blazed,—a small black spot, made
with moistened powder, is seen in its centre, and at a distance of
about fifty yards, a crowd, composed chiefly of hunters, with now and
then a woman or a child, have already collected. The candidates for
the sheriffalty are also among the number.
“What shall we shoot for?” asked a hunter, as stepping out he toed the
mark.
“Why, a quart to be sure,” was the reply.
Then throwing up his piece, crack went his rifle, and the crowd
running to the target, cried, “not so coarse,—he grazed the black.”
“Coarse as rough bricks,” said a hunter, “he'll pay for the quart.”
“Clear away for the candidates!” was now the cry. “Bob, step forward,
and show your metal.” Bob did as desired, and blazed away. The crowd
again ran forward, and cried, “hurrah! for Bob Black,—he is into the
black, but upon the outer edge.”
“That's not so bad,” said Bob.
“Bad as green gourds,” said our old friend Earth, “if it was a
varmunt, and you could only see his eye.—Clear the track, I'm coming,
with my head and tail both up.” Then stepping forward, he took his
position:—a moment more, and crack went his rifle. The crowd again ran
forward, and cried,—“into the centre. Hurrah for Earth,—he's a
caution, I tell you.”
“I knowed it,” said Earth, “she never lies if I point her straight;”
then turning to his opponent, Bob Black, “don't you think you would
make a beautiful sheriff,—can't shoot nearer than the outside of a
black. Bob, I'd change my name if I couldn't always stick by it.”
At this moment, some one cried out, “'Squire Rolfe is going to speak
in the Court-House,” and away they hastened, to hear his maiden
speech. The Court-House, as before stated, was merely an unfloored log
building. Upon a plank, a little elevated, and placed against the side
fronting the door, the magistrates were sitting; and just before them,
seated on a bench, were ranged the lawyers. Rolfe was to make his
maiden speech. He had been employed by a man who was very badly
beaten, to bring an action of assault and battery, with a hope of
recovering damages enough to compensate him in some measure, for the
injury inflicted.—This was the case now to be tried. The jury having
been sworn, the witnesses examined, and all the other formalities gone
through, Rolfe rose. “Now tear away,” said Earth, who was at his
elbow, “as if you didn't care for nobody.”
Rolfe smiled at Earth's remark, and proceeded in a dignified and lucid
manner to open his case, and bring forward to the notice of the jury,
those points in the evidence which he thought would justly entitle his
client to heavy damages, and upon which he intended to rest his claim.
Having done so, in as brief a manner as practicable, and not seeing
what possible ground his adversary could occupy, for the law and
evidence were both against him, he was seated, and the opposing
counsel, who was a genuine son of the west, and whom Rolfe had not
before observed, rose in reply:
“Gentlemen of the Jury—The tremendous occasion which has called us
together is one of the very darkest peril to my client.
“The poet has beautifully said, ‘loud roars the dreadful thunder.’
But, gentlemen, to be squeezed inside of a gaol, is not the thing that
it is cracked up to be. The lightning's flash may blaze entirely
athwart the heavens; but, gentlemen, to lie upon a dirt floor, and
drink cold water, is an awful catastrophe. The poet has said,
gentlemen, ‘all that glitters is not gold,’ and I ask you, if when
this man came at my client like a roaring lion, and would have used
him up in two minutes, if he was wrong just to take his eyes into his
hands, and squeeze 'em for a short time. Gentlemen, I know there is
not one of you so lost to feeling,—so lost to every thing that an
honourable man owes himself,—but instead of letting them go, after
squeezing them a short time, but would have put them into his breeches
pocket, and have walked off, and let the fellow go about his business.
Yes, gentlemen of the jury, I see it in you, there is not one of you
but would have jumped upon him, and have galloped him around this
Court-House a half a dozen times.—A good for nothing scoundrel, to
pretend to come at my client in such a vig'rous manner. But, gentlemen
of the jury, the poet has mighty prettily said, ‘the day of
retribution is at hand,’—and, gentlemen, the counsel who is opposed to
me, will try very hard to convince you that this is a sublime
wound,—that my client ought to pay a tall, a very tall price for it;
but the grapes are sour—they hang mighty high, I see it in your eyes.
Gentlemen, you know all about the way in which a knife can be made to
dig into one, when a man is in earnest.—Now, I ask you, if this is a
sublime wound? Do you think my client was in earnest when he struck
him? You all have seen it. It is not more than three inches long, and
about two inches deep, and he has pretended to bring such a case as
that into this Court-House. The time of the Court, gentlemen, ought
not to be taken up with such trifling matters, and I beg your pardon
for having detained you as long as I have. Gentlemen, I know your
verdict,—I know what it will be,—I am satisfied;—I will close these
few remarks, with a quotation—a very, very apt quotation to this
case:—‘A wit's a feather, and a chief's a rod.’—Yes, mark me,
gentlemen:—
‘A wit's a feather, and a chief's a rod’
But—
‘An honest man's the noblest work of God.’”
It is needless to say any thing more about the case;—Rolfe could not
contend with such an opponent, and was consequently beaten. His
defeat, however, was more strongly characterized by Earth. The case
having been decided, Earth left the Court-House, to electioneer with
the crowd for the office he desired. Upon going out, some one who had
not as yet heard the decision, cried out, “Well, Earth, how did the
'squire come out?”
“The fellow hulled him as clean as wheat,” said Earth, “he fairly tore
the wool off; but Rolfe is a larning;—he did better the last time than
he did the first. He don't rare and pitch enough;—I must talk to him,
and I think I can make him come to it, artur a while.”
Earth having again entered the crowd, began to electioneer for the
office he so much desired.—“Come, boys,” said he, addressing himself
to all around him, including many whose locks were frosted over with
age, “let's go and take a little, for I am as dry as a horse.” Away
they went, and having drank, some one of the group was reminded of a
good anecdote, which he told, and at which being in good humour, they
all heartily laughed. When the merriment had somewhat subsided, “Come,
Earth,” said an old hunter, “a sheriff ought always to be able to tell
a good story, that he may amuse a fellow when he is making him shell
out,—let us see what you can do in that way.”
“Time enough,” said Earth, “when I am elected; but at present, I must
knock about, to see if I cannot pick up a vote or two.”
“The best way to pick up votes, Earth,” replied an acquaintance, “is
to tell a good story.”
“Very well then, Jack,” said Earth, addressing the last speaker, “make
a ring and give me fair play, and I will tell one, and whether it be
good or bad, I leave you all to judge. It shall be the truth, that is,
it shall be something which has happened to me at some time of my
life, and if after telling it, you don't vote for me, if I don't lick
you, I will agree never to take another 'coon hunt.”
“Then whack away,” said Jack.
“Well, well, well, well, once upon a time,” began Earth.
“And what happened then,” asked one of the group.
“Why, so many things have happened to me,” said Earth, “since I've
been rooting about in these woods, that I hardly know what to tell, or
which will interest most.”
“Then tell us of the time that you floated down the Ohio.”
“Well, well,” said Earth, bursting out in a loud laugh, “I will tell
that, for I had almost clean forgot it; but I was in a predicament,
wan't I?”
“Tell us the story and we shall then be able to judge,” said an old
hunter, who, standing near, was leaning on his rifle; “do begin,
Earth, and make no more preparation; you take as long to git under way
as a man does who breaks a yoke of young steers, or greases a pair of
cart wheels, before he sets out upon his journey.”
“Then I'm off, old man,” said Earth, “but I must take a running start,
and begin agin.”
“Well, well, well, well—once upon a time I had taken my old bitch
Jupiter, that you have often heard me tell of;—old Jupe was a nice
thing,—I had taken her 'long, and gone off upon a bear hunt, had been
absent two or three weeks, and had wandered very far from home. I was
a venturesome lad in those days, and never better satisfied than when
alone in the wild woods. I had worked my way down into the fork formed
by the emptying of the Cumberland into the Ohio river, and I had
worried the bears right badly. I had had rare sport. Old Jupe was in a
good humour, and she and I was mighty loving, for she had fou't some
fights which I never can forgit, and which made me love her like a new
flint, and she loved me as if I was a bacon bone, for I had helped her
out of some of her difficulties, when it would have been a gone case
if I had'nt been present;—I say difficulties, for I never did see a
dog so tired as she was. I do believe during some of these fights that
I am now talking about, I saw the bears hug her, until they stretched
her out into a long string. Yes, I have seen 'em squeeze her, until
she wan't larger than my arm, and at least nine or ten feet long;—you
might have wound her up into a ball, just as you would have done a
hank of yarn,—”
“Then they must have killed her, Earth,” said one of the group.
“You know nothing about it,” said Earth, “don't interrupt me; but I am
good for your vote;” then turning to the crowd, “ain't it so,
gentlemen, don't he forfeit it for stopping me?”
“Certainly,” was the reply.—
“Then I have already made two votes,” said Earth.
All now cried, “go on Earth, go on with your story.”
“Well,” said Earth, “he stopped me something about the bears killing
Jupe;—now old Jupe wan't of that breed of dogs at all, for when she
was stretched out in a string, or even tangled up in a knot, I would
shoot the bear, draw her off one side, throw a little cold water over
her, leave her, and go to butchering. In an hour, and sometimes it
would take longer, she would begin to come together like a jointed
snake, and presently, she would fetch a yelp, and come streaking it to
me, shaped as she ought to be, showing her teeth, and looking as fresh
as if she was a new made dog. And then wan't she vig'rous? Yes, who
says she wan't? You might have hung a cross-cut saw to a swinging
limb, and she would have chawed upon it the balance of the day,—or
have thrown her a bear's head, and she would'nt touch the meat, but
draw all the teeth out merely for spite. But there was one thing I
noticed about old Jupe,—whenever the bears stretched her out into a
string, she always lost her appetite for the remainder of that day.
Well, old Jupe and I were down there, and we had been doing pretty
much what I have been telling you, when one day the bears spun her out
rather longer than usual, and she got cut so badly, that we had to
rest during the whole of the evening. I was sorry for old Jupe, but
didn't care much about having to stop myself, for I was right tired
and wanted rest, having seen hard times that week.
“The sun, I suppose, was about an hour high, and I was setting down
under a big tree, nursing old Jupe, and trying to see if I could'nt
set her upon her legs agin, when she raised up her nose, and snuffed
the air,—then looked in my face and whined. As she did this, I saw the
hair upon her back begin to rise. I knew that there was danger in the
wind, and from what old Jupe had told me, I thought the red skins were
about. The Ingens were not so rife then as they had been;—it was the
fall before 'Squire Rolfe came out from the old state; but people had
to keep a sharp look out, for they would come down upon the
settlements once in a while, and they were mighty apt to carry off
some body's hair with them.
“Well, as soon as old Jupe spoke to me, I looked about, and seed five
coming right along in the direction in which I was. They were well
loaded, and I knowed at once that they had been down upon the
settlements, and were now making their way to the river, that they
might cross over and get clear. Although I saw them, I knew they
hadn't seen me; so I gathered up my things to start off, without
thinking that old Jupe was so badly cut she could'nt follow. When I
was ready, I looked at old Jupe,—she tried to get up, but could'nt,—my
eyes felt watery, for I hated to leave her, and I had'nt a minute to
spare. But old Jupe was a sensible dog; yes, as I said before, she was
a nice thing, for without speaking a word, she poked her nose under
the leaves, as much as to say, cover me over, and leave me. I did so,
and gitting a tree between me and the Ingens, I streaked it. You ought
to have seen me run, to know how fast a man ought to move when Ingens
are after him. Well, arter streaking it awhile, I thought it would
never do to go off that way, and know nothing about 'em, so I began to
haul in my horns, and back a little. I got behind a tree, and kept a
sharp look out:—presently I seed them all coming straight towards me;
so I buckled off agin, and went for some distance, like a bear through
a cane brake, and then stopped, and took a stand. I had'nt been there
long, before I seed them coming agin. The reason why I saw them so
often was, that I kept before them, knowing that they were making
straight for the river. I watched them narrowly, looked at 'em with
both eyes wide open, and saw they did'nt seem to have any notion of
me, but were putting it down fast and heavy that they might git
across. It was now getting dark, and I knew that under cover of the
night, as they did not suspect any body was near 'em, I could keep
close enough to watch them without their knowing it, and this I
determined to do, thinking that by possibility something might happen,
to pay me for my trouble. You all know I never spared an Ingen; no,
there don't breathe one who can say I ever showed him any favour.
Well, I kept on before 'em until I got down upon the river bank. It
was then quite dark, and growing more so every minute; for a fog was
rising from the surface of the water. I looked about to see if they
had a boat there, thinking if they had one, I would take it, and let
them git across as they could. I was searching longer than I thought
for, and did'nt know how the time passed, for suddenly I heard them
coming down to the river, at the very point where I was. I was now
skeered, and looked about to see if I could get out of the way; but
there was no place to hide, and it was too late to escape, either up
or down the bank. I'm a gone case, thought I,—used up at last; but
just at that moment, I saw a large log or tree, which had been lodged
by some high freshet; for one end of it still rested on the bank,
while the other extended out into the stream. Said I to myself, ‘I'll
git upon this, for it is so dark that they can't see me, and I can
then keep a bright look out upon their movements;’ so I stepped on it,
and crawled along to the far end. I found that the log was floating,
and getting as near the small end as I could, I straddled it, putting
my legs in the water to steady me, and laid my rifle across my lap.
‘Oh! that it would but float off,’ said I, but it would'nt.
“Well, down to the water they all came, and stood in about fifteen or
twenty feet of me. ‘It is all over now,’ thought I; ‘if discovered, I
am used up as fine as salt;—if I ain't, there is no bad taste in a
rough 'simmon.’ Well, there they stood in a good humour, laughing and
talking, about I hardly know what, for I could'nt catch many of their
words. At last, I heard one of 'em say, in Shawanee, ‘where is the
canoe? It must be close by. Step upon the log and find it.’
“‘Hold my gun,’ answered one of 'em, and passing it to one of his
friends, he stepped upon the log and began to walk right to where I
was. Now did'nt I squat low, and feel mean? But hush; he had'nt got
far before another must jump on, to help him find the boat. This last
one had only walked a few steps, when the log slipped, and splash it
came right in the river with the two Ingens. They both held on, though
they got a little wet, and the first thing I knowed the log was going
out into the stream with all three of us on it. It was slanting at
first, and slipping, got pushed off. Those on shore set up a loud
laugh, and they would'nt hear any thing until it was too late to give
any help. But for those on the log, it was no joke; for they were
already out in the stream, and going down it, with a smart current.
They now hallooed manfully for help, and those on shore, seeing how it
was, told them to hold on, and that they would find the boat and take
them off. Well, I have often told you I had seen hard times, now wa'nt
here a _predicament_? On a log with two Ingens, and floating along at
night down the Ohio. Well, sure enough, there I was, and what did I
think of? why, of every thing in this world; it raily made me feel
right knotty, and what to do, I did'nt know. We had now floated two or
three hundred yards, and I was sitting as I told you before straddled
on the small end, and jest as silent as a deer listening for the dogs,
thinking how the affair would terminate, when one of the Ingens who
was still standing upon the log, stepped off upon one of the limbs to
make room for his companion. His stepping caused the log to creen me
in the water, and forgetting where I was, and what I was about, I
cried, ‘stop! stop! you'll turn me over.’ ‘Oh hell!’ said I to myself,
‘it is all over now—clean gone this time.’ How the Ingens looked, I
don't know, for it was so dark I could'nt see their faces, but they
must have been worse skeered than I was, for I knew who they were, and
they did'nt know who or what I was. They kept muttering something very
fast, and I thought they were going to quit the log and streak it, but
arter a few minutes they became silent, and began peeping towards
where I was, like a couple of turkies looking for worms. And then one
said, ‘dont you see something?’ ‘Yes,’ answered the other, ‘dark lump;
bear perhaps;’ and then the one who first spoke, cried out ‘who's
there?’ I did'nt answer, but I growed small so fast, trying to squeeze
myself out of sight, that my skin hung as loose as if it was a big
jacket. They kept peeping at me, and I heard one say, ‘It is no bear.
It is a man, look at his head.’ When I heard him say so, I was so mad
I wished my head was under the log, but then I thought if it was, I
would'nt be any better off than I was then, so I straightened up; I
knowed they had seen me, and I thought twa'nt worth while to play
'possum any longer. Well, when I straightened up, he cried out agin,
‘who's there,’ ‘I am here,’ said I, speaking in his own language. The
moment I spoke, he laughed, and said to the other, ‘he is a pale
face.’”
“How could he tell that, Earth,” inquired another of the group, “you
say that it was dark, and a fog was rising.”
“I've got you, Jim,” said Earth, then pausing he began to count on his
fingers, saying, “that is four, no, three; now don't forget it, Jim.”
“Go on, go on, Earth,” cried half a dozen voices.
“Well, the reason he knowed me so quick, was that he seed I did'nt
speak the real Ingen. Arter he had told the other that I was a pale
face, he turned to me, and said, ‘what you doing there?’ ‘sitting down
straddle on the small eend,’ said I. When I said this, they burst out
into a laugh; I myself was in no laughing humour, and it did'nt sound
to me like a laugh, but like a sort of a chuckle, and one said to the
other ‘he is a pale face, a lean dog, sleeping on a log, we did catch
him good,’ and saying this, they put their hands to their mouth, and
gave the war whoop. I tell you what, it was an awful sound, and then
they told their companions on shore that a pale face was on the log
with them, to get the boat and come quick. Those on shore answered
them, and ran laughing down the river looking for the boat, and
keeping along with the log. I now found that I must go at the old
work, and my bristles began to rise.
“‘Come here,’ said one of 'em, beckoning to me. ‘Come quick, before
the others come; I want your hair.’”
“What did he mean by that?” said one, who with the most fixed
attention had been standing by eagerly devouring all that Earth had
been telling.
“Why, he wanted to scalp me, but recollect, if you please, I have your
vote too,” said Earth, again pausing an instant, “That is five, no,
four. Well, when he called me to him to let him have my hair, I
could'nt stand it any longer, but throwing up my rifle, blazed away;
he jumped up like a buck, and fell splash in the water. My rifle made
a mighty pretty noise, and I heard the report rolling away for miles
up and down the river. As soon as I fired the Ingens on the bank also
screamed the war whoop, and the fellow on the log cried out to 'em to
bring his gun. I jumped up and crawled at him, he gathered up an old
limb and stood his ground. The first thing I knowed, he come down upon
me all in a heap, breaking the old limb into a dozen pieces over my
head and shoulders; it was a good thing for me, that the limb wa'nt
sound. His blow staggered me, but I soon rose up, and seizing my rifle
with both hands brought him a side wipe with the barrel. As I did, he
slipped off the log in the water, I then hit him another lick, and
stooping quickly down, seized him by the head, as he tried to crawl up
upon the log. I was now upon the log, and he in the water, so I had
him at a disadvantage.
“Well, I kept bobbing his head under;—when I first did it, the bubbles
came up just like you were filling a bottle with water; you know,
after a bottle is full, it won't bubble; well, I kept bobbing his head
under until he would'nt bubble, so I concluded he was full of water,
and then let him go; he went down to the bottom, and I never seed him
any more.
“All was now quiet, for both Ingens had sunk, and I was master of the
log, but I had yet another struggle to make, for I heard the Ingens on
shore push off their boat, and seed the waters splash as they darted
towards me. It was too late to load, and then I could kill but one;
that wouldn't do—no, the only hope was to hide; so I took out a
string, and placing my rifle in the water, lashed it to the log, I
then threw away my hat, and crawling as far as I could towards the
small eend, eased myself gently down into the water, leaving nothing
out but my head, and holding on with both hands by a small
limb—another minute, and the canoe grated as it run up upon the log.
The Ingens looked about and spoke to each other, but could see
nothing, they then called their companions by name, but there was no
answer. They were now very much distressed, and all got out upon the
log, and began to walk about and examine it. When they came to the end
where I was, I sunk altogether, and it being the small end of the log,
it began to sink, and the Ingens soon went back. I then threw my head
back, and put my mouth out that I might breathe, just as a crippled
duck sometimes does its bill. I made no noise, it was dark, they could
not see me, and all went well. I heard them say ‘they must have killed
him,’ and then that ‘they are all gone;’ they seemed very much
distressed, wondered much at the whole affair, and none could explain
it. After about fifteen minutes, they again stepped into their boat
and pushed off. I waited until I could hear nothing of them, then
crawled up upon the log, and as I did not wish to run any farther
risk, I sat there till day-break.
“The sun was just about to rise, when the log which I was on washed up
against the bank not far from where the Ohio empties into the
Mississippi. I caught hold of some bushes and pulling the log up along
side of the bank, unloosed my rifle, and got out. I had been in the
water so long that I was mighty weak, and I was shrivelled up, but as
I began to stir about I felt better, and setting off I went back up
the river to where I started upon the log. The first thing I seed upon
getting back, was old Jupe sitting on the bank waiting for me, at the
very spot where the log had slipped off. The thing wanted to lick me
all over, she was so glad to see me. I was then right tired, so I
started off home, and in about a week or two, Jupe and I arrived there
safe and sound, and that is the end of my story.”
“Well, Earth,” said one of the company, “you are all sorts of a
looking crittur.”
“Yes,” said Earth, “I know that, I am ring striped, speckled and
streaked, but I ain't thinking about that, I'm thinking about the
votes. Now gentlemen,” continued Earth, “don't you think they ought to
make me sheriff? I say, if Bob Black has floated farther on a log,
killed more Ingens, or staid longer under the water than I have, elect
him; if not, I say, what has he done to qualify him for the office of
sheriff? I have killed more bears than Bob could eat if they were
'coons, and I have fou't some harder fights than Bob ever saw;—now I
say agin, tell me what has he done that he ought to be made sheriff.
Did any of you ever know him to call for a quart? I never did;—I have
known him to call for several half pints in the course of a day, but I
never did know him to step forward manfully, and say ‘give us a quart
of your best.’ Then I say agin, what the hell has Bob Black done to
qualify him for sheriff? Now, if you beat me, beat me with somebody,
beat me with a man who knows something which ought to qualify him for
sheriff, and not with Bob Black. Bob can't tell you this minute when a
bear begins to suck his paws!” Then apparently disgusted with the
character and acquirements of his competitor, Earth turned away to
seek other company. As he did so, one of the group who had taken more
than his proportion of a quart, staggered forward, and cried out
“hurrah for Earth, I tell you what, he's a squealer.”
While Earth was thus electioneering, his friend Rolfe, who had left
the Court House, after the decision of his case against him, was on
another part of the ground, modestly stating what he conceived to be
his qualifications, but which, by the by, Earth had never regarded in
that light, and was also urging his claims to the office about to be
bestowed. Seeing Earth leave the circle which he had been last
entertaining, Rolfe approached him and said, “Earth, you must make a
speech.”
“Do what, Rolfe?”
“You must make a speech, Earth.”
“What, stand up and speak to 'em all like you did in the Court House.”
“Yes.”
“Oh hell!” said Earth, “I make a speech! I wouldn't do it to be made
Governor. But if I was, I would jerk it into 'em mighty curiously.”
“Then we will say no more about it,” said Rolfe.
“You are right about that,” said Earth, and they parted each to
electioneer after his own manner.
Night came; the election was over, and our old friend Earth proclaimed
Sheriff.
Leaving Rolfe to attend to his profession, and Earthquake to discharge
the duties of the office which had just been conferred on him, let us
proceed with other parts of our story.
CHAPTER XVI.
“The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding,
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon,
Of winning, fettering, moulding, wielding, banding
The hearts of millions till they move as one;
“Thou hast it.”
HALLECK.
Our readers cannot have forgotten the story of the Indian mother who
was discovered by the hunters during their excursion to the Wabash,
searching at night for her son, nor their consequent visit to her
wigwam. Several months had now elapsed since their departure from it;
her son had recovered from his wound, and their mutual promise to seek
for the maiden had often been a subject of conversation between them.
Still nothing had been accomplished, when Pukkwana, who often reverted
to the subject, suggested to Oloompa, that by visiting the camp of the
Prophet, he might probably obtain some information which would lead to
her discovery. She felt satisfied from the story told by the hunters,
that the maiden must have been carried to the camp, and there
concealed, or else sent away to some distant region. But since their
departure, the deep hatred which had ever marked the conduct of
Oloompa towards the whites, began to revive in his bosom, and he
seemed careless about fulfilling the promise which he had made; and
when his mother wished him, in an attempt to do so, to visit the camp
of the Prophet, he said, “Mother, shall Oloompa's moccasins be worn
with travel for the sake of a pale face? The pale faces hate the red
men. They are our enemies. They would drive us away from the graves of
our fathers.”
“Oloompa has promised,” was the reply, “his father never broke a
promise.”
“Oloompa will remember his promise,” said he, “the hunters were good
to his mother. He will seek the maiden; if found, they shall know it.
But he here swears before the Great Spirit, eternal enmity to their
race. Oloompa will no more travel with them the same path, smoke the
same pipe or sit around the same fire. He will wash his hands. He is
their enemy.”
“These are the words of the Shawanee Prophet;” said Pukkwana, “he puts
bad thoughts into the heads of the red men.”
“Mother, Oloompa knows not the words of the Prophet; they say he
preaches peace:—Oloompa's thoughts are always the same;—wrongs are
sharp knives, they cut deep.”
“Oloompa,” said Pukkwana, “when the sky is clear, why think of the
storms which have passed?”
“My mother's eyes are dim,” said Oloompa, “she sees not the light of
the red torch which is kindling. She hears not the groans of the dying
in the howling of the winds. Oloompa's tomahawk shall drink deep of
the blood of the whites.”
“Oloompa,” said Pukkwana, “thy bosom is like the big lake when the
winds pass over it. Thy words are harsh to my ears. I like them not.
Listen. Thou goest to seek the lost maiden. Thou mayest find her; but
if ever by words or acts thou wrongest her when found, or the hunters
who bade thee seek her, thou art no longer thy mother's son.”
“Pukkwana knows not Oloompa,” he replied. “Were all the hatred he
bears her race, felt but for her alone; under his protection, she
would be as safe as though his own blood ran flowing through her
veins. Oloompa will set out upon his journey. Where will his mother be
when his feet are tired of travel?”
“As soon could I tell where the deer will be which range through the
woods for their daily food,” replied Pukkwana.
“Even the deer, when the hunter seeks them not, will feed for months
in the same green fields,” said Oloompa.
“Then return to the wigwam of thy mother; if she is absent, follow her
footsteps.”
“I will,” he replied, and equipping himself for a long journey, he was
soon winding his way through the forest.
Oloompa was now in the first dawning of manhood,—his limbs were
beautifully moulded, and but for the effect produced by the wound he
had received, which showed itself whenever he moved, he would have
been conspicuous for the beauty of his person. The traits of character
which chiefly distinguished him, were an uncompromising hostility
against the whites, a firm adherence to principle, and a more than
ordinary attachment to his mother.
Having arrived at the Prophet's camp, he remained several day's
listening to his doctrines, and from a friend, also learned that the
captive maiden had been adopted by Netnokwa, and carried by her up
into the north-west regions where she resided. Gathering such other
particulars as he could relative to the story of the prisoner, he
satisfied himself that she was the same for whom he was seeking. He
then continued his inquiries, yet in such a way as to avoid suspicion,
learned Netnokwa's residence, the nearest route leading to it, and
several days after left the camp to prosecute his journey.
Several weeks had elapsed, and Oloompa found himself in the Chippewa
country. Its warriors were very much excited, as had been the Indians
generally along the tract of country through which he had travelled,
and he learned that the excitement had been produced by the continual
preachings of agents from the Prophet. In addition to this, at the
time of his arrival, runners were going in every direction to announce
to the tribe that a great warrior from the Shawanees was anxious to
speak to them, having things of importance to communicate. It was
Tecumseh, his whole soul was engaged in the enterprise, which, with
his brother, he had planned; and wandering about he was now using
every exertion to bring it to maturity. No labour fatigued;—no
difficulty was too great; he ranged over from one end to the other,
the vast region of country occupied by the various tribes,
threatening, flattering, arousing, and exciting them to action. When
Oloompa heard the name of Tecumseh, and also heard that he was to
preach to the Chippewas in general council assembled, he ceased to
think of the errand upon which he was bound, and bent his steps at
once toward the place of rendezvous. With Tecumseh, although he
possessed no acquaintance, yet he loved him for the exertions he was
making,—he loved him for the opinions he advocated, and which, in
Oloompa's breast, found a congenial response, and he also loved him
for the many daring acts of valour which he was said to have performed
previous to the peace which then reigned. His heart fluttered with
pleasure, when he reflected that he would have an opportunity of
hearing a speech from Tecumseh, who was now more famed as an orator,
than he had ever been, even as a warrior. He knew not what was to be
the purport of his speech, but rightly conjectured, that it would be
in furtherance of the plans which he and the Prophet had projected,
and which had now become a common subject for discussion among the
Indians generally.
Continuing his journey, he learned that the place of meeting, was near
the head waters of the Chippewa, and thither he repaired. It was the
day appointed for the council, and morning was several hours advanced
when Oloompa arrived. Gathered in groups, under the shade of many
widely spreading trees, whose branches interlocking, formed an arbour,
a thousand and more individuals had already collected, and others were
occasionally coming up. The ground was covered with grass, and it was
distinguished from many spots equally delightful, only by the rude
seats which had been prepared for the occasion. Never had Oloompa seen
a more imposing assembly;—ranged in seats in front of a small staging
which had been erected, the red men sat; the chiefs and oldest
warriors present occupying the first places; those who were next in
rank, the second; and so on, declining until on the outer edge were
placed the women and children.—Throughout the whole body reigned the
deepest silence,—not a whisper broke upon the ear, nor among the
chiefs was even a glance averted.
Oloompa, who was an entire stranger, did not at first enter the
assembly, but walked to and fro, at a short distance from the place of
meeting, with a hope of seeing Tecumseh. He was a member of his own
tribe, and a feeling of pride accompanied the thought. He hesitated
whether he should make himself known or not. Were he to do so, he
would be recognized and received as a friend; but then he might
probably be called on to give an explanation of his designs in
wandering so far from home, and to do this to Tecumseh, who was the
sworn enemy of the whites, he feared might defeat the object upon
which he had sat out. Moreover, he felt that he would be ashamed to
say to Tecumseh, that his sole object in going so far a journey, was
to serve those whom he hated, and whom he regarded as enemies. Feeling
thus, he even hesitated whether he should proceed farther; but then
there arose in his mind his promise to the white man, and the
injunctions of his mother, and after a struggle with himself, he
determined to remain where he was, unknown, and to prosecute his
journey with the coming of evening.
There was now heard a murmur among the multitude, and Oloompa saw that
the staging had been occupied by a warrior. It was Tecumseh. Noble and
commanding in appearance, he gazed around him for a few moments, and
thus spoke[1];—
[Footnote 1: See note C.]
“Brothers—We all belong to one family, we are all children of the
Great Spirit; we walk in the same path; slake our thirst at the same
spring; and smoke the pipe around the same council fire!
“Brothers—We are friends; we must assist each other to bear our
burdens. The blood of many of our fathers and brothers, has run like
water on the ground, to satisfy the avarice of the white men. We,
ourselves, are threatened with a great evil; nothing will pacify them
but the destruction of all the red men.
“Brothers—When the white men first set foot on our grounds, they were
hungry; they had no place on which to spread their blankets, or to
kindle their fires. They were feeble, and could do nothing for
themselves. Our fathers commiserated their distress, and shared freely
with them whatever the Great Spirit had given his red children. They
gave them food when hungry,—medicine when sick,—spread skins for them
to sleep on, and gave them grounds that they might hunt and raise
corn. Brothers, the white people are like poisonous serpents:—when
chilled, they are feeble and harmless; but, invigorate them with
warmth, and they sting their benefactors to death.
“The white people came among us feeble; and now we have made them
strong; they wish to kill us or drive us back as they would wolves and
panthers.
“Brothers—The white men are not friends to the Indians:—at first, they
only asked for land sufficient for a wigwam; now, nothing will satisfy
them but the whole of our hunting grounds, from the rising to the
setting sun. Brothers, they want more than our hunting grounds—they
wish to kill our warriors; they would even kill our old men, women,
and little children.
“Brothers—Many winters ago, there was no land;—the sun did not rise
and set:—all was darkness. The Great Spirit made all things. He gave
the white people a home beyond the great waters. He supplied these
grounds with game, and gave them to his red children, and he gave them
strength and courage to defend them.
“Brothers—My people wish for peace,—the red men all wish for peace;
but where the white people are, there is no peace for them, except it
be on the bosom of our mother. The red men have borne many and great
injuries. They ought to suffer them no longer. My people will not;
they are determined on vengeance; they have taken up the tomahawk;
they will make it fat with blood; they will drink the blood of the
white people.
“Brothers—My people are brave and numerous, but the white people are
too strong for them alone. I wish you to take up the tomahawk with
them. If we all unite, we will cause the rivers to stain the great
waters with their blood.
“Brothers—If you do not unite with us, they will first destroy us, and
then you will fall an easy prey to them. They have destroyed many
nations of red men, because they were not united,—because they were
not friends to each other.
“Brothers—The Great Spirit is angry with our enemies,—he speaks in
thunder, and the earth swallows up villages, and drinks up the
Mississippi.—The great waters will cover their low lands,—their corn
cannot grow, and the Great Spirit will sweep those who escape to the
hills, with his terrible breath.
“Brothers—We must be united; we must smoke the same pipe; we must
fight each others' battles; and more than all, we must love the Great
Spirit;—he is for us,—he will destroy our enemies, and make all his
red children happy.”
When Tecumseh had finished, Oloompa remained for some moments lost in
reflection; his soul had been stirred to its inmost core: he had heard
expressed, in glowing language, the thoughts which burned in his own
bosom. The wrongs of the whites had been summed up and made to pass
before him, and again he repeated to himself, the oath of eternal
enmity, which he had sworn to his mother. When the excitement had a
little subsided, a chief rising, moved an adjournment of the council
until the next day, and Oloompa, scarcely knowing whither he was
bound, left the council, to wander in the forest, and muse upon what
he had heard. Days elapsed, and still the power of Tecumseh's
eloquence caused him to falter in his determination; but, at the end
of that time, again he continued his journey, resolving to accomplish,
if possible, that which he had set out to perform, and then to link
his fate with Tecumseh, and unite with him heart and soul in the
enterprise he had projected.
It was now the second week since Oloompa's departure from the council,
and in answer to his last inquiry for information, the reply had been
that the wigwam of Netnokwa lay on the banks of the stream along which
he was then journeying, and at a distance of only two or three miles.
He had before ascertained that the captive maiden still remained with
her, and buoyant with hope and joy he now moved forward. He saw before
him the successful accomplishment of his journey,—he could now serve
the hunter, redeem his promise, and then all obligations were
cancelled, and he his inveterate foe. He felt for the little package
which had been given him, to be delivered to the maiden, if found,—it
was safe; he took it out and examined it; it was rubbed and worn, and
while gazing on it, he thought it too small to contain any thing of
much value, but his injunctions were positive, and he returned it to
his belt.
His face now beamed with happiness, for he was approaching the end of
his journey, and he also felt the consciousness of having succeeded in
part in his undertaking. Besides this, he would soon be gratified in
seeing her for whom he had taken so much trouble; and he was also
anxious to see Netnokwa's daughter, whom he had heard spoken of as
beautiful above any maid of the forest. He had now continued his
journey in silence, for some distance, on the banks of the stream
along which he was travelling, when suddenly there was heard a
cracking of the bushes, and the running of an animal,—a moment more,
and a deer passed.—Yet it bounded not as though it were wild and free,
for an arrow had pierced and still stood fixed deep in its body; its
life was fast ebbing away, for one might trace its path by the blood
which sprinkled the ground where it moved along, and could see that
each successive bound was less strong than the one before it. It
continued its flight but a short distance farther, when it stopped,
and turning its head back, gazed at the fatal shaft;—big tears fell
from its eyes,—it nibbled the arrow with its mouth, and endeavoured to
pull it out;—it was firmly fixed,—it tried to leap again,—it was too
late,—it grew weaker, reeled, fell, and died. Oloompa gazed for a
moment, and was hesitating whether or not he should go in pursuit,
when he heard the sound of laughing voices,—then a joyous cry, and a
form dashed by, as if borne on the wings of the hurrying blast.
Oloompa having reached a point from which he could perceive where the
deer had fallen, saw an Indian maiden already bending over its
prostrate form, and rightly conjecturing that it was the daughter of
Netnokwa, he determined to go thither for the purpose of assisting
her, and also of making some inquiries relative to the captive
maiden.—No sooner had he made the resolve, than, joyous and happy, he
darted away, with the glee of a child, but quickly stopped, for he
heard a rustling noise, and looking, saw the captive maiden retreating
to a distance within the forest, before she would dare to look back.
With Oloompa all exciting subjects were forgotten, and he gazed on her
with gladness.—It was she whom he was to make happy,—it was she whom
he sought, and forgetting his enmity to her race, he said, as she
stood far within the forest, “She is like a snow-drift sleeping in the
moonlight;” then bounding away, he was soon by the side of Miskwa.
Having approached, he was charmed by the beauty of her person.—Never
had he seen so much symmetry, nor a form so delicately moulded. He
hesitated for a moment, before he would speak to her; then seeing the
nature of the occupation in which she was engaged, he offered his
assistance. Miskwa started at the sound of his voice, for she knew not
that any one was present, until he spoke, when she drew her figure up
to its full height, and gazed fixedly upon him. Oloompa seemed not to
regard her scrutiny,—his countenance was joyous and happy; then
looking at the deer before him, he felt the joys of the chase, and
before Miskwa had time to answer, added, “a good shot. The bow is
strong, and the arrow went straight to its mark.”
Miskwa was pleased with the compliment, for she loved her bow and
quiver, and with less formality in her manner than she had at first
assumed, replied, “Those who depend on themselves for food, must needs
shoot well.”
“Thou art pretty,” said Oloompa; “the Ottawa warriors are not men.
They suffer a maiden to kill her own game.”
“Would you have me choose a warrior who can send an arrow less far
than I can,” said the maiden.
“Surely not,” said Oloompa.
“The distance is an hundred yards;—will your arrow go more straight
than that?” inquired the maiden, pointing to the one which still stood
fixed in the deer before her.
“No,” said Oloompa.
“Then thou art not the warrior who shall draw my bow,” said the
maiden.
Oloompa was slightly confused, and casting his eyes down, was for a
moment silent.
“Does a captive maiden dwell with thee?” he continued.
“No,” said Miskwa.
Oloompa's countenance changed from joy to disappointment, and Miskwa
observing it, asked, “Didst thou come to seek her?”
“Yes,” said Oloompa, “and I was happy. I thought I saw her in the
forest.”
“Then let thy heart be glad,” said Miskwa;—“the maiden is here;—she
lives with me. But she is as free as the air she breathes.”
Oloompa was again happy, and he said, “Thou dost love her?”
“Yes,” said Miskwa, “as I do the life blood which warms my heart. But
stay, you shall see her,” and without waiting to know his errand, she
ran away to seek her friend, whom she soon found, and cried out, “who
dost thou think hast come?”
The maiden had never seen Miskwa so pretty or as much animated, and
answered, “I did not know there was one whose coming could make Miskwa
so happy.”
“The chieftain seeks ‘Sweet Flower,’” said Miskwa, “come, he waits.”
“Seeks me!” cried the maiden with astonishment.
“Yes,” answered Miskwa. “He told me so; and his heart was glad when he
found you were here. ‘Sweet Flower,’” continued Miskwa, “will have a
warrior young and handsome to protect her.”
“Oh, hush! Miskwa,” cried the captive. “Fire and water can never
unite, nor the red with the white. I shall always be a lone bird
without its mate; Oh! do not mention it, for my heart still bleeds
over its earliest hopes.”
“Then I will not,” said Miskwa, “but thou art good enough for Pontiac,
did he now live.”
The captive made no reply, being willing that Miskwa should continue
to think as she did, namely, that her annunciation that the white and
the red could never unite, arose from a belief on her part that by a
red warrior she would never be wooed; and with a hope of finding out
who it was that had inquired after her, for undefined apprehensions
began to flit across her mind, she said, “Miskwa, do tell who seeks
me?”
“I know not his name, nor why he comes,” said Miskwa. “He says he
comes to see thee. It is not in anger. I will tell thee how I saw
him?”
“Do,” said the maiden.
“When I left thee,” said Miskwa, “I hastened on after the deer I shot,
and having found it, stooped down to bleed it. A moment passed while I
was preparing. I heard a voice. It fell soft on my ears as the running
of waters, and turning, I beheld a warrior near me with youth and joy
beaming in his countenance. But come, go, he will tell thee his
errand.” The captive refused, nor could Miskwa persuade her to go,
when she requested her to seek her mother and tell her that a warrior
was to be her visitor, while she would return and conduct him to her
lodge.
The captive hurried away, and Miskwa returning to Oloompa, conducted
him to her lodge. While proceeding along she learned the cause of
Oloompa's errand, and she was wild with joy. She loved the captive
maiden, and her heart fluttered with delight, when she recollected how
happy her friend would be. There was nothing selfish in her
disposition; she saw that they were to be parted, and yet she banished
the thought and dwelt only on the happiness which awaited her friend.
She was instantly acquainted with Oloompa; she was frank as if she had
known him for years, and treated him with all the kindness of an old
friend. If Oloompa was pleased with her before, he was charmed with
her now; and scarcely giving him time to talk, she hurried him along
to her lodge.
Arriving there, he was treated with courtesy, and Miskwa calling to
“Sweet Flower,” bade her come out, since the warrior wanted to speak
to her. She obeyed, and came out shrinking and frightened at she knew
not what. Oloompa saw her hesitation, and knowing the cause, was not
offended, but gently took her hand. She trembled from head to foot,
and Oloompa began his narrative. The first words had scarcely been
uttered, before her attention was arrested; she gazed first at Miskwa,
and then at Oloompa, and as he proceeded, her soul drank in every word
of the recital. When he mentioned that he had been sent in pursuit of
her, and uttered the name of Rolfe. “Oh! tell me, tell me, is it
true?” she cried. And not waiting for an answer, she looked into the
face of the speaker, until she seemed to penetrate the very depths of
his soul. Oloompa assured her it was true, and Gay fell weeping on the
bosom of Miskwa. A few moments passed, and smiling through her tears,
she laid her hand upon Oloompa's arm, and looking in his face, said,
“Oh! tell me now! where you saw him, and what he said, and all, all,
about him.” Oloompa went on with a farther detail of his narrative,
until suddenly recollecting the little package, he loosed his belt to
obtain it. “Go on, go on,” cried Gay, “please tell me all about him.”
Oloompa withdrew the little parcel, and delivered it to her as coming
from Rolfe. It was torn open in an instant, and as she gazed on his
own signature, an exclamation of delight broke from her lips, and she
ran to her apartment where she read over and over again those lines
which were already imprinted upon her heart; pressed them to her lips,
and upon Miskwa's entering her room, she again threw herself upon her
bosom in a paroxysm of joy. But these moments passed; Gay became
composed, and now all were happy. It was beautiful to look upon the
affection which had sprung up between Gay and Miskwa; it was so pure,
so holy, so deep, there was not even a wish, which the one would not
willingly sacrifice for the gratification of the other. With Gay, the
hopes which she had indulged in for so long a time, now shone brightly
forth, and she saw the attainment of all her wishes, and she was
joyously happy. And Miskwa, though always cheerful and contented, was
now more so than she was wont to be; this arose partly from the
increased happiness of her friend, and partly, because she derived
some pleasure from the company of Oloompa.
Gay having retired to her apartment to read and muse over the letter
which had given her so much joy, left Oloompa to be entertained by
Netnokwa and Miskwa. He had much to communicate which served to
interest them. In Netnokwa he found a willing and even eager listener
to all the details relative to the present excitement among the
Indians; and in the more agreeable company of Miskwa, he forgot his
dreams of vengeance, and found that there were other things which
could interest. When the night had far worn away, they all retired,
and two happier beings than Miskwa and Gay were on that night were not
to be found.
With returning day again came life and cheerfulness, and Gay began to
discuss the best plan to be adopted consequent upon the receipt of
Rolfe's letter. Consulting with Netnokwa and Miskwa she determined to
write by Oloompa to Rolfe, inform him of her situation, and ask him to
provide some plan for her return. This she felt sure was the best
course she could pursue, knowing that Rolfe would cheerfully comply
with her request, since being aware of the great excitement among the
Indians, she feared to trust herself without being well guarded. Her
first endeavour was to persuade Netnokwa to accompany her, and set out
at once on her return; but in this she failed, and she ceased to press
it, when she heard Oloompa speak of the power of the Prophet, and also
the caution with which he had concealed his visit from him as well as
his agents.
The day after his arrival, while conversing on the affairs of the red
men, Oloompa mentioned having seen Tecumseh. At his name, a slight
change passed over the face of Miskwa, and a glance between her and
Gay, showed that he had been the subject of conversation between them.
Oloompa described the council at which he had seen Tecumseh, and dwelt
in glowing colours upon the power of his eloquence, and the effect it
produced. Netnokwa made many inquiries after him, and having obtained
the information she desired, repeated aloud, “The Shawanee brave has
been absent too long from the Ottawa maiden.”
“Not longer,” replied Miskwa, “than the Ottawa maiden wished him, if
it was his pleasure.”
They were then silent, but enough had been said to arouse the
attention of Oloompa, and he asked, if they knew Tecumseh? They
replied, that they did, and spoke of having seen him at the Prophet's
camp.
Oloompa remained several days, in order to recruit from his fatigue,
and every hour found that he was becoming more pleased with Miskwa. He
had won the good opinion of Gay, by the trouble he had taken in her
behalf, and Miskwa began to derive pleasure from his company. He was
now their constant companion, either roving the woods, with his bow
and quiver, or else assisting them in their duties about their wigwam.
Yet while he did this, he found that he was involving himself in a
difficulty from which he saw no hope of escape; for, from the remarks
he had heard relative to Tecumseh, he feared that she was already
pledged to become his wife. With these feelings, he mentioned his
intention to set out on the following day, in search of Rolfe, to whom
he would bear the tidings that the maiden he had so long sought, was
at Netnokwa's lodge. Both Gay and Miskwa were not only anxious that he
should do this, but also that he should return with him, in order to
direct him by the shortest route. Both united in their persuasions,
and Oloompa promised to do so. Yet he was sad, and seemed unhappy.
Miskwa discovering his apprehensions, relieved them by telling him
that there was no probability of her marrying Tecumseh, and a farther
explanation took place, which was mutually pleasing to both. Morning
came, and with it the preparations for Oloompa's departure. Each of
the maidens lent their assistance towards equipping him as comfortably
as possible; and Gay leaving Miskwa and Oloompa, retired for the
purpose of writing to Rolfe. Netnokwa's intercourse with the traders,
had casually furnished her with paper, and other materials were easily
obtained. Having prepared herself for the task, she wrote as follows:—
“TO RICHARD ROLFE.
“A thousand, thousand thanks, my dear Richard,—I must write the
word,—for your thrice welcome letter; and as many thousands more, for
the exertions you have made in my behalf. Yet, oh! words cannot tell
what I feel, nor what I owe you, nor what I have suffered. Oh! sad,
sad misfortune! Your fears are all too true; and that you alone, of
all Others, should have witnessed it!—How mysterious are the decrees
of heaven? Oh! what would I give were it but for one hour's
conversation with you.
“Upon leaving Petersburg, which we did some five or six months after
your departure, my father removed to Baltimore, where he resided some
time. There, meeting with some heavy pecuniary losses, he suddenly
determined to emigrate to the west. We came to Pittsburg, and entering
an ark, I think they called it, we commenced our journey.—The details
you are acquainted with. Only fancy my sufferings.
“I am now residing with Netnokwa and her daughter,—the former is chief
of the Ottawas, and adopted me to prevent my meeting with a worse
fate. They are as kind as they can be, and her daughter I love as I
would a sister. But, oh! happy, happy thought! that I am once more to
return to the few friends who are yet left me. I have a world of
things to tell when I meet. Remember me kindly to the hunter who,
Oloompa tells me, was with you, and devise some plan for my
return.—Come yourself, Richard,—come quick, and add another to the
many inducements I already have to love you. My spirits are all in a
flutter, for Oloompa is just about to set out.—Oh! has he not acted
nobly! thinking of the whites as he does. Farewell,—may heaven bless
you.
“GAY FOREMAN.”
Gay having finished her letter, delivered it to Oloompa, and his
preparations being made, he bade them all farewell, renewed his
promise to return with Rolfe, and, accompanied by the kind wishes of
Netnokwa and the two maidens, sat out upon his journey.
CHAPTER XVII.
“Well might his lays be lofty! soaring thought
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught:
Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the strains,
Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze, in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament.”
MRS. HEMANS.
The absence of Oloompa shed a gloom for a few days over the little
circle he left. Miskwa felt that she loved him, and the sympathies of
Gay were also strongly enlisted in his favour. His feelings against
the whites, as a people, he had avowed in her presence, and when she
recollected the dreary region through which he was then travelling,
and the many difficulties and hardships he must encounter, and thought
he was doing all this for one who at most was but a stranger to him,
her sympathies were so great, that for a short time even the pleasure
arising from the recollection of the object of his journey, was
sensibly diminished. But as time glided on, this feeling passed away,
and gave place in her breast to the joy of anticipating his return,
accompanied, as she fondly hoped, by Rolfe, of whom she had so often,
and so kindly thought, and who had so long and so eagerly sought her.
But, leaving Oloompa to continue his journey, let us revert to the
designs of Elkswatawa and Tecumseh.
It was now the summer of 1810:—the Indian affairs in the west began to
wear quite a warlike character, and so many reports reached Governor
Harrison, indicating a hostile disposition on the part of the Indians,
that he felt compelled to send a messenger to the two brothers with a
speech, setting forth the vast power of the whites, showing that
success could not possibly attend their arms, and promising, if
practicable, to redress their grievances upon their being publicly
stated. The messenger was likewise required to obtain, if possible, a
personal interview with the brothers, that he might form some idea of
their characters, and also to elicit a history of their views and
intentions toward the United States.
Upon arriving in the Shawanee country, the messenger was treated with
great courtesy and even kindness, for the policy of the brothers was,
to keep the whites in entire ignorance of their designs. In obedience
to his wishes, a council was called of all their followers, and the
speech of the Governor delivered to the brothers in their presence.
They listened to it with the utmost attention, yet refused to return
any answer. Upon the whole, however, they stated that they were
pleased with it, and Tecumseh said that “he had never been to see the
Governor; he only recollected him as a very young man, sitting by the
side of General Wayne; that he had never troubled the white people
much, and that he would now go to Vincennes, and convince the
Governor, that he had listened to bad men, when he was told that the
Indians meditated war against the United States.”
The meeting which had been called to hear the speech from the
Governor, having been dissolved, Tecumseh invited the messenger to
pass the night with him at his lodge, and extended to him all the rude
hospitality of his wigwam. In the course of the evening he threw off
much of the reserve which usually characterized him, and conversed
both freely and frankly. He again denied that he intended to make war
upon the United States, but declared, most solemnly, that it was not
possible to remain friends, unless the whites would abandon the idea
of making settlements farther to the north and westward, and
explicitly acknowledge the principle that all the lands in the west,
were the common property of all the tribes. “The Great Spirit,” said
he, “gave this great island to his red children; he placed the whites
on the other side of the big water; they were not contented with their
own, but came to take ours from us. They have driven us from the sea
to the lakes;—we can go no farther. They have taken upon them to say,
‘this tract belongs to the Miamies, this to the Delawares;’ and so on;
but the Great Spirit intended it as the common property of all. Our
father tells us, we have no business on the Wabash; the lands belong
to other tribes. The Great Spirit ordered us to come here, and here we
will stay. I intend not,” he continued, “to make war on the whites,
but our rights must be respected, and from this spot, on the banks of
the Wabash, I will never remove.”
When morning came, the messenger having gained all the information he
desired, prepared to return, and Tecumseh having determined within his
own mind, that he would visit the governor for the purpose of
endeavouring to remove the impressions under which he laboured, said
upon bidding him farewell,—“tell the Governor that I shall soon be
with him; thirty or forty of my principal men will attend me, and as
my young men are fond of shows, they will probably increase the
number. I say these things that our father may not be alarmed, and
that he may feast his red children as they deserve.”
During the whole time that the messenger had remained with Tecumseh,
the Prophet had been present, yet took no part in the conversation. He
left that entirely to the management of Tecumseh, who, though
apparently playing a subordinate part to the Prophet, was in reality
the life and soul of the projected enterprise. His voice was heard in
every council preaching peace, yet causing the red men to dream of
war, by narrating over and over again, the wrongs and aggressions of
the whites; and to such a degree had he already excited them, that the
difficulty now was, to keep down the passions he had called into play.
In his own bosom he felt the storm gathering with increased fury, and
every hour of his time was passed in summing up the wrongs he had
suffered. Large tracts of land had been conveyed away by particular
tribes, when Tecumseh regarded it as the common property of all.
Murders had been committed by the Indians on the whites, and the
murderers had been handed over to the whites for punishment; murders
had been committed on the Indians by the whites, and when the
murderers were demanded, their calls had been neglected. The wave of
population was steadily advancing and encroaching upon their grounds.
Want and hunger were already the consequence of the near proximity of
the whites, and a history of the past told too truly, that one
aggression would be followed by another, until the plough of the
stranger would run over the ground now occupied by their wigwams, and
then, a few years more, and no Indian would own the land whereon he
rested. These were the things which preyed upon the soul of Tecumseh,
and caused him to weep for the fate of his countrymen, and these were
the feelings with which, in the following month, he sat out to visit
the Governor at Vincennes, with a hope of removing from his mind all
unfavourable impressions which he might entertain towards the Indians,
and at the same time determined to lay before him the wrongs of which
he complained, and demand redress.
It was on the 12th of August that Tecumseh, with a small band of
warriors, the Governor having positively forbidden his being attended
by a large retinue, made his appearance at Vincennes. Accommodations
were prepared at the Governor's house, where he expected the proposed
meeting would be held; but Tecumseh refused, and halted his followers
in the open air, saying that “so the Indians had ever done, and he
would not deviate from their customs. That houses were made for the
whites to hold their councils in;—the Indians always held theirs under
the trees.”
His fame as an orator had already spread far abroad, and the exciting
subjects which were to be discussed, together with his connexion with
the Prophet, induced crowds of citizens to attend the council. In
addition to this, the conduct of the Governor in effecting a treaty
the year before, for the purchase of lands by the United States, had
been denounced by Tecumseh as unjust and improper, and to hear the
grounds of the accusation, as well as that his defence might be more
generally known, the Governor had issued invitations to all those
disposed to attend. In consequence whereof, besides the crowds of
citizens before mentioned, there were present the judges of the
supreme court, and the secretary of the Territory, with many officers
of the army. The whites, clustered around the Governor, were seated on
chairs and benches, and before them lay extended on the grass Tecumseh
and his swarthy band, armed with bows, rifles, tomahawks, and war
clubs. In the rear, and at a short distance behind the governor, was
stationed a small military force, brought up from fort Knox for the
purpose of preserving order. Such was the disposition of the
respective parties, when silence being commanded, Tecumseh, nothing
daunted by the assembly around him, although all were his enemies save
his own trusty band, arose with great dignity and calmness of manner,
and gathering his blanket about him, poured forth the deep and burning
feelings of his bosom. He knew no guile, but spoke the first
promptings of his mind. In answer to a call which was made, that he
should state “why it was that large bodies of Indians were assembled,
warlike exercises practised, and an attitude assumed apparently
hostile to the whites,” he declared that “his object, as well as that
of his brother, had been an organized plan, from the commencement, to
unite all the tribes together, and form them into one nation, for
their common defence,—to stay the farther encroachments of the whites,
and to hold the lands of the red men, as they were intended by the
Great Spirit to be, the common property of all.” He declared, that
“the lands which had been lately purchased, should never be settled,
and that it was their determination to put to death all the chiefs who
had signed the late treaties, and never again to convey another foot
of land to the whites. That in the late treaties, lands belonging to
the whole, had been sold by a few, for a paltry price, and their
princely dominions so encroached upon, that the red men could scarcely
satisfy the dire cravings of hunger. That aggression had followed
aggression, until from the sea coast they had been driven back to the
big lakes, and were now required to move back still a step farther.
That the stipulation of the treaty of Greenville, requiring the
surrender of murderers, had on the part of the whites, been grossly
violated, and the rights of the Indians entirely disregarded. That in
all their transactions they had been overreached, and that now they
were resolved to yield no longer, but to maintain their rights, at the
hazard of their lives.”
He stated, that his object was “not to make war upon the whites, but
that the lands lately purchased, must not be settled; that, for
himself, he would never surrender his lands on the Wabash, nor move
one foot to the westward; that he desired peace, but to preserve it,
the Governor must give up the lands just purchased, and promise never
to make another treaty without the consent of all the tribes. Do
this,” said he, “and Tecumseh is the friend of the Americans, and
their ally against the English.—He likes not the English,”—and here he
clapped his hands, and imitated a person encouraging a dog to make him
fight with another, thereby indicating that thus did the English urge
the Indians on against the Americans. “But,” continued he, “should our
father not give up the purchase he has lately made, Tecumseh is the
inveterate foe of the Americans,—the firm ally of the English.”
Such were merely the heads of his speech, and having seated himself,
General Harrison rose in reply. He began by answering that part of
Tecumseh's speech in which he stated that “the lands of the red people
were intended, by the Great Spirit, to be held in common.” In replying
to this, General Harrison observed, that “when the white people
arrived on this continent, they found the Miamies in possession of all
the country on the Wabash, and the Shawanees then residents of
Georgia, from which they were driven by the Creeks; that the lands in
question had been purchased from the Miamies, who were the true and
original owners of it; that it was ridiculous to assert that all the
Indians were one nation. If such had been the intention of the Great
Spirit, he would not have put different tongues in their heads, but
have taught them a language that all could understand. That the
Miamies found it to their interest to sell a part of their lands, and
that the Shawanees had no right to come from a distant country to
control the Miamies, in the disposal of their own property.”
Here, Tecumseh rising, interrupted the Governor, and declared that
“every syllable he had uttered was false, and that he and the
‘Seventeen Fires,’ the then number of states, had imposed upon and
cheated the Indians.” He then blew a whistle, and his band sprang upon
their feet, with ready rifles, drawn bows, and uplifted tomahawks,
directed towards the Governor, and those who immediately surrounded
him. The whites rose from their seats, and drew whatever weapon chance
had supplied them with, and though largely outnumbering the Indians,
they were almost paralyzed by the unexpected position in which they
found themselves; and each party stood gazing at the other in perfect
silence, neither daring to commence the attack.
When Tecumseh first rose to interrupt the Governor, the guard was
called;—several minutes had now elapsed, and still not a word had been
uttered,—not an attitude changed,—not a glance averted,—the most
breathless silence had reigned,—the most painful suspense still
continued, when the guard was seen running to their assistance. The
time had not yet arrived for Tecumseh to strike,—he waved his hand,
and the bows of his warriors were unstrung, their tomahawks returned
to their belts. To the whites it had been a painful scene.—The guards
who were ordered up, had now arrived, and were in the act of firing,
when the Governor, seeing that the Indians had desisted from their
hostile intention, commanded them not. Great confusion existed,—the
council was dismissed, and Tecumseh, with his band, immediately left
the town.
Having continued his march for several miles, he pitched his camp, and
prepared to pass the night. His warriors were ordered to be on their
guard against surprise; and also to hold themselves in readiness to
move at a minute's warning, while he, retiring apart from the crowd,
thought over the events of the day. His soul was now wrung with
anguish,—he writhed under the wrongs he had suffered, and at the same
time regretted the passion he had exhibited. He feared lest it should
prejudice his cause, and that the whites should consider it a
sufficient reason for their commencing hostilities. He would not have
time to summon his warriors to battle. Moreover, he was not yet ready,
for although his emissaries had visited the southern tribes, he
himself had not, and therefore it became necessary to do away the
impression which his conduct at the council was calculated to create.
With these views, he sent a runner to the Governor, at the first dawn
of day, requesting an interview, for the purpose of explaining his
conduct the day before. After the breaking up of the council, in the
manner above stated, Gen. Harrison, fearing an attack from Tecumseh,
had ordered in the militia, and placed the town in a state of defence,
and exasperated by what he believed to have been a premeditated
attempt at treachery on his part, he at first refused to grant the
interview sought. After some consultation, however, he accorded it,
upon condition that each party should be attended with the same armed
force which was present the day before.
The day wore on, and the red men and white again met in council.
Tecumseh was dignified and collected, and rather more conciliating in
his manner than he had been at the former conference. He denied having
had any intention of attacking the Governor, and exerted himself to
remove any such impression which might have been formed, yet
reiterated the same opinions which he had advanced the day before,
relative to their lands, and the wrongs of the Indians. Having
finished speaking, the Governor asked him whether it was his intention
now to prevent the surveying of the lands, lately purchased by the
United States.
He answered, “It was:—that he and those connected with him were
determined that the old boundary should continue.” The Governor
complimented him for his frankness, and told him, that his views
should be made known to the President, but he feared, without a hope
of the lands being surrendered.
“If they are not, I cannot help it,” said Tecumseh, “I know my duty.”
The council was then adjourned, and Tecumseh again left the town.—All
present were fully impressed with a sense of the high character and
noble bearing of Tecumseh, and none more so than the Governor, who,
with a hope of eliciting a farther development of his views in
private, than he had given in public, determined on the following day,
to visit him at his camp. With but a single friend, he appeared before
Tecumseh, who treated them both with the most marked respect, carried
them to his tent, where, giving them seats, and stretching himself
upon the ground, he entered frankly into conversation.
The Governor stated, that he had come with a wish to preserve peace,
and desired to know whether his intentions were really such as he had
stated in council.
Tecumseh said, “they were;—that he would not willingly make war with
the United States, against whom he had no other complaint, than their
purchasing the Indian lands.—That he wished to be their friend, and
that if the Governor would surrender the lands lately bought, he was
the ally of the Americans; if not, he was their enemy.” The Governor
again assured him that he would make known his propositions to the
President, but informed him, there was no hope of his acceding to
them.
“Well,” said Tecumseh, “as the Great Chief is to determine the matter,
I hope the Great Spirit will put sense enough in his head to induce
him to give up the land. True, he is so far off, that the war will not
injure him;—he may sit still in his town, and drink his wine, while
you and I will have to fight it out.”
Much conversation ensued, all of which was marked by the most manly
frankness, and the Governor rose to depart, saying, “there is one
request, Tecumseh, which I have to make, and to which I hope you will
agree.”
“Name it,” said the Chief.
“It is,” said the Governor, that “in the event of a war, you will
endeavour to prevent the murder of women and children by the Indians,
as well as the wounded and prisoners, taken in battle.”
“I promise,” said Tecumseh, “for my soul delighteth not in the blood
of women and children; and, Great Chief, remember, if it becomes
necessary, extend to the red men the same clemency you ask for the
whites.”
“I promise,” said the Governor, and bidding Tecumseh farewell, with a
hope that the friendly relations then existing, might not be
disturbed, he was soon on his way to Vincennes, meditating upon the
interview, and deploring the war which he saw fast gathering, and
which was to prove disastrous to the whites, and ruinous to the
Indians.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“While through the broken pane the tempest sighs,
And his step falters on the faithless floor,
Shades of departed joys around him rise,
With many a face that smiles on him no more;
With many a voice, that thrills of transport gave,
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!”
ROGERS.
Nearly a year had elapsed since the commencement of our story, and the
night was cold and rainy, when two friends were regaling themselves
with pipes by a comfortable fire in a small building which stood apart
from the few houses at that time constituting the village of Bowling
Green. This place was even then beginning to show marks of
civilization, for log cabins had in many instances, been superseded by
well built frame edifices, and taste and culture were now exhibited in
many of their walks and gardens.
As the friends sat smoking, the wind ever and anon whistled as it
hurried fitfully past, causing them to shrug up their shoulders, and
draw still nearer to the fire.
“It makes me feel cold,” said Earth, “to hear the wind whistle as it
does, for many and many's the time I've slept out, just sich a night
as this,—and I think, Rolfe, you have had a small touch at it too.”
“Yes, Earth, but my experience is nothing in comparison with yours. I
often think of the time we passed together in the woods and always
with pleasure; though we have had some singular adventures. We ought
to have found that girl, Earth.”
“Yes, we ought so, Rolfe; I have never felt satisfied about it. We
ought to have found her, and, but for that lying Prophet, we should.”
“I think now,” said Rolfe, “that she was concealed, and that he knew
it, but he deceived me at the time.”
“And would do it agin,” said Earth; “you know nothing about Ingens. He
is the cause of all this fracas now, and has brought down war upon our
heads. What say you, Rolfe; the governor wants volunteers; suppose we
go on and take a brush; I reckon this will be about the last chance we
shall have, and I am getting right rusty: I hain't killed one now for
nearly a year. This business of collecting taxes, and keeping out of
the woods, civilizes one mightily. I feel so slick and smooth, I
hardly know myself,—what say you?”
“Why, we will talk about that another time; if there is a necessity,
we will go. But I am thinking of something else. Earth, the idea will
sometimes come across my mind, that the girl who was captured, is the
same I once loved.”
“It is all nonsense, Rolfe, you are nation hard to satisfy,—didn't
that letter from Petersburg put it all straight?”
“Why, yes; it does seem so, but, you know, I caught a glimpse of her
face.”
“Well now,” said Earth, “if you set up your glimpses agin black and
white, I've got no more to say about it.”
Rolfe, seeing that Earth was not in a humour to converse on the
subject which he had most at heart, was silent; and Earth then asked,
“Did you never hear any thing from the old woman nor the Ingen boy.”
“Never,” said Rolfe, “not a word.”
“Just like 'em,” said Earth, “I never know'd one, that was worth a
ninepence”—then pausing an instant, he added, “I beg the Prophet's
pardon, he is worth a dollar.”
“Why so?” inquired Rolfe.
“Because,” said Earth, “he has roasted so many of 'em. But Rolfe, what
can the fellow be arter? if 'twas white men he burned, I could see
through it plain enough, but he takes Ingens altogether, and then he
picks the best of 'em, and besides this, I am told, he has run 'em all
mad, and made 'em believe they can catch the whites in log traps as I
used to catch 'coons.”
“I cannot tell,” said Rolfe, and he shuddered, for there passed
through his mind the thought that the captive maiden might be she whom
he loved, and would yet be brought to the stake.
Earth saw him shudder, and thinking he was cold, stirred up the fire,
and replenished his pipe. The wind still howled as it hurried past,
and Rolfe also drew his chair closer, complained of being cold, and
added fuel to the fire.
“I hate a night like this,” said Earth, “it always make me think of
spirits.”
“Rather makes you drink spirits,” said Rolfe; “will you have some?”
“No, I was not speaking of that; you know I don't hate a little, if it
is good, worse than any thing else in this world, but that has nothing
to do with it. I mean that a night like this always makes me think of
ghosts.”
“Earth, you don't believe in ghosts?”
“Don't I believe what I see, and havn't I seen them?”
“I think not,” said Rolfe.
“Well, now the difference is, I think I have,” said Earth.
“Well Earth, I see we can't agree about ghosts, but there is one thing
I wish you would tell me.”
“What is it?”
“Will you promise to tell?”
“Name it, and, if it be proper, I will.”
“It is,” said Rolfe, “what I have often heard you allude to, the fate
of your family.”
As Rolfe announced this, a shade seemed to pass over Earthquake's
countenance, and he was for a moment silent, then removing his pipe,
he said, “I will gratify you, Rolfe, for I promised to do so, and we
shall never have a more fit opportunity. It is a sad story, and soon
told, and I want to tell it, because I know you think me cruel, but I
aint so. Let us fill our pipes agin.” Having done so, he began:—
“My father was an early settler in Kentucky. He emigrated while I was
a child from one of the counties along the sea coast in North
Carolina. What induced him to do so, I never learned; he was poor, and
may have moved to better his condition, yet I have always thought that
there was some private reason which forced him away. However, my
principal recollections now, are of the family, as they were
when,—when they perished. My father was, before he moved, though poor,
a good liver, and had had the advantages of a good education. I was
too young to judge of this at that time, but many recollections now
convince me,—for when we moved we brought many books with us, and our
neighbours often came to him to write for them, and to settle their
accounts.
“Well, when we came out, we settled about fifteen miles from here;—I
will show you the place some of these days, though there are now few
marks of its ever having been cultivated, and built us a house which
was remarked for its neatness and comfort. But it was too far from any
other settlement, there were no persons sufficiently near to be called
neighbours, and for that I blame the old man, though, I suppose, for
doing so, he had his own reasons. I say, I blame him, because I
remember I often heard persons ask him, if he was not afraid to reside
so far from assistance, in case it should be needed. He said ‘no,’ for
he was a brave man and knew no fear. Rolfe, I said I blamed him;—he is
gone, and I loved him;—let me blot out that word blamed. Well, we made
a small clearing; the old man was very industrious, and though I was a
child, yet I assisted him, for I was large enough to plough, and we
managed to live very comfortably. My mother, I think I have not before
mentioned her, was a good woman, and as kind and gentle as one can be.
I have never seen one like her since, and now, while I am talking to
you, Rolfe, I can see them all as they used to be. I can see my mother
meet the old man with smiles when he would return from his work, and
see him, happy as he was, when he could collect us all around him, and
make us play for his amusement. We were six in the family, and I the
eldest of the children. I had two sisters, a brother, a father and a
mother.
“While thus situated, we frequently heard of the Indians, and of acts
of violence committed by them; but they generally happened at a
distance, and caused us no actual fear. I say fear,—yet we were always
on the look out, and somewhat prepared for them, and whenever we had
cause to suspect that they were about, word was sent to the
neighbours, and we all retreated to the block-house.
“But, one morning, the old man being sick, I took my gun and went out
hunting. The Ingens had not then been heard of for some time, and we
suspected nothing. I wandered from home a considerable distance
farther than was prudent at that time, and it was the middle of the
day when I returned, and was distant a mile or two, when I heard the
voices of persons who seemed moving along. This was unusual, for
sometimes months passed without our seeing any one; and I at once
concealed myself, that I might see who they were. I soon discovered
that they were a party of Ingens. My heart sank within me, for I was
more afraid of an Ingen then than I am now, Rolfe. They were about a
dozen in number, and many of them had large bundles; and, what I did
not observe at first, I soon noticed, namely, that one of them was
riding an old gray mare, which we had brought from Carolina, and which
I knew they must have stolen. I recollected having left her in the
stable, but thought she had gotten out, and that the Ingens had
perhaps found her in the woods. They were all armed, as if for battle,
and seemed to be hurrying along. I hardly breathed while they were
passing, lest they should discover me; and as soon as they were out of
sight, I ran home, to tell what I had seen.
“I had nearly reached there, before I began to think what might have
happened, and as soon as the thought struck me, that they might have
been to our house, I dashed along until I reached our enclosure. Yes,
I reached it, Rolfe, but there was no house to be seen, nor a living
soul! no, not even a farm-yard animal. Every thing was deserted, and a
thin smoke was rising up from where the house had stood!—Pass me the
tobacco, Rolfe.—Well, I cried, as any other boy would have done, and
ran blubbering along to the yard; I entered it, and what think you,
Rolfe, I stood over the smoking ruins of our house, and saw my father,
mother, two sisters, and a brother, lying mangled before me!—Several
of them wanted some of their limbs, and, more or less burned, they all
lay a black and smoking mass! Yet the size of the skeletons pointed
out each, and I knew them as well as I did in the morning. And, Rolfe,
they were all innocent and knew no crime, unless it was to love each
other too much, and to be happy within themselves. They died, however,
not without a struggle, for two red devils lay with them.
“Rolfe, you can never know the agony of that moment!” and a shudder
ran over him as he recurred to it—“how utterly lone and desolate I
felt!—I cried no more, I ceased to be a boy, and every feeling was
instantly merged in the desire for vengeance! Rolfe, you have often
thought me cruel, now have I not cause?”
“Your misfortunes, Earth, have been greater than I thought, but I do
not deem it just to punish the innocent for the guilty. Those who were
not present could not have injured you.”
“Rolfe,” continued Earthquake, “before that fatal day, I was too
gentle and meek for a boy. The old man often chided me, for I would
cry at the crushing of an insect. I mention this to show that my
disposition was not naturally cruel. But, Rolfe, to be left alone in
the wide world in one unlucky hour! and Rolfe, hear me, I alone
scooped their shallow grave, and shovelled the fresh earth over their
smoking bodies! Yes, covered up, hid,—buried the only persons in this
world who loved me,—I may say who knew me; and I watched over them,
and lay for two nights upon their graves! and the first night, Rolfe,
was just such a night as this. It was cold, and raw, and drizzling,
and the wind moaned as it passed over me. I thought it sighed to meet
with a child so wretched and lonely. From that moment, Rolfe, I vowed
vengeance, and I have often fed it with the red man's blood, but it
hungers for more. Innocent or guilty, I know not the difference,—every
red skin is guilty in my eyes. I owe them a debt yet, and if this
Prophet shall stir up a fight, believe me, Rolfe, I will try and
settle that account;—it will be, perhaps, the last chance I shall
have. But, come, let us drop this subject, for talking of it almost
runs me crazy.”
Earthquake was much excited by the incidents he had been narrating,
and Rolfe wishing him to become composed, said nothing, and each
remained for a time silent.
It was now near ten o'clock at night. A drizzling rain still pattered
against the windows, and the winds whistled as they hurried along,
when a sudden rapping at the door started Rolfe and Earth from their
reverie. The rap was loud and bold, not that of a dependant, but of
one who had a right to enter.
“Who's there?” cried Rolfe.—No answer was returned. “Who's there?” he
repeated.—Still no answer.
Earth, being nearest the door, arose, saying, “I will see who it is,”
then approached, and opened it. A figure wrapped in a blanket, stood
on the topmost step, and as the door was thrown open, entered without
the least ceremony. The face and shoulders were muffled up, the legs
perfectly naked, the feet clad in much worn moccasins, and from the
whole figure the rain was running off in streams. Without making a
remark, and waiting only a few seconds, it approached the fire.
“A red skin,” cried Earth, and he sprang to a corner to seize a gun.
Rolfe involuntarily caught a stick; the blanket fell from the
shoulders of the stranger, who stood forth an Indian warrior, and
gazing at Earthquake, cried out in good English when he saw him
presenting the gun, “Hold! hunter:—art thou afraid of Oloompa?” Rolfe
and Earthquake paused, for they did not at first remember the name,
but in an instant it flashed upon Rolfe, and he said, “the wounded
boy!”
“The same,” was the brief reply, and Oloompa's visage grew darker as
he added, “Oloompa is a man in conflict.”
Rolfe seized his hand and pressed it with joy—Earth carelessly
replaced the gun, and advanced, but Oloompa was cold and indifferent
to each, for he had not met with the reception which his arduous
services entitled him to, and drawing a chair he seated himself by the
fire.
“What tidings, Oloompa?” cried Rolfe, with breathless anxiety.
“The maiden lives,” was the answer. “Oloompa has sought her,—he has
journeyed far. The hunters receive him with guns and sticks—”
“Is she the same I seek;—oh! Oloompa, tell me.”
Oloompa spoke not, nor even looked at Rolfe, but withdrawing from his
belt the letter which he bore, delivered it;—then, after a moment he
added, “Oloompa has served the white man, and he is now his enemy.”
Earthquake eyed him from head to foot, then said to Rolfe in an
under-tone, “What does he mean by saying he is our enemy?—Rolfe, I
have a great mind to use him up.”
“Hush, Earth,” said Rolfe, “regard nothing that he says, he is vexed
now, but it will wear off,” and tearing open the note, he read the
lines which Gay had written.
“Yes, yes, she is the same,” cried he; and for a moment he was
overpowered by contending emotions. He knew not at first, whether to
be sorry or glad. He regretted her misfortunes and the sufferings she
must have experienced, and his brow was touched with sadness. Then
again, she was alive and well, and he was to rescue her and restore
her to her friends, and thinking of this, he became almost frantic
with joy; and passing the note which he had received to Earth, he
approached Oloompa, begged his pardon for the reception they had given
him; gave him a thousand thanks for the trouble he had taken, and used
all his exertions to make him comfortable and happy.
But Oloompa manifested the utmost indifference to all his attentions,
and repulsed every effort at hospitality. He seemed to regard them as
disagreeable, and partook of only such refreshments as nature
required. Rolfe regretted exceedingly, the reception he had met with,
and by his gentleness of manner, and continued efforts to win him from
his reserve, succeeded in obtaining from him a history of his journey,
together with details of the appearance and occupation of Gay, and a
thousand other incidents which were full of interest to him alone.
The more Rolfe thought on the subject, the more happy he became. Every
other feeling now gave place to joy. He was now to be happy, and saw
before him the accomplishment of all his wishes. He judged from Gay's
letter that she still loved him, and his desire was to set off at once
to seek her. In making her his, he saw no obstacle, he anticipated no
difficulty. He was aware of the excitement which prevailed among the
Indians, and also of the general belief that hostilities would be
commenced. But Gay was now with friends who loved her, and who would
protect her if necessary; and furthermore, he had been assured of her
safety by Oloompa, whom he could not doubt, since he had already taken
so much trouble to serve him. His object, therefore, was now to make
Oloompa happy, and also to make preparations for his intended journey.
In accomplishing the former, however, he still found much difficulty,
for his civilities were received with indifference, and Oloompa's
wants were few; and even when he conversed, it was as if he considered
it a matter of duty, and seemed not to spring from any disposition to
talk. Every thing he did was repulsive in its nature, and served to
prove that he was disagreeably situated. He would receive nothing as
compensation for his labour, save only a small present which he
designed for his mother, and told Rolfe that he would lead him to the
maiden, and expressed a wish to set off as soon as he should be ready
to accompany him. Rolfe felt how much he owed him, he saw that
something was heavy at his heart, and he renewed his exertions to
entertain him, but in vain; and having exhausted his efforts, he had
only to admire the individual whose good will there seemed no hope of
purchasing, and who had already done so much to serve one, whom he
seemed to consider as his enemy. The cause of this Rolfe could not
divine, and it was upon the second evening of Oloompa's arrival, that
the two being alone, Rolfe ventured to inquire.
“Will you tell me, Oloompa,” said he, “why it is you have done so much
to serve me, placed me under a thousand obligations, and then will not
even permit me to be kind to you.”
“The white man was good to my mother,” answered Oloompa;—“he asked me
to serve him. I promised.—I have done so. My path was long. Oloompa's
moccasins know the travel of two moons. He journeyed far. It was to
serve the white man, who hates him. He is ready to lead him to the
maiden.”
“Oloompa, you are mistaken,” said Rolfe; “I have no ill feeling toward
thee. Thou hast acted nobly; thou hast served me, and I love thee for
it. Now only name what I shall do for thee.”
“Go with me at once to the maiden, that Oloompa may be free.”
“And wilt thou accept nothing?” said Rolfe. “I owe thee much; I am thy
friend; suffer me to be kind to thee for thy mother's sake, if not thy
own. Should Oloompa go thus, Pukkwana will say the white man was
ungrateful.”
“Oloompa has spoken,” was the reply. “He wants nothing; let the
morrow's sun find him on his journey. He is a caged bird. His spirit
longs to be free.”
“Then I can do no more,” said Rolfe, “but will prepare for our
journey. You said you desired this, that you might be free. You will
conduct me to the maiden, and then leave me. Does danger await me?”
Oloompa smiled, as if in scorn, and said, “the white man knows not
Oloompa:—Oloompa is not a snake, to bite without warning. His words
are straight. What he says, he does. The white man wrongs him when he
suspects. Oloompa has said he will show him the maiden. He still says
so, and if her path is watched, he will return with her to the
settlements. She shall be safe. Then, Oloompa is free, and his hatred
of the white men is a fire which will never burn out.”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I know not what to think. I grieve to hear you
speak as you do. Forget those thoughts which prey upon your mind, and
be my friend. Return with me after having shown me the maiden, and you
shall have a house and lands for yourself and mother, and your days
shall pass in peace and quiet. Do this, and you will make me happy. If
not, say why, what preys upon your mind?”
Oloompa's feelings were touched, by the manner of Rolfe, and he
replied, “Oloompa is not ungrateful;—he loves not the white man, yet
he thanks him for his kindness. Oloompa's cradle was the tree top. His
spirit is as free as the wind that blows. The wild woods must be his
home. The hunter asks why it is that Oloompa's mind is troubled? Would
he know? Listen:—the Great Spirit made this great island for his red
children. The white people came across the wide water, and have taken
it from them. Here, where Oloompa stands, his father hunted the deer
and buffalo. The whites wanted his hunting grounds. He would not give
them up. His blood was spilled upon the ground, and the wigwam of the
white man now rises over it! Dost thou know why the red man's heart is
sorry?”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I know thy feelings, and can make many
allowances for them. I never think of the fate of the Indians with a
light heart.”
“The white man is not yet satisfied,” continued Oloompa; “he wants
more hunting grounds, and again he is kindling the red torch.”
“No,” said Rolfe; “the red man is kindling the torch, and the whites
are assembling, to defend themselves. I myself had friends who fell
victims to Indian barbarity. Not only that, but our frontiers have
been desolated, and women and children inhumanly butchered, to gratify
their vengeance. Oloompa, can we suffer that?”
“The white man,” continued Oloompa, “says to-day, ‘here is my
boundary’; to-morrow, he moves over it. If the Indians go farther, he
follows on; he will not let them live in peace.”
“They are both to blame,” said Rolfe, “and the state of feeling which
exists among them is much to be lamented.”
“Indian barbarity!” repeated Oloompa, who seemed not to have regarded
Rolfe's last remark:—“The white man taught the red man cruelty.—The
white man came to us a stranger and asked for bread:—our fathers gave
it. They clothed him,—they nursed him,—they made him grow strong. He
turned upon his benefactors, and asked them for their hunting grounds.
They refused to give them. What did the white man do, hunter? He
kindled the torch;—and the red flames of war devoured, not only our
warriors who fought for their wigwams, and their wild lands, but our
women and children, who knew no harm. Yes, hunter, they butchered
them, not because they had wronged them,—an Indian could have forgiven
that,—but for the sake of gain,—for silver. Hunter, art thou proud of
being a white man? Tell me.” Then pausing an instant, he continued,
“Oloompa loves the red men. They are gone; their spirits would not
stay when their hunting grounds were taken from them. They have gone
to the Great Spirit, to tell him of the treatment of the white men.”
Rolfe was silent, for he knew not what reply to make, and he was also
unwilling to excite Oloompa more.
Oloompa continued, “Hunter, before the white man came, the Indians
were happy. They knew no crime. The Great Spirit supplied all their
wants, and they believed that all he gave belonged to his red children
in common. They protected the weak,—they fed the hungry,—they clothed
the naked,—they gave shelter to the stranger. If their hearts were
troubled, they would leave their wigwams, and retreating alone to some
sacred tree or fountain, in the wilds of the forest, there pour out
their most secret thoughts to him whom they knew only as the Great
Spirit; there offer up their thanks for the game he had given
them,—the care he had bestowed on their squaws and their little
ones;—there implore him to take care of a father or a mother who had
gone before them;—there entreat him to give them fine fields to hunt
in, filled with deer and buffalo; or they would tell the wrongs they
suffered from some other tribe to him whom they looked upon as a
common father, and ask for vengeance. Hunter, was it wrong? Is the
white man's heart glad when he knows what the Indians once were, and
sees what the Indians now are?—The white man came:—he gave strong
water to the Indians, and made them weak. He made one tribe war with
another. He made brothers meet brothers, and fathers, sons, in bloody
fray. When weak and divided, the white man himself took up the
hatchet, and marched to battle. Our streams ran red with the blood of
our children, and our plains were whitened with the bones of the
slain. Our warriors were all laid low! Hunter, canst thou now tell,
why the red man's heart is sorry? But Oloompa will away. He longs to
be free. He will rove the few hunting grounds which are yet left him.
Will the white man go to-morrow?”
“Oloompa, while you are excited as I see you,” said Rolfe, “will it be
safe for me to venture so far into your country with only a small
guard? Tell me, before I name the time for setting out.”
“Oloompa hates the white man,” was the reply, “and the white man knows
it. Oloompa has promised to serve him,—he will do it. His path is
clear, and the maiden shall return safe. Oloompa came alone,—the white
man must go alone. He is safe. What Oloompa has done proves that he
will not speak false.”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “I never can doubt thee. You tell me I shall be
safe;—I believe it;—yet still I would like that some few friends
should accompany me.”
“They will make our path longer,” said Oloompa. “Oloompa wants to go
quick. He wishes to be free. The white man, perhaps, is afraid,—he may
take one friend. Oloompa again tells him his path is clear.”
Rolfe saw that a farther discussion would most probably only tend to
provoke him, and he observed, “I am satisfied, and will obey;—the
hunter whom you saw here shall accompany us.”
CHAPTER XIX.
“Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to stranger's eye,
The graves of those that cannot die.”
BYRON.
Great excitement prevailed in consequence of the tidings brought by
Oloompa. The news quickly spread throughout the village, that Rolfe
was about to go in quest of a maiden who had been captured some time
before by the Indians; and no sooner was it known, than many of his
friends volunteered their services, and offered to accompany him. He
thanked them for their kindness, but declined, saying that his friend
Earthquake had promised to go, and as they all knew that, in any
Indian adventure, Earth was a host within himself, they were
satisfied. Speculations as to the person they were going in search of,
were made by many ladies of the village, and some even ventured to
assert that it was an affair of the heart; but this impression finally
gave way to one with which they were more pleased, namely, that the
captive lady was a distant relation.
Oloompa, as before stated, met with every attention which kindness
could bestow, and every effort was used to make him happy; but there
was sadness and gloom upon his brow, and heaviness at his heart. He
saw himself surrounded by the enemies of his race, their wigwams
rising up, and their fields spread out, where formerly the red man
roved sole lord of the forest. He beheld their inquiring and insulting
gaze when he ventured out; he thought of the encroachments and
aggressions which had ever marked their history, and he saw in the
future, the coming struggle, which was to decide for all time, the
fate of the red men.
But, sad as were these musings, he felt the consciousness of having
done an act which ennobled him in sacrificing every personal feeling
to serve Rolfe. He experienced the gratification which flows from a
noble deed. He enjoyed that holy and sacred sensation which fills the
heart, when one, careless of the opinion of the world, performs some
act which is prompted by friendship, by benevolence, or by charity.
And yet he was unhappy. Another cause of his unhappiness added to
those we have already stated was his late acquaintance with Miskwa,
the affianced bride of Tecumseh, as he sometimes feared,
notwithstanding her denial to the contrary. And although there were
moments in which he believed this, her figure was often dancing before
him, and in fancy he walked with her, or drew her bow, or listened to
her happy laughing voice; and then came reality, and he longed for the
noise of battle, for desperate conflict, and for mighty struggle, that
he might pour out his vengeance upon the whites, stay their
encroachments, and secure to the red men the quiet possession of their
hunting grounds, or in eternal sleep find rest for all his woes.
It was now the morning that Rolfe had promised to accompany Oloompa,
and the preparations at his house, showed that he would soon be in
readiness to do so. He and Earth were both armed and equipped, pretty
much as they were wont to be when all their time was devoted to
hunting, and in addition to that, each was supplied with a pair of
pistols. Their being armed, was now absolutely necessary, both as a
means of defence in case it should be necessary, and likewise for the
purpose of providing themselves with food in the vast wilderness
through which they were about to travel. At the door were standing
three horses equipped for a journey, and around them a group of
friends had gathered. The preparations now being completed, “Come
Earth,” said Rolfe, “if you are ready, we will set out.”
“Agreed,” said Earth, “for to be armed as I am, makes me think of old
times, and we shall be right apt to have some fun.” Then turning to
the crowd, “Come now boys, try and settle up before I git back, and
tell your neighbours to do the same; don't be backward about your
taxes because I am gone; I shall expect to see the thing straight; now
you all hear me:” then shaking hands familiarly, Rolfe did the same,
and mounting, they, with Oloompa, were off amid the wishes of many
friends for a prosperous and safe journey. The gloom which had shaded
the brow of Oloompa, now passed away, and he was cheerful and happy at
the idea of again entering the woods. Rolfe and Earth were blithe as
boys, and although so long a journey lay before them, they spurred
their horses and put off in a gallop, the woods echoing to many a
hearty laugh as they moved along. Leaving them to pursue their
journey, we must detail other incidents in our story.
The Indian affairs on the northwestern frontier were now every day
assuming a more hostile appearance, alarm and consternation manifested
itself so strongly among the frontier settlers, that Governor Harrison
was ordered to hold himself in readiness to attack or defend as
subsequent events might require.
The Prophet's band had considerably increased, and although nothing
had as yet occurred, which could be regarded as a declaration of
hostilities, yet every thing indicated that to preserve peace under
present circumstances would be impossible. Mysterious meetings were
continually held among the Indians, and orators were never wanting, to
paint to them in high wrought colours, the wrongs and grievances under
which they suffered. English agents, agents from the most enlightened
and civilized country on the globe, were found in attendance at all
their meetings, inflaming their prejudices, exciting their passions,
and urging them on to a cruel and relentless war against the
Americans, a people who had won for themselves the applause of the
world, and of whom England, as their mother country, should have been
justly proud. And not only was England, proud England, thus warring
with those united to her by the strongest ties of blood, but she was
urging on to inevitable extermination the innocent and happy
aborigines of our country.—She turned their thoughts from the channels
in which they were accustomed to flow, and made them dream of dominion
and of conquest.—She harked on those, whose passions, when excited,
justly entitled them to the appellation of “blood hounds of war,” and
turned them loose against the helpless mother, and the new-born babe.
She by her influence set fire to our cabins, along the entire
north-western frontier, and by the red glare which lighted up the dark
and surrounding forest, showed the mangled remains of butchered
families. Yes, England, by thy agents thou hast done this and much
more; yet with its recital, there is blended no unkind feeling—for I
still love thee as thou art, “a handful of earth cast upon the wide
waters”—yes, I love thee, and have wandered with pleasure over thy
lands, and gazed with delight on thy cities, thy wealth, thy pomp, and
thy pageantry;—and yet, if when looking abroad, from the top of one of
your green clad hills, upon the wide and extended landscape which lay
before me, I should have been reminded of the beautiful prairies in my
own native land; and while dwelling in fancy for a moment upon them, I
have thought of the desolation which had sometimes marked an Indian
trail, together with some of the stories which were told of British
influence, pardon me, I could not help it. As I said before, I still
love thee; thou art great and powerful; charity, benevolence,
hospitality, unbounded knowledge, together with all that is beautiful
and bright in science, dwells with thee;—the finest specimens of art,
the loveliest landscapes in nature are all thy own;—and thy errors,
for errors thou hast committed, must be regarded only as the
accidental stains which sometimes deface the most beautiful picture.
It is impossible for an American to read a history of the part played
by British agents at the period here alluded to, without feeling
excited, but it has long passed, and with it let pass the feelings
which such a recital is calculated to engender. To Tecumseh and the
Prophet they first made their propositions;—to men suffering under
real or imaginary wrongs, and whose whole souls were bent upon the
accomplishment of a particular purpose. They were found not to be
unwilling listeners.—They were offered arms and ammunition, and
promised assistance, if necessary.—The breach between the brothers and
the United States, had been daily widening, and they now saw that a
struggle was inevitable. The only hope of peace, was in the wished for
restoration of the lands lately purchased, and this the Governor had
informed them was impossible. The offer of arms and ammunition on the
part of the British agents was therefore seasonable, and the brothers
accepted it. Yet they knew that they were not offered through kindness
to the Indians, but through hatred to the Americans. Such was
Tecumseh's perfect understanding of the motive which governed the
agents, as he often stated.
Tecumseh's exertions were now great and unremitting; he visited every
north and western tribe, animated their warriors, strengthened the
confederacy which he had already formed, and prepared them at once for
the coming contest. Never was a monarch's voice more absolute than
his. If he commanded, he was obeyed; if he expressed a wish, it was
executed. And this power, which he looked forward to when unknown, he
had obtained by the energy of his own great spirit,—aided by the deep
sagacity and forethought of his brother. He had mastered thousands of
his fellow men, and bound them to him by the most indissoluble ties,
who were as wild as the beasts they hunted;—who belonged to different
tribes, and who spoke different languages. He had reconciled all the
differences which existed among the various tribes, mastered their
feelings by his warm, gushing eloquence; led them whither he pleased;
had preached to them peace, yet prepared them for war, and they never,
from the beginning, knew what it was he intended. He was bold, ardent,
and indefatigable in his exertions. To-day his voice was heard on the
Wabash, to-morrow, he was declaiming on the shores of the lakes.
Rumours were now daily coming in, of hostile intentions on the part of
the Indians; several murders had been committed by the respective
parties, which served very much to exasperate each, and authentic
information was forwarded to the Governor of the existence of the
confederacy which Tecumseh had formed. Preparations were made on his
part for immediate action, and besides the military already in
service, the militia of the neighbouring states had been ordered to
hold themselves ready to move, whenever required.
At this time Tecumseh returned from a visit to the North-west, and
assured Elkswatawa, that in that quarter all was right, and nothing
waited for but the signal to strike. At the Prophet's camp, and along
the Wabash, the Indians were excited to the highest possible degree,
and the difficulty now with him, was to restrain them. Worked into
fury by the continual practising of his mysterious rites, members of
his band, had, counter to his orders, invaded the settlements and
dipped their hands in the blood of the whites. Having done this, they
were still more excited, and howling like dogs, were anxious to be
unleashed against their prey. New muskets, powder, and balls had
already been obtained from the English, and safely deposited at
Tippecanoe, and the Prophet having made all preparations as far as he
was capable, and also fearing lest the conduct of his followers should
call down the vengeance of the whites, before he had organized any
plan of attack, proposed to Tecumseh that they should designate a time
when the first blow was to be struck. Tecumseh was all anxiety for
battle, but he felt that his schemes were not yet matured. He knew not
what was the disposition of the southern tribes. He had sent
emissaries among the Creeks, Chocktaws, and Cherokees, but had not, as
yet, visited them in person, and he was anxious to do so that he might
obtain their co-operation, and urging them to strike in the south, at
the same time that he did in the north-west, divert the attention of
the whites, kindle the flame of war along the whole frontier, and by
concentrating his forces when least expected, make themselves sure of
victory. Elkswatawa saw the propriety of the measure, but withheld his
consent; Tecumseh, however, assured him that in a few days he would
set out for the south, visit the various tribes in that quarter, bind
them to his confederacy, if threats or persuasion could avail, “and
then,” said he, “the red torch shall blaze, and the war-whoop ring.”
This would have been perfectly agreeable to Elkswatawa, but for the
excited state of his followers; he knew the feelings of the whites
towards him, and he also knew that they were preparing for
hostilities. He feared lest some premature occurrence should take
place before Tecumseh could return, and being anxious that success
should crown the first attack of the Indians, or to use his own
language, “that they should strike a sure and heavy blow,” he urged
immediate action; and suggested that they should, by stratagem,
endeavour to obtain possession of the person of General Harrison, and
at the same time seize upon the town of Vincennes, which he thought
practicable, and which, if accomplished, would ensure the success of
all their schemes. It was while they were debating about this, that an
incident occurred, which settled their deliberations.
General Harrison, who, as before stated, was prepared for action,
actuated by a spirit of humanity; determined to make another effort
for the preservation of peace, and with that view sent an address to
the two brothers, calling them by name and styling them the “chiefs of
the confederation of various tribes residing at Tippecanoe.” The
address commenced by setting forth the various rumours which had
reached him, thereby showing the brothers that their intentions were
known, and endeavouring to dissuade them from hostilities, by showing
the utter impracticability of their purpose. Portions of the document
ran thus, “Brothers, our citizens are alarmed, and my warriors are
preparing themselves; not to strike you, but to defend themselves,
their wives and children. You shall not surprise us as you expect to
do; you are about to undertake a very rash act, I advise you to
consider well of it, it is not yet too late.
“Brothers, what inducement have you to undertake an enterprise where
there is so little probability of success?—do you really think that
the handful of men, which you have about you, are able to contend with
the power of the ‘Seventeen Fires,’ or even that the whole of your
tribes united, could contend with the ‘Kentucky Fire’ alone?
“Brothers, I am myself of the ‘Long Knife Fire;’ as soon as they hear
my voice, you will see them pouring forth their swarms of
hunting-shirt men, as numerous as the mosquitoes on the shores of the
Wabash; brothers, take care of their stings.
“Brothers, I hear that you talk of coming to see me, attended by all
your young men, this, however, must not be so; if your intentions are
good, you have no need to bring but a few of your young men with you.
I must be plain with you, I will not suffer you to come into our
settlements with such a force.”
The reception of this accorded with their designs; it gave them a good
excuse for visiting Vincennes, and upon consultation with each other,
they determined to answer it, and name a day for their visit.
Having resolved to do so, Tecumseh replied in the following words:—
“Brother, I give you a few words until I be with you myself.
“TECUMSEH.”
“Brother at Vincennes, I wish you to listen to me while I send you a
few words, and I hope that they will ease your heart; I know you look
on your young men, and your women, and children with pity, to see them
so much alarmed.
“Brother, I wish you to examine what you have from me, I hope it will
be a satisfaction to you, if your intentions are like mine to wash
away all these bad stories that have been circulated. I will be with
you myself in eighteen days from this day.
“Brother, we cannot say what will become of us, as the Great Spirit
has the management of us at his will. I may be there before the time,
and may not be there until the day. I hope that when we come together
all these bad tales will be settled; by this I hope your young men,
your women and children will be easy. I wish you, brother, to let them
know when I come to Vincennes and see you, that all will be settled in
peace and happiness.
“Brother, these are only a few words to let you know that I will be
with you myself, and when I am with you, I can inform you better.
“Brother, if I find I can be with you in less time than eighteen days,
I will send one of my young men before me, to let you know what time I
will be with you.
“July 4th, 1811.”
Tecumseh's letter having been forwarded to Gen. Harrison, the brothers
again met in conference. It seemed that their wishes had been
anticipated, and they determined to visit Vincennes, and if deemed
practicable after their arrival there, to seize the Governor and
massacre the inhabitants. The journeying there would at least afford
employment for a time for the Prophet's followers, and if nothing
could be effected, Tecumseh resolved to continue on from there to the
south and leave Elkswatawa to return to Tippecanoe. The Governor had
objected to their visiting him with a large retinue, and to obviate
this they agreed to set out with but few followers, and let their
warriors come on and join them at Vincennes in roving parties, they
themselves professing at the time utter ignorance of their coming. The
determination which they had now formed, only served to excite them
still more, and they proceeded at once to prepare for their visit. The
moment had now arrived when they were about to place the success of
those schemes which they had so long been maturing upon a single
chance. Yet with all this they blended prudence, for their designs
were not communicated to their warriors, who armed, were ordered to
move forward and attend a meeting which was to be held at Vincennes,
nor were they to be made acquainted with them unless it was desirable
to do so after their arrival. They well knew that in their present
excited condition, if the object of their visit was known, no power
could restrain them, and that an attempt would be made upon the town,
however impolitic it might be. Between themselves, they agreed that no
attempt was to be made, if they were even suspected: for they believed
that the success of their enterprise depended entirely on their
success at first; and it did to a great extent, for a failure at first
would prove Elkswatawa false as a Prophet, and most probably destroy
all the influence which he now possessed, and which he had laboured so
long to obtain. None of the distant members of the confederacy they
had formed, knew any thing of this scheme.—The warriors who were to
accompany them, resided chiefly on the Wabash, and all that Tecumseh
had visited were sufficiently excited, and now only awaited his
orders. The time appointed for their promised visit had now arrived
and passed, and completing their preparations, the brothers sat out
for Vincennes.
Upon the reception of Tecumseh's letter, General Harrison began to
make preparations for the expected visit, and also to place himself in
a situation to repel successfully any attack that might be made, and,
as a further defence, a messenger was sent forward to meet Tecumseh,
and prevent his coming to the council with an armed force. The
eighteenth day arrived,—Vincennes was filled with soldiery, marching
and countermarching in every direction; all was bustle and
expectation, yet the sun went down, and no tidings were heard of
Tecumseh. Several days also passed, and still he came not. At last,
the messenger returned, saying, that “Tecumseh was on his march, and
with more men than he should have brought to the council;—that when
told of the impropriety of bringing so many, he stated that they came
of their own accord,—that his guard consisted of but twenty-four men,
and that over the remainder he exercised no influence; moreover, that
the Governor need not be alarmed, for he came to settle peaceably all
their differences.”
On Saturday, the 27th, Tecumseh and Elkswatawa made their appearance
at Vincennes, attended by about one hundred warriors. General
Harrison, anxious to bring the conference to a close, proposed that it
should be held early on Monday morning. To this, Tecumseh objected,
and even declined designating a day. The Governor, with a hope of
intimidating the Indians, had called a general parade of the militia
of the county of Knox.—These, all well armed, were in attendance,
amounting in number to about eight hundred. There were also several
companies of regular infantry, and a fine troop of cavalry, seventy
strong. To see them go through their evolutions, the brothers, with
their warriors, were invited. They attended:—they manifested no
surprise,—they showed no fear; yet the exhibition had thwarted their
plans, and showed the madness of their enterprise. When Tecumseh saw
this, he observed, “we will not strike, they are ready.” Elkswatawa
sighed, and the brothers returned to their camp.
Monday came,—the whites assembled at the place prepared for the
council, and yet the Indians came not. Tuesday came, and it was found
that Tecumseh's one hundred men now amounted to three hundred, and
that roving bands filled the neighbouring woods.
The brothers now being satisfied that no hope of success remained, and
seeing that the whites had prepared themselves as if expecting a
surprise, determined to go into council, conciliate the whites if they
could, and leave the town. They saw that their presence with their
followers created a feverish state of excitement, which, as they could
now effect nothing, they were anxious to destroy. In accordance with
this agreement, Tecumseh sent a messenger to General Harrison, saying,
he was “ready for the conference, and wishing to know whether the
Governor would be attended by armed men.” The answer was, that
“Tecumseh had his choice; if his men were armed, those of the Governor
would be so likewise; if not, then none would be armed.” Tecumseh,
however, decided on having a guard, and selected from his warriors two
hundred, well armed with bows, tomahawks, rifles, and war clubs, and
the two brothers marched to the place appointed for the council.
The whites had already assembled, and the bright muskets of the
military glittered in the sun. In advance of the crowd, was stationed
a troop of dragoons, seventy strong, dismounted, and armed with a
sword and two pistols each; before them, and about their centre was
seated General Harrison. Directly opposite this troop, Tecumseh and
Elkswatawa led their warriors, and placing themselves in front of
their band, they occupied a situation corresponding with that of the
Governor. On the one side, was a large and well armed force; on the
other, Tecumseh, with his swarthy band, bold, fearless, and undaunted,
and as seemingly indifferent to the circumstances in which they were
placed as though they had been in their own wigwams.
The conference was opened by a speech from the Governor, in which he
accused the brothers of hostile intentions,—spoke of the alarm
existing on the frontiers,—demanded that the Indians should be given
up who had lately committed murders in Illinois,—adverted to their
coming to a friendly conference with so large a retinue; and while he
expressed his willingness to hear what Tecumseh had to say in
reference to the lands, stated, that he had no power to relinquish
them, and that it must be settled only by the President. His speech
occupied some time, and in reply, Tecumseh rose.—He was calm and
dignified, and as free in debate as though he were addressing a single
individual. He denied that he intended hostilities against the whites,
but admitted that he had formed a confederacy of all the northwestern
tribes; but that it was formed to preserve peace, and to preserve
themselves. “The United States,” he said, “had set the example of
forming a union among all the ‘Fires,’—the Indians did not object to
it, nor did they view it as a hostile act; why, then, should they
object to the Indians forming a union?” He said, “the union he would
form; that his object was peace; and now having bound together the
northwestern Indians, he would, as soon as the council broke, go to
the south, for the purpose of visiting the Chickasaws, Choctaws, and
Creeks.” In regard to the murders which had been committed, he stated,
that “he had set the example of forgiveness, by pardoning persons who
had killed his men,—that he had even surrendered his men to punishment
when they had committed murders on the whites, as was stipulated for
in the treaty of Greenville; but that many Indians had been
murdered,—the murderers had been demanded, and as yet not a single
white man had ever been given up; and therefore, he must ask the
Governor to pardon those who had lately offended.” Fatigued from the
exertion he had made, which was long and vehement, in the discussion
of the subjects above enumerated, the mere heads of which are given,
he asked an adjournment until the next day, which was granted, and he
then delivered to the Governor, as he saw he was dissatisfied, a belt
of wampum, as a satisfaction for the murders which had been committed.
The council then adjourned over to the following day.
Having returned to their camp, the brothers again met in secret
conference, but they were sad and dispirited; preparations had been
made for which they were not prepared; and by which not only were
their plans thwarted, but they feared the effect which such a military
display was calculated to have upon their own followers. To obviate
this, and to explain to them what had, as yet, been done in council, a
general meeting was called. It was now late at night—the moon was
full, and “riding high in Heaven,” the evening was mild, with only air
enough to stir their jet black locks, or whisper in soft low accents
as it passed through the neighbouring trees, when Elkswatawa rose, and
began to sing an evening hymn; soon the crowd joined with him, and as
he led the song, he inwove with it a narration of their sufferings,
and blended with it the glorious promises of the Great Spirit. His
followers were now excited to the highest degree, and ready for any
enterprise however hazardous. He then called for silence and detailed
the views of the Governor which had been given in council,—ridiculed
them, and laughed at his calling out all his men, for the purpose of
frightening them into a compliance with his wishes.
Having exhausted himself, he was seated, and Tecumseh rose, he began
by attempting to destroy any impression which might have been made by
the military display at Vincennes; he roused their pride, he inflamed
their passions, he complimented them on their bravery and noble
bearing, and looked to the future for a realization of all their
hopes;—he exhorted them to peace, and sobriety, and orderly conduct,
and told them that the time had not yet come.
The Indians had been led to believe by the Prophet, that their lands
were to be restored to them, and their condition in other respects
essentially benefitted, but how it was to be effected many did not
know; some had vague and uncertain ideas of the manner, and it was as
yet only the warm partizans of the brothers among the various tribes
to whom their plans had been fully developed. Tecumseh's remark
therefore, “that the time had not yet come,” was understood by but few
of the mass of his hearers,—yet he went on to develope his plans more
and more to his followers;—dwelling upon the perfidy of the
whites—suggesting the probability of an attack from them, and urging
the necessity of their being always prepared. He told them that the
council would break up on the morrow, and that he would set out
immediately on a visit to the southern Indians, to get them to join
their confederacy and to tell them of the conduct of the whites. He
then advised them to return to their homes, and commit no aggressions;
that the whites would only make it an excuse to seize their lands and
treat them amiss while he was absent; that, having returned from the
south, he would visit the President, and their claims should then be
attended to. The meeting was then adjourned, sentinels placed to
prevent a surprise, and all was quiet in the camp.
The following day the whites again assembled in council, yet the day
was far spent when the brothers, with their warriors, made their
appearance. The same disposition of themselves and forces was made
that had been adopted the day before, and the council was again
opened. Tecumseh continued his speech;—narrated the wrongs of the
Indians, and demanded retro-cession of the lands lately purchased. At
its close, much fatigued, he turned to look for a chair; no seat had
been provided for him, and feeling slighted, he turned with an
indignant air towards the Governor, who, observing it, ordered one to
be handed. It was done; with the remark, “your Father requests you to
take a chair.” “My Father!” said Tecumseh, casting it proudly from
him, “the sun is my father, the earth my mother; upon her bosom I will
repose;” and he stretched himself upon the ground. The debate was
still warmly continued, several other chiefs of the red men addressed
the assembly, the day closed, and yet nothing had been done. Charges
were made against the whites by the Indians, and charges were made
against the Indians by the whites; each party professed to desire
peace, yet neither would do that which would give satisfaction to the
other.
The moon was now high, and the night wearing away, when the Governor,
anxious to put an end to the conference, told Tecumseh, that he had
stated that his designs were peaceable, and he could now prove it, by
delivering over to punishment the Indians who had lately committed the
murders in Illinois, otherwise his intentions would be viewed as at
war with his declarations. Tecumseh, in answer, stated that he could
not give them up; he had pardoned the whites when they had killed his
men, and he must now require from them the same forgiveness.
The Governor then asked him if he intended to prevent the settlement
of the new purchase. He replied, that he hoped no attempt would be
made to settle it until his return from the south;—that he had formed
a confederacy of all the north-western tribes, and as soon as the
council broke, he should visit the southern tribes for the same
purpose;—that while he was absent, many Indians from the far west
tribes, would settle at his town, and that the lands of the late
purchase they would wish to use as hunting grounds, and that therefore
he would wish no attempt made to survey them until his return, as it
might lead to some difficulty;—and farther, that he wished no revenge
sought for any injury which might be committed during his absence;
that his intentions were peaceable, and upon his return he would
himself visit the President, and settle all their differences;—that in
the mean time, as the affairs of all the north-western Indians were in
his hands, and nothing could be done without him, he would send
messengers to all the tribes to prevent them from doing any mischief.
These remarks called for a reply on the part of the Governor; nothing
was effected—the council adjourned, and the brothers with their
warriors, leaving the town, retired to their camp.
The next morning early, Tecumseh, having exacted a promise from his
brother, that he would make no move until his return, descended the
Wabash with twenty four men, on his way to the south, while
Elkswatawa, with the remainder of the band, returned quietly to
Tippecanoe.
CHAPTER XX.
“There is a trampling in the wood;—
The mat, the cabin's entrance rude,
Shakes;—it was no dream of fear,—
Behold an Indian's face appear,
He stands within the cot.—”
YAMOYDEN.
We must now return to Kenah, the Prophet's messenger. Having left the
wigwam of Netnokwa, dissatisfied with his visit, and vowing vengeance
against its inmates, he continued his wanderings for the purpose of
still farther disseminating his doctrines. Journeying among her own
tribe, every day gave him proofs of the great influence she wielded,
and he saw that it was vain to attempt to effect any thing, while in
her own lodge she permitted the doctrines of the Prophet to be
ridiculed, and his agents to be treated with derision and disrespect.
Satisfied with the correctness of this opinion, and not being able by
his own means to counteract the effect which the sentiments there
uttered were likely to produce, he at once bent his steps towards the
camp of the Prophet, determined to lay the matter before him, and to
ask his interference. In doing this, besides the desire he had widely
to disseminate the doctrines he was preaching, he was angered to find
himself thwarted by one of that hated race, whose destruction he was
plotting; and he resolved within his own mind, that if he could obtain
the Prophet's consent, she should expiate her offence by death.
Having arrived in the country on the Wabash, he lost no time in
searching out the Prophet, whom he found engaged as he had left him,
in exciting and preparing the Indians for the part they were to act.
Seeking an opportunity, he gave a detail of his wanderings, and dwelt
particularly on the reception he had met with at Netnokwa's lodge, and
the opposition he had encountered to the propagation of his doctrines,
in the person of a pale face girl. He urged the necessity there was
for removing her, together with the Indian maiden, who was entirely
under her influence; and likewise, the propriety of adopting some
strong measures relative to Netnokwa. He urged this the more, because
he believed her at most lukewarm in her support of his doctrines, and
feared that from the high place she held in the affections of the
Indians, she might, if permitted to waver in her opinions, destroy at
any moment, the influence which he had already obtained among them. He
was angered, and his thirst for vengeance caused him to urge with
great eagerness, the immediate adoption of some strong plans.
When Kenah first announced his visit to the lodge of Netnokwa, the
countenance of the Prophet was darkened with anger, and he bit his
lips in suppressed rage; yet Kenah finished his story, and still the
Prophet, to his surprise, remained silent. Had the persons whose
deaths he wished, been any other than those they were, no difficulty
would have ensued; they would have been removed without a struggle,
for the Prophet always thirsted for blood;—he was never known to
forgive an enemy, nor ever, under any circumstances, to intercede for
a victim; the narrative of Kenah had embittered his feelings in the
highest degree;—he was mad with rage, and still he refused to answer
Kenah's demand, requiring time to pass upon the matter. Taking this
view of his character, Kenah viewed his conduct as perfectly
incomprehensible. His divine mission had been ridiculed and denied, he
himself decried as an impostor, and that too by a woman, and she of a
hated race, and yet he required time to act.
Kenah felt that a change had come over the Prophet, and leaving him,
he mentioned the circumstances, and they soon became the common talk
of the camp. But while he did this, he little knew the difficulties
which lay in the way of the Prophet. At the first recital of the
events which Kenah had detailed, the Prophet knew that the white
maiden alluded to, could be no other than the same who was captured by
Yanatah, and whom he had given to Netnokwa to take with her home;—and
that the red maiden who was said to be under her influence, and whose
death Kenah also thought desirable, could be no other than she who was
to have been the bride of Tecumseh. When he recollected that this
difficulty had occurred in consequence of his having once, and once
only, permitted a pale face who was in his clutches to escape from
them, he felt a pang, such as is ordinarily felt, when one reverts for
a moment to some deep crime which stains his past life. Under these
circumstances he for some time hesitated what to do. Netnokwa was
powerful, and possessed great influence, which it was necessary either
to obtain or destroy. How to do this, while those who resided with
her, were suffered to ridicule his doctrines, he could not tell. To
accuse her of witchcraft, and order her to the stake, was now
impossible, for he had lately declared, in the words of the Great
Spirit, that all witches were exterminated, and he (the Great Spirit)
appeased.
To connive in any way at the death of her daughter, was equally
impossible, standing as she did toward Tecumseh, somewhat in relation
of an affianced bride; and to order to death the captive maiden, who
was under the same roof, he equally feared would call down his
displeasure; for he knew the opposition he had felt to the summary
method which had been practiced for removing the chiefs who were his
enemies, and also his general repugnance to shedding the blood of
women and children. With these views, and still undecided, he summoned
Kenah, and explained to him the difficulties by which he was
surrounded; and after a discussion of the plan best to be adopted, it
was agreed that Netnokwa, with her daughter and the captive, should be
brought at once to the camp of the Prophet, where they could be at
least prevented from doing any mischief, and where they should remain
until Tecumseh's return from the south, when, in general council, some
disposition should be made of them. This plan appearing feasible, and
having been agreed upon, they began to make preparations for carrying
it into effect. Kenah was cautioned that Netnokwa was to be borne away
without the knowledge of her tribe, and that neither she nor the
maidens who were with her, were to receive the least injury. He deemed
wisely that, once safely in his power, he could turn her influence to
his own account, and at least keep her as a hostage for the good
conduct of her tribe. It was but a short time after this resolve, when
Kenah, having selected some half a dozen of the Prophet's most
confidential followers, left the camp, and set out in the direction of
Netnokwa's lodge.
The Indian affairs were now every day assuming a more warlike
character, and Tecumseh and Elkswatawa, although engaged in different
quarters of the country, were using all their exertions to prepare for
the coming conflict. No open act of hostility had as yet been
committed; but their plans were fast maturing, and Tecumseh had avowed
his purpose to strike a sure and heavy blow as soon as he should
return from the south, where he was now engaged in uniting in one
common bond, the various tribes in that quarter. While such were the
exertions of Tecumseh and Elkswatawa, General Harrison was arduously
engaged in organizing and disciplining the militia under his command,
and preparing for the crisis which he saw fast approaching. Accounts,
containing all the information he could gather, relative to the
proceedings of the Indians were regularly forwarded to the War
Department, and he was in daily expectation of receiving orders
requiring him to disperse the band of the Prophet, which, moving as it
did always, just on the frontiers, served to keep the citizens in a
state of perpetual alarm.
While such was the aspect of the Indian affairs, Rolfe and Earthquake
were journeying on with Oloompa, to the lodge of Netnokwa. As yet they
had been unmolested, but they saw from the excitement which was every
where existing among the Indians, that hostilities were intended, and
they regretted having ventured so far with so small a force. In
Oloompa, however, they had seen no change since, though still
reserved, and not cordial in his manner, he continued to aid them in
supplying all their wants, and assured them of their safety.
The history of Gay Foreman, now presented her in a situation of great
interest; for, while in one direction, Oloompa and Earthquake were
moving on for the purpose of restoring her to her friends in the
settlements; in another, Kenah, with his party, was hurrying on to
seize her and the friends she had formed, and carry them all as
prisoners to the camp of the Prophet.
At the cottage of Netnokwa, all was quiet, and nothing told of the
fate which awaited its inmates. The time for Oloompa's promised return
had arrived, and the maidens were excited with the pleasing
anticipations of soon seeing him, accompanied as Gay fondly believed
he would be, by Rolfe, of whom she had never thought but with
affection.—Time had glided on smoothly since Oloompa's departure. They
had had but few visitors, and were now alone. Netnokwa and the maidens
were pursuing their usual avocations, either embroidering with the
needle, which, with all, was a daily duty, or else making moccasins,
and decorating them with beads. Buffalo skins were also often
prepared, and adorned on the inner surface, with paintings or
hieroglyphical devices, by means of colours obtained from the woods,
which remained fresh and vivid, although exposed to the changes of the
weather. When not engaged in these things, they were nursing their
flowers, or roving through the woods.
So were they situated, and it was evening, when they were alone in
their wigwam, that their ears were assailed with the most terrific
yell. It reverberated through the woods like the ringing of a horn,
and in another moment, Kenah and his party were rushing towards them.
Netnokwa sprung forward and planted herself in the door. Miskwa and
Gay crouched behind her. The Prophet's band, like a swollen torrent,
came sweeping on. “Stop, madmen!” she cried, in a loud piercing voice,
which appalled even the fiercest hearts, and hushed them into silence
deep as that of the grave:—“Dost thou know Netnokwa? Darest thou fell
the old oak of the forest, or handle roughly the loveliest flower of
the prairie? Cowardly wretches! what want you here?” She ceased:—they
were awed into silence, and, like dogs at bay, were kept at a
distance, by Netnokwa's glance. But a moment passed, and Kenah again
rushing forward, the frame of old Netnokwa yielded to his impetuosity,
and entering the cabin, he was followed by his party. At first, were
heard cries and shrieks, and several moments passed of distracting
doubt. Then the voice of old Netnokwa was heard sounding loud above
the storm within, and venting curses and imprecations on Kenah and his
party. “Whence came ye? Who orders? How dare you touch Netnokwa?
Netnokwa is now as withered grass,—her stream of life is almost
dry,—her hair is whiter than the snow.—Who wants her? Say, blood
hounds! why come ye?”
“The Prophet,” cried Kenah.
“May the lightning of the Great Spirit wither his heart. May his
spirit never enter the happy hunting grounds of the red men,” cried
Netnokwa. “He wants the last drop that flows in the veins of the old
woman.”
“No,” said Kenah, “the Prophet wishes to see Netnokwa. He sends for
her to his camp. He will not harm her.”
“Then why did he not send a runner. The message of the Prophet is
heavy; six warriors must bear it. Why come ye all?”
“It is the Prophet's will:”—was the brief reply.
Netnokwa shook her head, for she saw too well, the fate which awaited
her, and calming herself, she turned to Miskwa, who with Gay had
crouched down behind her, each trembling with fear. Holding with her a
hurried dialogue for a few moments, she again turned to Kenah; “What
becomes of Netnokwa's daughter, the loveliest flower of the prairie?”
“The Prophet wishes to see her;” was the answer.
“And the captive maiden;—” she continued.
“Will spread her blanket in the camp of the Prophet?” replied Kenah.
Gay now wept as if her heart would break, for she regarded herself as
the author of the heavy misfortune, which had come so suddenly upon
them; while each moment Netnokwa and Miskwa grew more composed.
“Where is Tecumseh?” inquired Netnokwa.
“Tecumseh has no home,” said Kenah. “He wanders far and wide, and
spreads his blanket when the sun goes down.”
“Netnokwa's daughter will be the bride of Tecumseh; does he know that
the Prophet wants her blood?”
“The Prophet is not now dry;” was the answer. “When he drinks again,
it will be the blood of the whites. Kenah has no time for talk;—when
night comes, Netnokwa and the maidens must set out upon their journey.
Let them prepare.”
Miskwa had now recovered her firmness of character. It was not the
fear of death, which had caused her to tremble in the first instance,
for there were many ways in which she would have met it, and died
worthy of the race from which she sprung; but it was the indescribable
dread produced by the name of the Prophet, with the knowledge that she
had incurred his displeasure, and was to be ushered at once into his
presence. Gay still wept, and rising, threw herself on the bosom of
Miskwa, and begged her to forgive her for the calamity which she had
brought upon them. She lamented not her own fate, but seemed only to
deplore that of her friends. Miskwa tried to soothe and console her,
and repeated to her that Kenah had said the Prophet only wished to see
them at his camp. Yet, even while she said so, she felt that he would
never have ordered them from so far a distance into his presence, but
from some sinister motive; and she then recollected Tecumseh, and hope
beamed forth, when she thought of the relation in which she stood
towards him.
Netnokwa now, leaving her lodge, came out in the open air; Kenah, and
his party followed, for their object was to take them off as soon as
the night set in, and removing them silently, leave no trace of their
departure. Should it be known that Netnokwa was threatened with
danger, and was to be dragged away into the presence of the Prophet,
Kenah knew that her friends would be instantly in arms, and he with
his party, be made to suffer death for the steps they had already
taken. This, then, was to be prevented, and stationing themselves on
the outside of her cabin, they kept watch, that none of its inmates
might escape, and no one approach without their knowledge. While they
did this, Netnokwa, now as calm as if no danger awaited her, in deep
meditation was silently walking to and fro in front of her door.
Though worn with years, there was something so majestic and commanding
in her manner, that not a member of Kenah's party but felt its
influence. Her figure, tall and thin, was bent by age, and her hair,
once of the glossiest black, was now white as the fresh fallen snow,
and dishevelled, fell loosely over her shoulders. The sun was fast
declining, and Kenah seeing that Netnokwa was making no preparations
to commence her journey, said aloud, “When night comes, Netnokwa will
set out to see the Prophet. The wise man always prepares for his
journey.” Netnokwa was silent; she saw that it was worse than vain,
situated as she then was, to oppose their determination, and she
entered her wigwam. “Come, my children,” said she, “a few hours more,
and they say we must leave. It is for the banks of the Wabash. We go
to see the Prophet. Let us get ready our richest clothes. We may go
over the border, and Netnokwa wishes to be fine when she meets her
warriors who have gone before her, to the happy hunting grounds of the
Great Spirit.”
“Oh! mother,” cried Gay, rushing into the arms of Netnokwa, “it is I
who have done this. You loved me, and preserved me, and I have called
down the vengeance of the Prophet upon you.—Oh! that I were dead.—Wilt
thou pardon me?—I did not intend it.”
“Rise, daughter,” said Netnokwa, gently unclasping Gay's hands, “Why
weeps ‘Sweet Flower?’ Is it that Netnokwa is going to her long home?
Like the old oak, she has spread out her arms to shelter her tribe;
but her branches are now withered. She is no longer the green
bough:—why should she remain? The blasted tree only tells of the
storms which have passed. Netnokwa is tired of journeying. The end of
her path will make her glad.”
“But, oh! mother,” cried Gay, “I have brought ruin upon you; and what
will become of Miskwa?”
“She will follow her mother, if she is a trueborn maiden,” said
Netnokwa. “Why weep that the fountain bursting forth, soon finds its
way to the big lake? Why lament that the flower clothed in beauty, is
cut down in summer? Why grieve that her path is short, and her journey
soon ended? Netnokwa has been travelling long to her happy hunting
grounds. The way is bad.—Her feet are bruised and sore with travel,
and her arms wear the marks of thorns and briars. The face of ‘Sweet
Flower’ is like the snow, but her heart is that of a red maiden,—she
shall go with us; Netnokwa will tell the Great Spirit that her heart
is good, and ask him to let her stay with his red children.” Gay could
make no reply, her feelings were too strong for utterance, and she
continued weeping.
Fancy never sketched a lovelier being, than was Miskwa at this moment;
having composed herself, she stood drawn up to her full height,
apparently firm, and manifested the hitherto undeveloped energies of
her character. All fear was banished, and she stood calmly listening
to the words of her mother, and struggling to keep down her sympathy
for her friend. When Netnokwa finished speaking, Gay turned from her,
and weeping, her eyes met Miskwa's; there was an eloquent interchange
of thought, and starting forward, she again threw herself on her
bosom. Miskwa spoke not; but her feelings were awakened by the
sufferings of her friend, and though silent, she proved how deeply she
felt; for two streams, which had their source in as pure an affection
as ever kindled a human bosom, flowed fast and free.
Netnokwa now reminded them of the hour which Kenah had mentioned, as
the time when they must set out upon their journey. It was sooner than
the maidens expected, and Gay now mentioned what before she had only
thought. “Oh! Miskwa, what will become of Rolfe and Oloompa, and how
sadly will they be disappointed. Oh! that they had come before this.”
“They will follow us,” said Miskwa. “Oloompa will see what has
happened. He can trace our steps. He may yet save us from the
Prophet.”
“Heaven grant that he may,” said Gay, and again she began to weep,—and
added, “oh! Miskwa, to be taken away at the very moment I believed I
was to be made happy, and to leave him when he has been so long
seeking me,—oh! it is hard, hard.”
Miskwa asked her to get together such articles as they would need, and
to aid her mother, in making preparations for their journey, while she
would attend to another duty. Gay left her, to comply with her
request, and while she did this, Miskwa taking up some clay from the
floor, moistened it, and kneading it into a pliant substance, seemed
suddenly to forget her situation with the feelings which had agitated
her, and was engaged, heart and soul, in fashioning into small images
the clay she held in her hands. A few moments passed, and six little
men, or figures which she regarded as such, were made, and placed upon
a shelf behind her, with their faces fronting the direction in which
she thought Kenah and his party would travel. Having examined them for
a while, turned them around several times, and satisfied herself that
they were properly arranged, she again resumed her task. Next came
from her fingers an old woman, her figure bore the marks of great age,
and rude as were her features, there were evidently marks of great
wretchedness in her countenance. She was placed just in front of the
six men, and it was evident that they were driving her along. Soon two
little girls were placed by the side of the old woman, and having
satisfied herself that they all occupied their exact positions, she
was again at work. The next figure she made, was a man several times
as large as any she had yet formed; he was made to stand on the
farther edge of the shelf, and to him, the party seemed endeavoring to
make their way. A number of little cabins were then made, and placed
near him, and stretching out a small piece of clay, and curving it so
as to represent the meanderings of a river, this was placed near the
houses, and her task was completed. The whole had been the labour of a
few minutes, and no one had observed her occupation. She then, with a
lighter heart than she before possessed, joined her mother, and began
to assist her and Gay in making their preparations to set out. None
seemed disposed to converse, and in silence they continued their duty,
at the same time bidding farewell to every little nook or corner, and
imagining to themselves the reception and the fate, which awaited them
at the Prophet's camp. With Gay, there were other thoughts which added
to her unhappiness; it was the sad issue which was to attend Rolfe's
exertions in her behalf.
Darkness was now settling over the land, when Kenah entered the lodge,
and told Netnokwa that he was ready to set out. He again assured her
of her safety, as well as that of her daughter and the captive,
provided they obeyed his orders. He required that in setting out upon
their journey, they should make no noise, nor attempt to escape, at
the peril of their lives; but to proceed in such a manner as to create
no surprise, even should they be seen. And that this she must do,
until the whole party had passed beyond the reach of her tribe. In
case he was discovered, he said he was ordered by the Prophet, first
to kill her daughter, and then the captive and herself. These were
hard requisitions. Netnokwa made no reply, but in obedience to Kenah,
they all took up their bundles, and came out of the lodge. He then
closed the door, giving to the cabin an appearance that its inmates
had merely left it for a time, and soon after, the captives were
surrounded, and ordered to move forward. Netnokwa and Miskwa obeyed in
silence, but Gay, thinking that there it was she had expected to meet
Rolfe, turned round, and gazing at the cabin, burst into a flood of
tears, for with that look, she gave up all hope of ever seeing him
again. As she did this, Kenah rudely caught her arm, and jerking her
around, held his tomahawk in her face, then whispering in her ear,
said, “Kenah's tomahawk loves the pale face's blood; it is now
thirsty,—when the maiden makes a noise, it shall drink.” His words
caused her to shudder, as though a serpent was creeping over her, and
her cries were hushed. This movement was not seen by Miskwa or
Netnokwa, and Gay, as soon as she recovered a little from the shock
which Kenah's words had given her, bent her steps towards them, and
they all moved forward in the deepest silence.
CHAPTER XXI.
“Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling
O'er the sweetness of the voice within;
Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling,
Urge the hunters still to chase, to win!”
MRS. HEMANS.
Kenah, with his captives, departed from the lodge of Netnokwa at
night. Oloompa, with Rolfe and Earth, reached there late on the
following day. Upon nearing the lodge, they were happy, and all
spurred their horses, and moved gallantly forward. Oh! the wild
delight that sparkled in the face of Rolfe! a moment more, and he
would clasp to his bosom the idol of his heart! and Oloompa's heart
fluttered, and joy beamed from his countenance; for as deep passions
often burn within those whose complexions are the “shadowed livery of
the burnished sun,” as to another class to whom nature has given clear
skins, and brighter hues; and he thought of Miskwa bounding wild and
free as the doe she hunted, and he heard her happy laugh, and the
silvery tones of her voice fell rich on his ears. As for our old
friend Earth, he never could do things as others did them; his heart
had never been taught to love, yet though a stranger to the emotions
which agitated the breasts of his companions, he was still happy; he
was joyous, in anticipating the pleasure which awaited his friend,
and, moreover, he was anxious to see her after whom he had been so
long “trapesing,” as he termed it, and but a short time before he
observed, “Rolfe, I feel a sort of a quirk to see your gal;”—so that,
when Rolfe and Oloompa put their horses in a gallop, to reach
Netnokwa's lodge, he followed on in a long trot, and while they
thought of those they loved, he hummed an old song, beginning,
“'Way down in old Virginny,
Long time ago:”——
but the trotting of his horse, chopped it up into monosyllables, or I
would say shorter pieces, if I knew how to characterize them, and not
being much pleased with his own performance, he ceased singing, and
jerking “Juno,” for so he called his horse, into a canter, he rode up
by the side of Rolfe. Another moment, and they had halted in front of
the cabin. Then, dismounting,—“how is this?” said Earth;—“the door
closed, and nobody at home!”
Rolfe and Oloompa were both disappointed; yet the latter, after a
moment, answered:—“They make a short path,—they have gone to bring a
deer from the woods,—they will soon be back.”
This seemed probable enough, and they proceeded to hobble their
horses, and then turned them out to graze. Having done that, they
began to reconnoitre the cabin.
“How high is the sun, Earth?” inquired Rolfe.
“Something like three hours,” replied Earth, who at the moment when
spoken to, was examining how the door was fastened. “Rolfe,” continued
he, “this place aint locked,—it is only fastened by a wicket; suppose
we go in, and see if we can't git a bite of something, for I feel
rather pickish. I am sure, neither the old woman nor the gal will
care, since we are just off a journey. What say you, Oloompa?”
“It is right,” he replied; “an Indian's wigwam is the stranger's home.
An Indian always gives what he has.”
Earth, hearing this, pushed open the door, and entered. Rolfe and
Oloompa followed. They were silent a moment, and fear and anxiety
settled over their countenances. They looked at each other,—and then
Earth and Rolfe gazed fixedly in the face of Oloompa. Oloompa stood
firm,—he quailed not beneath their glance; but observed, “the white
man doubts Oloompa;—Oloompa never speaks false. The pale face maiden
rested here,—so did Netnokwa and her daughter. They are gone,—Oloompa
is in the dark, and his heart is sorry:—he grieves at what he sees.”
“Oh, God!” exclaimed Rolfe, “am I again disappointed!”
“See,” said Earth, “how these things are scattered about;—they left
here in a great hurry, and without any idea of returning.”
“Where have they gone?” exclaimed Rolfe.
There was no reply, for none could tell; and Rolfe turned upon
Oloompa;—“Tell me where she is, villain! you have deceived,—tell me or
you shall die!” He was wild with rage, and his eyes gleamed as do
those of a maniac. Yet Oloompa was calm,—no piece of statuary was ever
more unmoved,—and he would not deign to reply when threatened. Rolfe,
exasperated, raised his arm as if to strike. The lightning's flash is
not more bright nor quick, than was the change which came over
Oloompa's face. There was light,—it was the gleaming of a tomahawk as
it shone on high:—his left foot was advanced,—his body thrown back,
rested on his right, and he stood in the act to strike. At the same
time, there was heard the springing of a trigger, and Earth's rifle
was brought to his face.—None spoke, and thus for a time they stood.
Returning consciousness came to the mind of Rolfe,—his arm fell by his
side,—Oloompa returned his tomahawk to his belt, and Earth, uncocking
his rifle, rested it on the floor. “Oloompa has journeyed two moons,
to serve the white man, and he seeks to kill him;—he is thirsty, and
wants blood:—let him take it,—Oloompa will go to the long home of the
red men,—he is weary of his path. Can the white man make rivers flow
or mountains rise in the prairie? No. How can Oloompa make women be
present, when they have gone away?—Oloompa tells what he knows. He
left them here. He expected to find them here.”
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “you are wrong about that,—you can see, from
these signs, that they have been here, and that they went away at a
mighty short notice.”
“Oh! Earth,” answered Rolfe, “I am perfectly crazy,—I don't know what
I say or do.” Then, turning to Oloompa, he said:—“Oloompa, I ask your
pardon,—I know not what I am doing.”
“Oloompa wants no pardons,” was the reply.—“The white man has stuck in
another thorn,—let it stay there. Why should Oloompa wear out his
moccasins in bringing the white man to Netnokwa's lodge? Was it to
harm him? Who is here to do it? The white man's heart is sorry for the
pale maiden. Does not Oloompa's bleed for the red? She is gone! She
steps like the fawn,—her feet leave no print upon the grass.” And
leaving the wigwam, he began to examine the earth near and around the
cabin, to see if any signs would tell him whither the inmates had
gone, or why they had left so precipitately. Rolfe and Earth soon came
out, and were engaged in the same duty.
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “this business of yours is a curious sort of
thing, and there seems to be no eend to it at all. Now, it aint no use
to tell me not to swear, for if I can find out who is at the bottom of
this, man or woman, I don't care;—if I don't chaw 'em up, I wish I may
be damned.”
“Yes, you may eat them all, Earth, for what I care,” replied Rolfe,
for he was still angered, and proceeded on towards Oloompa.
“The white man thinks Oloompa speaks false; see!” said he,—a smile
playing over his countenance, as he made the remark.
“See what?” said Rolfe.
“Many people have been here,” answered Oloompa, pointing to several
different places upon the earth.
Rolfe looked, and looked again, but he could see nothing. “Come here,
Earth, and tell me if you can see what Oloompa does.”
“What is it?” inquired Earth.
“He says,” answered Rolfe, “that many people have been here.”
“So much the worse,” said Earth, as approaching he bent down, and
began to examine several slight indentations, at which Oloompa was
intently gazing. Having scrutinized for a time, he observed, “Rolfe, I
can't make out any thing; I see several marks, but I should jest as
soon think that a 'coon had made 'em with his toe nails when he was
walking it off, as any other way.”
But Oloompa regarded not their dialogue; every moment his face became
brighter; and, jumping up, he began to examine other spots.—Then, for
a moment walking slowly, and circling round, like a hound which has
lost the track, he crossed the prints several times, satisfied himself
of the direction they had taken, then following a short distance, only
that no doubt might remain, he gave a whoop of joy, and ran back
towards the hunters. Earth was still suspicious, and raised his rifle.
“Down with your gun, hunter;—Oloompa's heart is glad. He sees their
path,—he can follow them,—he will show the white man the pale maiden,
and he will see the fawn of the forest.—The white man shall say
Oloompa is true to his word.”
There was an expression so joyous in his countenance, and his manner
was so earnest, that hope came to the hearts of the hunters. Oloompa
continuing to search, entered the wigwam, and Rolfe said, “Earth, may
he not be deceiving us?”
“No, Rolfe, there is no lie in a face, when the soul beams out as it
now does in his. I would trust it, if 'twas green or grizzle, much
less red.”
“But then, Earth, where have they gone, and when did they leave, and
who carried them away?”
“Ah, that I can't tell; let Oloompa alone,—he'll worm it out. These
red skins are mighty keen upon tracks. Now you may believe me or not,
but I had rather have that fellow's eyes upon a warm trail, than old
Jupe's nose;—she was mighty good. Poor thing! she's gone now.”
“But then, Earth, he will have to examine so closely as he goes along,
that we shall not be able to go as far in a month, as those who have
taken her away, will in a day.”
“Ah! there you are out agin, Rolfe. When Oloompa satisfies himself
that he is right, he will follow their tracks through the woods in a
hand gallop. It is true he will have to stop sometimes, to see if they
have turned off,—but that won't take him long. You see the Ingens
havn't roads as we have, and are therefore compelled to travel by
courses.—If he can find out where they are going, he has got 'em slick
enough.”
As Earth finished the remark, Oloompa made his appearance at the door,
and said with a bright face, “Come! come quick!—you shall see.”
Rolfe and Earth both ran forward, that they might behold it, whatever
it were, and found Oloompa wild with pleasure, and gazing on the
little images made by Miskwa, and which still occupied the positions
in which she had left them.
“Oh! Earth,” said Rolfe, wringing his hands in disappointment, “this
is too bad, I thought it was something.”
“Yes,” said Earth, “the fellow is a fool;” then gazing at them more
closely, “but Rolfe, it was a right slick dirt-dauber that made 'em.”
“Can the white man see?” said Oloompa, now joyously happy.
“See?—the devil!” said Earth, “what does he want to see for. I
wouldn't give a wasp's nest for all of 'em, for if the water was in
good order, and I had one, I could catch a dish of big pickles;—but
these here things are good for nothing upon the face of the earth.”
“It is the red man's letter,” said Oloompa.
“Nonsense,” said Earth, “I take up my hand full of mud, and throw it
against the house;—does the red man read it?”
“The red man cannot read the white man's letter,” said Oloompa. “What
did you give me for the maiden, when you left my mother's wigwam? a
piece of paper covered with black marks; Oloompa looked at it, and
said ‘nonsense;’—when he gave it to the maiden, it made her heart
glad. Listen, Oloompa will read.” The attention of Rolfe and Earth was
arrested by the earnestness of his manner, and gazing at the figures
before him, he proceeded: “Six men have been here,—see them,” and he
touched the six images with his finger.—Then continued: “They have
carried away Netnokwa and the two maidens;” and he pointed to the
images representing the old woman and the two girls, saying “the men
drive the women;—see the men behind, and the women before;—the women
look sorry, they do not wish to go. Oloompa showed their tracks on the
ground.—Look at their faces, they are turned the same way.”—
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “Oloompa is right; he reads it like a book.”
“Hush! Earth; I am all anxiety to hear something farther.”
“They are going to see a great man,” continued Oloompa, and he pointed
to the larger image. “It is the Prophet,—these small pieces of clay
are houses,—they form a town,—it is Tippecanoe. This,” pointing to the
piece of clay which curved several times, and stretching along, lay
near the houses, “is the river. Does Oloompa read? can the white man
now see?”
“Yes,” said Earth, “he can. Oloompa is true to his word;” then
turning, “Rolfe,—Rolfe, this thing is as plain as day-light. The
Prophet has taken them all prisoners, and they are now journeying
towards his town.”
“Then Earth, they are to be burned!”
“Oh! God knows,” said Earth, “I wish they were out of his clutches;”
then turning to Oloompa, “Can Oloompa make the figures tell when
Netnokwa left her lodge?”
“They are not hard;—the time cannot be long since she left;” replied
Oloompa.
“Did she leave to-day?” continued Earth.
“No,” answered Oloompa, “perhaps yesterday. If the white man is ready,
Oloompa will go; he is troubled, his heart is soft;—the red maiden
left her letter for Oloompa, and told him to follow.”
Rolfe felt that he had wronged Oloompa in the suspicions which he
first entertained, and the deep feeling he now manifested, together
with his whole conduct, served, every moment, to exalt him in his
estimation. Regretting what had happened, he approached him and said,
“Oloompa, you must forgive me; my heart is sorry for what I have done.
The red maiden loves the pale face,—Oloompa must love the white man.
We will travel the same path,—we must be friends.”
Oloompa did not reply to Rolfe's remark, but said, “Oloompa's eyes
will know no sleep. The red maiden goes to the camp of the Prophet.”
“Does death await them?” said Rolfe.
“The Prophet is great,” was the reply, “the red people fear him. Will
the hunters go? Oloompa is ready, he will show the path.”
Rolfe then, turning to Earth, began to consult with him. The evening
was far advanced, and Earth suggested, that as they could not continue
the pursuit after it was dark, that they had better rest themselves,
and refresh their horses, that they might be the better able to
prosecute their journey on the following day. Rolfe was now nearly
paralyzed by disappointment; for with the tidings that Gay had been
carried to the camp of the Prophet, went hope from his bosom, and he
was merely a passive agent in the hands of Earth. “Do as you please,”
said he to Earth, “I can advise nothing. Oh! it is sad, sad, that
fresh hopes should have sprung up, only to be blighted.”
“Come, Rolfe,” said Earth, “the thing ain't drawn to a focus yet;—it
may be mighty bad, and I am afraid it will be, but now is the time to
try and prevent it. It will take 'em several weeks to reach the
Prophet's camp, and I shall think it right strange; indeed, it would
be very curious, if, when we three are following 'em, they should all
get there safe.”
Rolfe made no reply, but seated himself in a corner of the hut, while
Earth sought Oloompa, to discuss with him the plan best to be adopted.
He was impatient to commence the pursuit, but, for the purpose of
refreshing the horses, and with a belief that in doing so they would
actually gain time, he came into Earth's measures. It was then settled
that they should rest where they were for the night, and set out with
the first light of day.
“I will now go and attend to the horses;” said Earth; “Oloompa, you
open the old woman's traps, and see if you can't git a bite of
something for supper.” There was no reply, and Earth went out, leaving
Rolfe and Oloompa lounging in and about the cabin. They had no
disposition to converse, and wandered about for a time, thinking of
the past, the present, and the future. It was nearly night, when
Earth, having finished his task, returned to the lodge; upon entering,
he found Rolfe lying on some skins which he had spread out, and
absorbed in the deepest thought; while Oloompa, having drawn up a
small bench near to the images, was in silence gazing on them, and
reading them over and over again. Earth was touched by the attitudes
assumed by each, for both indicated great feeling, with a perfect
disregard of worldly matters. There were no preparations for supper,
and not even a fire had been kindled. Seeing this, he observed
familiarly, “Come boys, come, stir about;” then, turning to Oloompa,
“Can Oloompa now read more than he has told us?”
“They have carried her to the camp of the Prophet;” answered Oloompa.
His voice faltered a little as he said so, and he turned away.
Earth said no more to them, but proceeded to kindle a fire, and
looking up the chimney, discovered that it had been converted into a
smoke house, and was well supplied with bear meat and venison. This,
to him, was a matter of no surprise; it being a common custom with the
Indians, and also with the whites who reside along the frontiers.
Taking down the piece which most pleased his fancy, his rude supper
was soon prepared, and discussed with a gusto only known to those
whose appetites are sharpened by a healthy exercise. Rolfe and Oloompa
seemed not inclined to eat, and Earth, actuated by one of the many
idiosyncrasies which ever characterized him, viewed it as a compulsory
act on their part, requiring him to eat their shares. So one would
judge from his observations—“Come, boys, I am mighty tired, I wish you
would help me through with it.” Then, continuing his laborious duty
for a few moments more—“Well, I do believe you all mean to kill me.”
Nobody replied, he continued—“There is no back out about me; I wish
old Jupe was alive—she wouldn't see me suffer in this sort of
way;”—still eating,—“I have begun it now, and I will go through with
it, if it puts a joint out of place.”
“Oh! Earth,” said Rolfe, “how can you be talking so at such a
time;—come, go to sleep and be quiet.”
“Hush, Rolfe; you had better come and take a bite yourself; it will do
you more good than grieving a month. Now you won't feel half as well
as I will in the morning.” There was no reply, all conversation
ceased, and a few hours after Rolfe and Oloompa were hushed in sleep
or in troubled dreams, and that Earth slept, there could be no doubt,
from a certain peculiar noise that was heard soon after he retired to
rest. With the first light of morning the hunters mounted, and
Oloompa, striking off into the direction indicated by the images, and
likewise by the foot-prints which he had discovered the evening
before, led the way. Having taken his course, he proceeded as nearly
as practicable in a straight line, holding no intercourse with the
hunters, and examining the ground closely as he moved along. Rolfe and
Earth followed on, and trusted implicitly to his guidance.
It was now near the middle of the day, and nothing had occurred to the
hunters to prove whether they were on the right track or not; they had
seen no sign or mark, which indicated that the party had moved forward
in that direction, but were still journeying, as they had been for
hours, through a wild and pathless forest, when Oloompa stopped and
waited their coming up. He had reached a small stream which it was
necessary to cross, in order to continue on in the direction in which
he had set out; and which the party he was pursuing must have crossed,
unless he himself had been grossly deceived. When the hunters came up
he stated this, and upon consultation, they deemed it wisest to
dismount and let their horses graze, while they endeavoured to satisfy
themselves whether they had crossed or not. Oloompa told them his
belief that they had crossed, and most probably within a mile of where
they then were. He also cheered the hunters, by telling them that he
had seen distinct traces of their having moved on in the direction in
which they had come; and taking one end of the stream, he requested
the hunters to go down the other, and by examining the bank see if
they could find their foot-prints. The banks being soft and muddy, the
indentations of their feet would be deep and easily discovered. If no
trace could be found in going a mile, they were to return. Parting,
they commenced their journey;—Sometime elapsed, and Rolfe and Earth
were returning to their horses unsuccessful, when they heard the voice
of Oloompa calling to them. Proceeding to him, he joyously pointed out
what he had been searching for. The tracks were plain and deep; those
of the women clearly marked, and easily distinguished from those of
the men;—and with this, came cheerfulness to the whole party; Oloompa
felt more confident, and Rolfe and Earth, seeing the great ingenuity
exercised by him, began to believe that they would overtake them.
Returning for their horses, they came back to where the party had
crossed, and animated with hope, continued the pursuit. Oloompa, now,
satisfied that he was on their trail, moved forward with more
confidence, as did likewise the hunters, and several times would he
stop and point out signs which indicated their path.
It was late in the evening, when, still journeying along, Oloompa
pointed out at a short distance before them, a thin smoke rising up
from the remains of a declining fire. Thither they hurried, and there
the party they were pursuing had encamped, and they could not have
left it many hours before. Hope now increased, and Oloompa began to
search out their path, setting out in the direction in which they had
been journeying, and which he knew was the most direct route to the
Prophet's camp. He closely examined the woods, yet no displaced
leaves, no broken twig, no slight and but half formed foot-print, told
that human beings had gone in that direction, and unsuccessful, he
returned to the fire where the hunters still remained. His want of
success, for a moment dampened their spirits, but that they had been
there, no one could doubt, and with proper exertions, it was equally
plain that their path could be traced;—for no attempt had been made by
them to conceal their flight, for the reason that, having left
secretly, they expected not to be pursued. But darkness was now
gathering fast over the land, and by it all farther search prevented.
So, unsaddling their horses, they obtained for them such provender as
the place afforded, and kindling up the fire, prepared to pass the
night. They were now southeast of Rainy Lake, and near the Great
Portage which connects Lake of the Woods with Lake Superior. This
Portage is merely a series of Lakes, some of them separated by narrow
strips of land, but generally with small outlets leading from one to
the other, and forming throughout the whole, a general chain of
communication. Oloompa having failed to trace them in the direction in
which he had expected, suggested to the hunters the probability of
their having gone to the Great Portage, taken a canoe and crossed Lake
Superior, where the Portage enters into it. He stated that this was
practicable, and a feat often accomplished by the Indians, for that it
was the narrowest part of the lake, and moreover, that there were two
islands, which answered as good resting places, and which also
subdivided the distance. This was another difficulty in the way of the
hunters; if the party had gone to the lakes, they would perhaps lose
all trace of them and have to give over the pursuit. Yet, to prevent
it they could do nothing; they had already accomplished all that human
nature was capable of, and though anticipating disappointment, they
slept soundly from a consciousness that he had used every possible
exertion. With morning, they again resumed the search; Oloompa found
the direction in which they had departed, and told them they had gone
to the Great Portage. He himself was now dejected, for he feared that
they had already descended the Portage, and reached the lake; and
changing his course, he conducted the hunters to where the Portage
flows into the lake, intending, if they had not descended, to wait and
intercept them.
It was the middle of the day, when Oloompa and the hunters reached the
lake. Its broad surface, disturbed by a fresh breeze, lay glancing in
the sun. The wind fanned their feverish and excited frames, and they
stood alone on the shore, and looked abroad in silence on the vast
surface before them, and the jutting promontories, and half concealed
rocks against and over which the waves were dashing and fretting; and
then the bold and high shore, which, robed in grandeur, overlooked the
vast prospect before them. For a moment they stood in silence,—the
scene occupied all their thoughts; then they began to search the shore
and gaze upon the wide waste, to see if any freighted canoe was
dancing over its waters. There was none,—not a sail, not a wide-spread
blanket, greeted the eye;—no, not a sound broke upon the ears, but the
hoarse dashing of the waves, as they washed up against the shore. And
thus they stood,—and this was the end of their hazardous journey and
exciting pursuit. None seemed disposed to speak, for there was only
one hope remaining, and that was that they might not have descended
the Portage,—to the mouth of which the distance was now nearly half a
mile; and thither they proceeded. They had continued on but a short
distance further, when darting out of the Portage into the lake, moved
a canoe, with the speed of an arrow,—a blanket, spread out on either
side, served for sails,—the wind was blowing fresh from the shore; not
a paddle was seen, save one, which managed by a warrior at the stern,
served the purpose of a rudder. It was filled with people. Rolfe and
Earth turned to Oloompa, for the first glance had awakened their
fears, and though the distance was so great they could see nothing
distinctly, yet they felt as if she whom they sought was leaving them
for ever. In Oloompa's countenance, they saw that their fears were too
true,—his deep silence,—the fixed gaze with which he watched the
canoe, and the dark shadows which passed over his face, spoke more
plainly than words. After watching it for several minutes, he
said:—“She is gone!—the fawn will be carried to the Prophet's camp,
and Oloompa cannot help it.”
“Oloompa, can we do nothing?” said Rolfe.
“Nothing,” was the reply; and he again repeated, “She is gone!”
Their situation then again became a matter of consultation. To follow
them with any hope of success was now impossible. In open warfare,
they could render no service, and would most probably loose their
lives. They had hitherto continued the pursuit, with a hope of finding
them where they rested, when, not expecting an attack, they would be
easily beaten, and the prisoners rescued. But now, should Kenah and
his party discover that they were pursued, which they would be very
apt to do, should the hunters cross the lake, they would
unhesitatingly kill their prisoners sooner than deliver them up. These
reasons induced them unwillingly to adopt another plan, which was for
a time to give over the pursuit, and leaving the lake, proceed on
land, by the nearest route, to the Prophet's camp, and if Kenah and
his party had not reached there, which they could easily find out by
means of Oloompa, to lie in watch at a distance from it, intercept
them if possible, and attempt a rescue. In the event that they had
reached it, then to get Gay out by stratagem, if they could; if not,
to demand her of the Prophet, and threaten him with a hostile invasion
from the whites, in case he refused. This plan was sanctioned by
Oloompa, who was as eager in his endeavours to prevent Miskwa from
being carried into his camp, as were Rolfe and Earth in their wishes
to prevent Gay.
This resolution was no sooner adopted than turning back, they began to
skirt the lake to its most southern point, from which they intended to
strike off for the Prophet's camp. The route pursued by Kenah and his
party, is one very often followed by the Indians, going from the lands
on the Wabash, to the country north of the great lakes, or rather by
those visiting the Wabash, from the north-western regions; and though
the passage is sometimes attended with great danger, on account of
their crossing in light canoes, still they often venture. The islands
in Lake Superior, where the great Portage enters, afford them resting
places, and so much divide the distance as to render crossing no very
difficult feat; thence coasting along the southern shore, they descend
through St. Mary's River, into Lake Huron, and coast it,—or, entering
Lake Michigan, through the straits of Michilimackinack, descend
through the lake, into the limits of Indiana, and at no great distance
from the head waters of the Wabash. This was the route by which Kenah
had proceeded to the country in which Netnokwa lived, and by which he
was now returning. Leaving him to prosecute his journey, and the
hunters, with a perfect knowledge of the route he had taken, which
they had learned from Oloompa, endeavouring to intercept him, we
return to the camp of the Prophet.
CHAPTER XXII.
“With cautious steps the thicket threading,
And startling oft, as through the glade
The gust its hollow moanings made,
The maid pursued her silent guide.”
BYRON.
It will be recollected, that we left Tecumseh descending the Wabash,
on his way to the south, having avowed to General Harrison, previous
to his departure, that his object in going, was, not to prepare for
war, but, in imitation of the whites, to form a bond of union among
all the Indian tribes, solely for their own protection and
self-preservation. He had given Elkswatawa the most positive
injunctions not to commence hostilities during his absence; he had
urged him to restrain those who were immediately under his command,
until his return, when the signal should be given, and together they
would strike a sure and heavy blow in some quarter where least
expected. But scarcely had Tecumseh left, before appearances at the
Prophet's camp, began to wear a more warlike aspect. The number
assembled generally consisted of some five or six hundred warriors,
who, by the continual practising of mysterious rites, on the part of
the Prophet, were excited to such a degree, that, notwithstanding the
most positive orders to the contrary, aggressions were daily committed
by them on the whites. From his camp, they made their incursions into
the settlements, and to it they returned for protection. It served as
a rallying point for all the Indians who committed depredations on the
citizens of the United States; and when demanded, under one of the
articles of a former treaty, the Prophet now, in every instance,
refused to deliver them up. In consequence of this, the citizens along
the frontiers became still more clamourous for energetic and offensive
measures. A correspondence was opened between General Harrison and the
Hon. Wm. Eustis, the then Secretary of War, in which all the
information relative to the conduct of the Indians, was regularly
forwarded. This produced, as was expected, an order from the War
Department, requiring General Harrison to disperse the Prophet's band,
and commence offensive operations, if they should be deemed necessary,
but at the same time, if possible, to preserve peace.
In accordance with this order, a deputation was sent to Elkswatawa,
requiring that the Indians assembled at his town should at once
disperse, and that reparation should be made for the injuries which
they had already committed, or that warlike operations would be
forthwith commenced. This, together with a knowledge that large bodies
of troops were then assembling at Vincennes, induced the Prophet to
send messengers in return, who were fully authorized to make such
promises and professions of peace, in compliance with the terms
required, as would be entirely satisfactory. By this means, that is,
by making promises and delaying the fulfilment of them, Elkswatawa
hoped he should be enabled to accomplish his design of awaiting the
return of Tecumseh; inasmuch as it could not be expected that the
terms required were to be performed at once. The Prophet himself
wished for battle, and so did his immediate followers; yet he saw how
unwise such a course would be at this time, while his brother was
absent, and likewise, while the warriors of the vast confederacy which
had already been formed were entirely ignorant of his design. To send
messengers among them, and call them in, would be at once to throw off
the mask and prepare for open warfare. This he could not do
consistently with the pledge given Tecumseh, and he therefore resolved
to use every possible exertion to preserve peace.
The messengers of the Prophet, whom we mentioned above as having been
deputed by him, visited Vincennes late in September, 1811, and so
successful were they, that they, in some measure, lulled the
suspicions of the whites, and left the town under an impression that
all would remain satisfied, and peace be preserved, at least for a
time. But the continual assembling of warriors from a distance at
Tippecanoe, and the daily necessity which the Prophet found for
preaching his doctrines, and practising his rites, kept his followers,
who always remained with him, in such a feverish state of excitement,
that in sorrow he looked upon the vast machinery he had set in motion,
and his heart was troubled when he saw that it was about to be
deranged, before its accumulating and still increasing power could be
brought to bear upon his great design; for scarcely a week elapsed
after the return of his messengers, before aggressions were again
committed by some of his band, and General Harrison determined at once
on commencing offensive operations.
Early in October of this year, we find him encamped on the banks of
the Wabash, about sixty-five miles above Vincennes, with a chosen body
of troops, anxious to be led on against the Indians. Here he built a
fort, which at the request of the officers, was called Fort Harrison,
reconnoitred the adjacent country, and waited several days, with a
hope of receiving a deputation from the Prophet, which might be able
to explain away and satisfactorily adjust the differences which had
lately arisen, in consequence of the violation of previous promises.
Elkswatawa was aware of his approach, and with a hope of preserving
peace, sent messengers, as he afterward stated, promising to comply
with any demand which the Governor might make. The messengers,
however, never arrived, and in consequence of it, the American army
continued its march; and Elkswatawa learning this, began with great
diligence to fortify his town, and place it in the best possible state
of defence, in order to protect himself against the attack of the
whites, in case it should become impossible longer to preserve peace.
It was in November, 1811, and on the sixth of the month, that the army
under General Harrison lay within a mile and a half of Tippecanoe. It
had been regularly advancing until the present time, and yet the
Indians had shown no disposition to treat for peace; and a halt was
now called, for the purpose of allowing them farther time to do so.
The consequence of the near proximity of the whites, called forth
messengers on the part of the Prophet, who demanded in his name, why
it was that the Americans were marching upon his town. They stated
that the Prophet was anxious to avoid hostilities,—that he was ready
to comply with the demands of the Governor, and had with that view
sent messengers to him several days before, who must, unfortunately,
have gone down the opposite side of the river from that on which the
general was advancing, or he would have seen them. In answer to this,
the grounds of complaint were again stated by General Harrison, who
also added, that the messengers, although expected, had never arrived.
Some further conversation took place,—the Indians were apparently
sincere in their professions, and a suspension of hostilities was
agreed upon until the following day; when the Prophet, with the chiefs
who were with him, was to meet General Harrison and his staff, and the
terms of peace were then to be agreed upon between them.
The most eligible spot that could be selected for passing the night,
was now chosen by the American army, and this consisted of “a dry
piece of ground, which rose about ten feet above the level of a marshy
prairie in front towards the town, and about twice as high above a
similar prairie in the rear, through which, near the bank, ran a small
stream, clothed with willows and brush-wood.” Late in the evening, the
army marched to the ground selected, and encamped for the night. The
different companies were then disposed in order of battle, and in case
of a night attack, which no one feared, they were ordered to occupy
the ground upon which they were then placed; and in conformity with a
general order, both officers and soldiers were required to rest in
their clothes, with their arms by their sides. Sentries were then
placed so as to guard every possible approach of the enemy, and the
duties of the evening having been performed, groups of officers and
soldiers might be seen standing around the camp fires, expressing
their dissatisfaction that a peace which they thought would soon be
broken, was about to be concluded, and they forced to return home,
without having had a battle. This was mortifying to many, who had
joined the army for the sake alone of gaining glory, and many also,
were discontented because they were exasperated against the Indians on
account of their many acts of petty aggression.
Such was the state of feeling, and the order of things in the American
army, which now numbered more than eight hundred men, while that of
the Prophet amounted to some five or six hundred. On the one side was
a body of disciplined troops, well armed and equipped for battle; on
the other, a band of savages, armed, some with guns and rifles, the
remainder with bows, tomahawks and war-clubs. It was at this time, and
on the morning of the day that the American army arrived, when Kenah,
who had now been absent nearly two months, entered alone into
Tippecanoe. The Indians were so much excited, that his entrance was
not observed by them, and he proceeded at once into the presence of
Elkswatawa.
“Ha! Kenah,” said he, “thou art welcome.—Where rests the old woman?”
“Without the walls of the town,” answered Kenah; “she is guarded; the
two maidens rest with her. Kenah seeks the Prophet, to know his will.”
“Bring them into the camp,” replied the Prophet; “place them within a
cabin, and see that it be watched; and mark me, Kenah, it is the
Prophet who speaks,—let not the old woman nor the pale face maiden
venture out. The fresh air must not breathe upon their faces. Netnokwa
is great, and might lead astray the red men. The pale face maiden
would be torn limb from limb. Netnokwa's daughter is to be my
brother's bride:—she is free, yet leaves not our camp. Does Kenah
hear?” Kenah bowed assent, and Elkswatawa continued:—“Say to the old
woman, when within her lodge, ‘the Prophet gives her welcome to his
camp;’—it will make her heart glad. And now, Kenah, put your finger
upon your lips. Let your arrival be dark;—the Prophet wishes no talk
about a woman. The pale faces are crawling upon the lands of the red
men, and the Prophet's heart is troubled. When they are gone, the
Prophet will see to his prisoners. He says Kenah is true to his trust.
He has spoken.——Yet stay, Kenah,—say to him who guards Netnokwa's
cabin, ‘death follows his steps, if he disobeys.’ Away.”
Kenah bowed, and without replying, retired from his presence, to obey
his orders. Selecting a cabin for his prisoners, which, though at some
distance from the rest, was so situated as to render escape on their
part almost impossible, he returned to his party. Then causing
Netnokwa and the maidens to wrap themselves up so as to conceal their
faces, he led the way, and making them follow, soon safely lodged them
in the cabin designated.—The warriors were generally engaged in
another quarter, and the arrival of Netnokwa and her party was
consequently unnoticed. Kenah then, selecting one of his band, ordered
him to stand guard,—detailing to him, at the same time, the Prophet's
injunctions, with the penalty threatened in case of disobedience. He
then entered the cabin and approaching Netnokwa, said:—“The Prophet
bids Kenah tell the old woman, ‘she is welcome to his camp.’”
“The Prophet bids the old woman welcome to his camp?” replied
Netnokwa:—“When the panther springs upon the doe, he says ‘welcome;’
if the doe has two fawns, he says ‘welcome’ three times.” Kenah
replied not to her remark, but continued; “it is the Prophet's will
that Netnokwa and the pale face maiden remain within this lodge:—they
go not out, or the ground, like a thirsty dog, will drink their blood.
Netnokwa's daughter is free to range our camp,[1] but ventures no
farther, at the peril of her life. So says the Prophet.”
[Footnote 1: See note D.]
“Netnokwa's daughter will remain within your lodge,” replied Miskwa.
“To be with her mother is freedom enough for her.”
Kenah made no answer, but leaving the warrior on duty, he and the
remainder of his band were soon mingling with the crowd.
Kenah and his party, whom we have seen safely lodged in the camp of
the Prophet, arrived by the route before marked out as the one most
likely to be selected by them. Oloompa and the hunters, leaving, as
was stated, the south-western extremity of Lake Superior, were using
all exertions to reach the point where Kenah and his party had
disembarked, under a belief that thither they were bound, and with a
hope of getting there in time to intercept them before their arrival.
Yet, although the distance to be travelled by them, was much less than
that which was to be accomplished by Kenah, they arrived too late.
They reached there only in time to learn from an Indian they chanced
to meet, that a party, described to be such as the one they were
pursuing, had on the morning of the previous day, left the lake for
the Prophet's camp.
“Now,” said Earth, “this is what I call close work,—we have no time
for talk. Oloompa, find the trail and let us be off.”
“The best trail now,” answered Oloompa, “is the shortest path; Oloompa
knows the direction,” and saying so, he pointed with his finger.
“Go on then,” said Rolfe, and again they hurried away in pursuit.
Kenah entered Tippecanoe in the morning;—it was evening, and on the
same day, when Oloompa pointed out to the hunters the situation of the
town. All gazed at it in silence, when Earth said, “well, Rolfe, here
this thing winds up. It must be brought to a focus now, and I am glad
of it, for I am tired chasing people that I can't see.”
“Are you sure, Earth, that she is in the camp?” inquired Rolfe.
“Ask Oloompa,” said Earth.
Oloompa smiled at Rolfe's incredulity, and observed, “when Oloompa,
for a whole moon, follows the wrong path, the bear, when the hunter
strikes, will cease to struggle for its life.”
“Then, Earth,” said Rolfe, “now tell us what is best to be done?”
“No,” said Earth, “we will all talk it over.—Come, Oloompa, the hunter
acknowledges the red man is wiser than the white. Oloompa is young,
but he has the wisdom of gray hairs: his advice is good.”
Oloompa was evidently pleased with the compliment, but there was a
slight curl of his lip, as if in scorn, when he turned to confer with
the hunters. The subject having been discussed, with all the plans
suggested by each, it was agreed, that the whole party should lay
concealed in the forest, until night sat in; that then, approaching
nearer to the town, the hunters should conceal themselves, while
Oloompa entered it, to search for Netnokwa and her party. Should the
captive maiden be there, and an opportunity offer of rescuing her by
stratagem, Oloompa was to effect it, and deliver her over to the
hunters. In any event, he promised to return, and give them such
information as he might be able to obtain; and while for them he
promised to do this, his thoughts were chiefly engrossed by Miskwa,
and he was revolving over and over in his own mind, what plan he
should adopt in reference to her:—“If, with the white, Oloompa brings
the red maiden, will the hunters harm her?” said he.
“No,” said Earth, “although she is a red skin, by heaven, I swear to
protect and defend her as I would my sister, were she living.”
Rolfe readily promised the same, and eagerly cried, “Oh! bring her,
Oloompa! bring both! and go with me; I will give thee a wigwam and
lands, which shall be thy own, and thy days shall pass in peace and
quiet.”
“No,” answered Oloompa; “I have said the red men and white can never
dwell together. There must ever be a wall between them. Yet Oloompa is
satisfied—the hunters will protect the red maiden?”
“They will,” was the answer.
“Oloompa will visit the camp of the Prophet,” said Rolfe, “and hear
him preach; he may find the red maiden safe, and forget the white. The
hunters wait for him; will he return?”
“Oloompa's promise is not a reed to be bent or broken,” was the
answer. “If Oloompa lives, the hunters shall see him. If the maiden
can be brought without the camp, she comes with Oloompa.”
It was now getting dark, and the party concealing their horses, began
to approach the town. The hunters then selected a spot, where they
promised to remain, and Oloompa moved on. Upon going off, he
said:—“The hunters will not doubt Oloompa, for though it be deep in
the night, he will return.”
“We doubt thee not,” said Rolfe, “return as soon as may be, and our
blessings attend thee.”
Night had now advanced an hour or two, when a single warrior, armed as
if in readiness for battle, was seen to emerge from the forest, and
bend his steps towards the Indian camp. He approached with the bold
bearing of a welcome guest, and was nearing it, when the sound of the
American drum in the distance, fell harsh upon his ears. He stopped,
the sound stirred him to the inmost soul, and as each successive note
fell harsher still, his countenance changed until it writhed in agony.
The truth burst upon him, and hurriedly he entered the town. No one
stood sentinel, nor at first, did even a warrior meet his eye; the
cabins were untenanted, the doors swung open, and to all appearance
the town was deserted. But as madly he hurried on, the distant hum of
suppressed voices was heard, and then in the moonlight was seen the
bright gleam of arms, and soon after a dark mass of bodies closely
gathered, showed that all the Indians were assembled in council.
When Oloompa discovered this, he stopped, and for a moment hesitated,
not knowing the part which it was proper he should play. In the
distance lay the camp of the whites, plainly visible from the fires
which marked its situation. In it, he saw the enemies of his race,
those whom he hated, and against whom he had sworn vengeance, to be
extinguished but with his life. Gazing in another direction, yet near
at hand, he saw the large gathered crowd of his own countrymen,
attempting, no doubt, to organize some plan for destroying those who
had dared to invade their lands; and securing to themselves vengeance
for the wrongs they had suffered, as well as for those they were daily
suffering. Seeing these things, his soul glowed with fiercest hate
against the whites, and he felt that in his exertions to serve the
hunters who belonged to that grasping race, he had, perhaps, wronged
his countrymen; and he now regretted the promise he had made them.
Then, as the storm of passion subsided, he thought of Miskwa; and when
with that, came the belief that she had been brought a prisoner within
the very walls of the town in which he now was, and that she was
destined probably to become a victim to the Prophet's policy, or
rather his cruelty, he was recalled to a sense of his situation. He
recollected all he had accomplished;—he recurred to the deep
confidence the hunters had placed in him, and he determined to attend
the council, see what steps the Indians were about to adopt, and when
it had adjourned, continue his search for Netnokwa and her party, and
then, to act as, upon further consideration, he should deem advisable.
This resolution was no sooner formed, than he bent his steps towards
the excited crowd, and mingling with them, became one of the council.
He first looked round to see if he could discover the dreaded Prophet,
but he saw no one whom he could identify as such. He heard nothing but
bitter curses and denunciations against the whites; rage and fury
filled the breasts of all, and they were crying out to be led on to
battle. His own passions were kindled by the hoarse breathings of
vengeance around him, and never was there a more excited multitude.
They counted not numbers, they questioned not success; they were
burning with vengeance, and only anxious to quench it at once in the
blood of the whites.
Elkswatawa had now a difficult part to play. He had raised a storm
which he could not control; he had excited his followers until they
were lost to reason, and now, like raging beasts, were chafing against
their bounds in order to get loose. This was what he apprehended, when
he urged Tecumseh to take some decisive step before his departure for
the south. He, himself, was burning with rage; his soul writhed with
agony when he saw the fires of his enemies under the walls of his
town, and not one of the crowd was more anxious for immediate battle
than himself. But then there were many reasons why peace, if
attainable at any sacrifice, should still be preserved. He had
promised Tecumseh, who absent, was now labouring for the common cause,
that no act on the part of the whites, should force the Indians to
hostilities. His town, though strongly fortified, contained only his
own immediate followers, and they were far less numerous than the army
before them. The warriors of the confederacy he had formed, were
entirely ignorant of his situation, and to hazard a battle now, was
not to avail himself of the power he really possessed; but it was to
place his success upon a single chance, where the odds were greatly
against him. Aware of all this, he had sent messengers, with
professions of peace, to General Harrison while on his march; and
still, with the hope of obtaining it, had, on the arrival of the
American army, renewed his professions, and expressed a willingness to
meet the whites in council on the following day, when he would accede
to all their demands. This, for the reasons before stated, was now his
determination, and nerving himself for the crisis, he resolved to
oppose the calls which his followers were clamorously making to be led
on against the whites.
Rising in council, Elkswatawa urged to them the reasons why peace
should be preserved. He reminded them of his promise to Tecumseh; he
told them of the impropriety of striking without the aid of their
brothers of other tribes; he called their attention to the fact, that
the American army was greatly superior to them in numbers, and dwelt
upon the evil consequences which would result from their being beaten.
He unfolded to them his plans; he showed them the necessity there was,
that success beyond a doubt, should crown their first effort,—again
urged them to peace,—then, awaited their response.
The power of the Prophet was gone; and his arguments for
procrastination were only answered with cries for vengeance and
immediate battle. In Elkswatawa, they still had implicit confidence as
a Prophet. He had predicted, and proclaimed to them, time after time,
that success would attend them in all their exertions. He had told
them that the Great Spirit would turn the balls of the whites aside,
and render them harmless; and that he would give light to the Indians,
while their enemies should be involved in darkness. They reminded him
of this, told him that the whites were now under the walls of his
town, and that the Great Spirit would, as he had promised, deliver
them over into the hands of the Indians.
When Elkswatawa heard these things, he determined to refuse no longer,
but to yield his consent. Without it, he saw that his character was
lost, even with his own followers; and it was better to hazard a
battle, and run the chance for success, than quietly to surrender
without a struggle. Having come to this determination, after several
attempts, he obtained silence. He then requested that a communication
which he was about to make to them, should be received in silence,
lest from their noise, they should indicate their intentions to the
whites. All was hushed, and the Prophet then informed them that they
should be led to battle, at the same time stating that the reason why
he had refused at first, was that he was anxious that the red men from
distant tribes should be present, to share the victory, and to see the
predictions of the Prophet fulfilled. At this annunciation, there were
bursts of joy, and a few half suppressed war whoops were heard,
notwithstanding the positive orders which had been given to the
contrary. Elkswatawa then called some of the most influential of his
followers close around him, and together, they discussed the mode of
attack best to be adopted. Among them, it was finally agreed, that
they should meet the whites in council on the next day, lull their
suspicions by acceding to all their demands, and then, at an
unexpected moment, assassinate the General and commence the attack.
Having resolved upon this plan, the Prophet told it to the assembled
crowd, and asked if there were any persons present who would volunteer
to devote themselves to death, in effecting the assassination of the
general. Two warriors were heard to cry out in the affirmative, and
being called, they approached and stood before the Prophet. Upon
inquiry, they were both found to be members of the tribe of
Pottowatamies; and upon their again renewing the wish, that the duty
required should be assigned to them, they received the blessing of the
Prophet, and leaving him, were soon lost in the crowd. The council was
then adjourned, and the warriors ordered to disperse, in order to
prepare themselves for the coming day. But it was soon manifest that
they were dissatisfied; for as they hurried away, they would gather in
groups, and discuss over, and over again, the plan which had been
adopted. Their wishes were for a night attack; the predictions of the
Prophet had induced them to regard the American camp as already their
own, and they were anxious at once to be unloosed, that they might
revel in the carnage of the whites.
While the council lasted, Oloompa's bosom was agitated by more
contending emotions than I can describe, and when it was over he left
the crowd, resolving to take part in the struggle on the coming day,
and for the present to search the town, that he might learn the fate
of Netnokwa and the maidens. That they had preceded him, and were now
within the same walls with himself, he felt confident, and he at once
began the task. He made no inquiries, fearing that were he to do so,
he might excite suspicion; but wandering from cabin to cabin in a
careless and indifferent manner, he examined each. The Indians,
excited, were moving to and fro with hurried steps in every direction,
and on this account the conduct of Oloompa, which at another time
might have appeared singular, was entirely unnoticed by them.
He had now continued his search nearly throughout the town, and the
disappointment consequent upon his not finding Netnokwa and her party,
as he had expected, was causing him to forget the more exciting
circumstances of his situation, when, as chance directed, he bent his
steps toward the part of the town at which she had entered, and was
proceeding to examine a single cabin which stood apart from the rest,
when he was hailed by the warrior whom Kenah had left on duty. Not
thinking for a moment, that Oloompa could have any definite object in
wandering idly about, as he seemed to be, he called to him, to come
and give a detail of the proceedings which had been adopted in
council. Oloompa approached, and expressing some surprise that a
warrior should have been absent from so important a meeting, learned
the welcome intelligence, that his absence was owing to his having
been ordered by the Prophet to stand guard over some women, who had
been brought prisoners to his camp. At these tidings Oloompa's
feelings fluttered with delight, for those he sought were in the cabin
before him: there was the pale face maiden, in serving whom he had
already encountered so many hardships, and there was Miskwa, whom he
now loved more dearly than his life. These things deeply moved him,
yet he was apparently calm, and began to narrate minutely to the
sentinel that which had happened in council. It was all new to him,
and he seemed well pleased and much excited at the struggle which was
to take place on the morrow. Oloompa then elicited from him a history
of his journey, together with a description of his captives, the
orders of the Prophet in relation to them, and his views of the
probable fate which awaited them. He learned that Kenah and his party
had reached the camp without being aware that they were pursued, and
had arrived by the route along which he had traced them. He also
ascertained, that the red maiden was free to leave the lodge if she
pleased, while her mother and the white maiden were to be strictly
confined. From this circumstance he concluded, that the two latter
were to be adjudged to death, and with this he recollected, that were
it known that a pale face girl was in the camp, excited as the
warriors now were, no exertions, however great, would be sufficient to
preserve her life. Circumstances showed that there was no time to be
lost, and he determined at once to act.
In the cabin now, all was quiet. A small fire was glimmering on the
hearth, just enough to show that around it were grouped Netnokwa and
the two maidens. They sate in deep silence, brooding over their
respective situations, and despair was stamped upon the brow of each;
the bosom of Gay would sometimes heave with convulsive throbs, and a
slight shudder, as if she was cold, would pass over her frame.
Oloompa, still continuing to converse with the sentinel, carelessly
withdrew his tomahawk from his belt, and filling the bowl of it with
tobacco, entered the cabin as though it were a mere matter of course,
apparently for the purpose of lighting his pipe. As he entered, there
was a slight stir among the females, and when they discovered that his
object seemed merely to get some fire, they moved that he might
approach. The light was not sufficient at first to show his features,
and advancing, he made a signal for silence; then taking Miskwa's hand
pressed it affectionately, and whispered in her ear the word,
Oloompa;—as though she had received an electric shock, was her whole
frame agitated, and then, like the sudden bursting out of the sun,
when the heavens have been obscured by a dark cloud, was the change in
Miskwa's countenance from despair to pleasure;—her whole face sparkled
with beauty, and she returned Oloompa's recognition, yet was silent.
He then proceeded to stir the fire, and while he did this, Miskwa
whispered to Gay, who instantly started up and gazing wildly about
her, was by Oloompa hushed into silence. With agony traced in every
lineament of her face, she gazed on him, and with difficulty
articulating, she uttered in a suppressed voice the words, “Where is
he?”—
“Without the camp, and waiting for you,” replied Oloompa, at the same
time pressing his finger to his lips, and pointing to where the
sentinel stood. Gay could restrain her feelings no longer, but uttered
a cry of delight; it arrested the attention of the guard, who,
believing that Oloompa was frightening the maiden, called to him to
come away, and let her alone; that her time would come soon enough.
Oloompa whispered to Miskwa to leave the lodge and walk about in the
camp. At the sound of his words, Netnokwa waked into life. He then lit
his pipe, and fearing lest he should excite suspicion, was soon
carelessly conversing again with the guard. The coming struggle was an
exciting subject, and in it all other thoughts were apparently merged.
The warrior now on duty would be relieved about midnight, and he was
anxiously awaiting the time when, released from guarding women, he
should begin to prepare to fight against men.
Nearly an hour had elapsed since Oloompa left the cabin, when Miskwa
presented herself at the door, saying, “the daughter of Netnokwa will
venture abroad in the camp; it is the Prophet's will that she should
do so when she pleases.”
“She can do so,” replied the guard; “but death follows her steps if
she goes without it.”
Miskwa made no answer, but leaving the cabin, went, apparently,
towards the most crowded part of the town.
“Dost not our brother fear?” said Oloompa, addressing the guard, “she
goes so far, his eyes cannot follow her.”
“Her mother is here;” was the answer. “Her love for her mother is a
strong cord; it will draw her back. But if she escapes, the wrath of
the Prophet would descend on our head. She must sure return;—will our
brother watch her?” Oloompa answered that he would, and relieving
himself from his rifle and hunting accoutrements, he deposited them at
the cabin door, thinking, that in so doing, he would strengthen the
confidence which seemed already to have sprung up between himself and
the sentinel, and it would also give him an excuse for returning to
the cabin in the event of his wishing it. He then hastened away to
keep a watch upon Miskwa. Getting without sight of the guard, he
approached her, a hurried recognition took place; then withdrawing
beyond the reach of observation, they recounted to each other all that
had happened since they parted, and dwelt upon their present painful
situation. There was little time for regret, and they began to discuss
what was best to be done. Miskwa told him that she had been permitted
by the Prophet to venture abroad, under the belief on his part, that
she was to be Tecumseh's bride; but denied, positively, that she had
any such intention. For herself, being unrestrained, she now had no
care, and all her alarm was for her mother and the captive maiden.
What fate awaited them she knew not, yet her fears caused her to
anticipate the worst. What was to be the result of the coming
struggle, or what influence it might exert upon the conduct of the
Prophet towards them, it was impossible to foretell. Oloompa hearing
these things, suggested to her the possibility there was of her
escaping with the pale face maiden. The hunters were without the town,
awaiting their coming, and ready to defend both at the hazard of their
lives. But with the discussion came proofs that it was impracticable.
For, even were the sentinel despatched who guarded the cabin, the town
was filled with warriors, passing in every direction; their flight
would surely be observed, and a sudden death pay the penalty of their
attempt. Could they succeed in getting without the walls, Netnokwa was
old and decrepid, and would most certainly be overtaken. Oloompa then
persuaded her to leave her mother, and endeavoured to convince her
that a worse fate awaited her than she apprehended.
“No,” said the maiden, “when Miskwa was helpless, her mother nursed
her. Miskwa will live or die with her mother.”
Oloompa was silent; and the maiden continued: “Miskwa loves the pale
face, and her heart bleeds to see her in the Prophet's camp. Miskwa
can leave her lodge whenever she pleases. She will make the pale face
maiden look like Miskwa, then send her out. Oloompa can take her and
carry her to the white man who waits for her. Their hearts will then
be glad, and Miskwa will love Oloompa. When Oloompa serves Miskwa's
friend, he serves Miskwa. Speak,—what says Oloompa?”
Oloompa was recalled to a sense of his promise, by the suggestion, and
a feeling of pleasure lighted up his countenance when he reflected
that it was practicable. “Oloompa will do it,” he answered; “he
promised to bring the maiden to the hunters. He will serve them, and
then he is free; but what becomes of Miskwa?”
In answer to this, Miskwa again reiterated her anxious desire that the
captive maiden should be as soon as possible restored to the hunters,
and that then, should it be practicable for herself and mother to
escape, that they would seize the first opportunity to do so. She then
added,—“Oloompa, now we part;—the pale face shall seem to be a red
maiden; follow her steps when she leaves the lodge. Deliver her safe
to her friends who seek her. Then let thy return to the camp be as
swift as the flight of the eagle. Miskwa will prove to Oloompa she
loves him.” Then, before he could reply, away she darted; and happy
with what he had just heard, he followed on only close enough to see
her re-enter the lodge, where were imprisoned her mother and
friend.—Then, approaching the sentinel, he observed, “the maiden plays
about like a deer in the moonlight; she came this way; has she
entered?”
“She is safe within,” was the answer, and Oloompa, leaving for the
purpose of again mingling with the crowd, promised that he would
return, and tell if any tidings had come from the camp of the whites,
or any change of plan had been agreed upon among the warriors.
It was now late in the night, and entering that part of the town in
which the Indians were mostly crowded together, he found them still
excited and dissatisfied:—all had their arms, and none seemed at all
disposed to rest. Here he remained for some time, mingling
promiscuously with the crowd, and learned that their present
excitement was owing to an attempt on their part to have another
council called, and the mode of attack which had been agreed upon in
the early part of the evening, changed. They wished to substitute in
its place a night attack. They were anxious for immediate battle;—they
were now more clamorous than they had been before, and some even
hinted, that as the whites were under the very walls of their town,
they could not escape them, and that it would be wise to disobey the
commands of the Prophet; because, in so doing, they could satiate at
once their thirst for vengeance. Oloompa, fearing that some immediate
steps would be taken, which would tend to operate against the escape
of the captive, and, having been absent nearly long enough to allow
her to assume her disguise, returned again to the cabin, and withdrew
the attention of the sentinel from its inmates, by describing to him
the feelings and wishes of the warriors he had left, and his belief
that they would force the Prophet to change the plan which had been
adopted, and lead them against the whites before the day dawned. While
thus conversing, he walked to and fro before the door, and saw one who
seemed an Indian maiden press the hand of Netnokwa, and then throw
herself on the bosom of Miskwa. Oloompa was agitated,—he felt that the
moment of trial was come, and he renewed his effort to interest the
sentinel. As he again passed before the door, he discovered Miskwa
pressing forward the captive, in order to make her leave the lodge. He
stopped, and standing just before the warrior, directed his attention
to the heavens, and asked him the hour of the night. A moment
passed,—there was the rustling of a garment heard,—a maiden left the
lodge, and looking carelessly about her, walked farther into the town.
“The old woman's daughter is fond of moonlight,” said the sentinel, as
she passed on; “she likes not her cage.”
The remark was not heard by the maiden, and Oloompa made no reply; for
at that moment, a warrior was seen passing along, and summoning the
red men again to council. No sooner was the glad call heard, than
there was hurrying past to the place of meeting. Oloompa kept his eyes
upon the maiden, as she now stood looking upon the town, and started
forward apparently as if he designed to follow the crowd. The warrior
on duty was relieved, his time having expired, and forgetting to
mention that a prisoner was absent, he hurried away to the council.
Oloompa, passing by where the captive stood, whispered to her to
follow him, and moved slowly on in the direction in which all seemed
hurrying. When he had gotten without sight of the cabin he left, and
found that most of the crowd had passed him, he stopped, and pointing
out a small path to the maiden, told her to follow it to the walls of
the town, where he would meet her. He then passed on to the council,
and, remaining only for an instant, proceeded by a circuitous route,
to the place designated. The captive maiden awaited him, and upon his
arrival, ran forward to express her gratitude. Oloompa motioned her to
be silent, and assisting her out of the camp, they proceeded to the
spot where he had left the hunters. Upon nearing it, a hoarse voice
cried out, “who comes there?” and the barrel of a rifle was seen to
gleam in the moonlight.
“Oloompa and the captive maiden,” was the answer.
Rolfe rushed forward, but drew back when he beheld the figure before
him.
The captive maiden cried, “Richard! it is Gay!—it is Gay, though she
seems not to be;” and in an instant more she was clasped to the bosom
of Rolfe.
A few moments passed:—the first wild burst of feeling consequent upon
their meeting had scarcely subsided, when Rolfe, calling her attention
to Earth, told her that he was the friend to whom she owed so much,
and bade her thank him. “A thousand, thousand thanks!” she cried,
extending her hand to Earth. “They are a poor offering for so much
service, yet they are all that Gay now has to give.”
Earth was much affected, and replied not to her, but turning to Rolfe,
said,—“Rolfe, I wish you had not told her any thing about thanking me;
you know that to make a friend happy, is as much as Earth ever
desires.”
“Hunters,” cried Oloompa, who, since he delivered up Gay, had been
quietly looking on, “listen;—the hour has now come,—we have travelled
a long path to its end,—we part for ever.”
“Noble, noble Oloompa!” cried Rolfe, cordially grasping his hand, “oh!
say not so; come, love us, and dwell with us, and let us be friends.
All that the white man has, shall be yours.”
Oloompa replied:—“See you yon fires which burn in the distance? There
are encamped the enemies of Oloompa's race. They come to drive the red
men from their town, and force them still farther into the depths of
the forest. Oloompa saw this, yet he brought the maiden to her lover.
He served the white man; he has redeemed his promise, and is now free.
Farewell!” and saying so, he turned to depart.
“Stay! stay! Oloompa!” cried Rolfe;—“oh! name some way in which I can
pay thee for all that thou hast done for me.”
“Oloompa wants nothing of the hunters,” was the answer.
“And what becomes of the red maiden?” inquired Rolfe.
“Oloompa knows not,” he replied. “Dark clouds hang over the land. He
cannot see through them. Oloompa has no time; the white maiden will
tell all.”
“Oh!” cried Gay, “should they escape, bring her,—Oloompa! do bring
her, with her mother, and dwell with me.—I owe them gratitude and
love, and even life.”
Oloompa made no reply, and Rolfe continued:—“Oloompa! do come. You
know where our wigwam is; my home will be that of the maiden, and we
shall ever be happy to see those who have loved and served us. The
time may come, when Oloompa will not think as he now does. Then,
should it please heaven to deliver from the Prophet's hands Netnokwa
and her daughter, oh! come with them to our lodge, and we will give
you a wigwam, supply all your wants, and love you as friends.”
Oloompa was still silent, and seeing that he would not reply, Gay
continued:—“Oloompa! will you leave us in anger, after having done so
much that we can never repay? Miskwa would not do so.”
“Maiden,” replied he, “could a pale face make Oloompa change, it would
be the one before me; and had Oloompa never known other whites than
those he now sees, he would never have hated their race as he does. As
a people, they have wronged him, and he has sworn in the bitterness of
his soul to be avenged. The white man knows Oloompa will keep his
promise. Oloompa's bosom is open; he does not wrap himself up when he
talks to the white man. Go, hunters, Oloompa hates the whites, but he
has given you his hand in friendship, and he would not harm you. Bear
the maiden away with the speed of an arrow, for, ere to-morrow's sun
goes down, death will be abroad in the land.”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “once more let me entreat you to give up your
schemes of vengeance, and go and dwell with me.”
“Seek not vengeance!” answered Oloompa;—“when the fires of the whites
are kindled on the lands of the red men! Sooner bid a mother not seek
for the child she has lost. The hunter loves the white maiden; he has
travelled far to find her.—Does he now ask Oloompa to leave the red
maiden a prisoner in the Prophet's camp? Far sooner would Oloompa be
torn limb from limb, and thrown in fragments as food for dogs. Oloompa
has spoken,—we must now part,”—and saying so, he extended his hand to
Gay.
“Oloompa,” she cried, “tell Netnokwa I love her as a mother, and bear
to Miskwa my fond, my sisterly regard. Tell her to remember one who
can never forget her, and whose only wish is that she may have an
opportunity of serving her. And need I tell you how pleased I shall be
to hear of their safety? And oh! should happier days await them, bring
her with her mother to my home, and again will Gay bless and thank
you.”
“May the Great Spirit watch over and protect you as though you were
his only child,” replied Oloompa, turning from her.
He then bade the hunters farewell, again cautioned them to hurry away
with the maiden, and started forward to the Indian camp. As he left,
tears flowed from the eyes of Gay, the manly bosom of Rolfe heaved
with emotion, and even Earth, the cold, the bitter enemy of the wild
race from which Oloompa sprung, felt deeply, and frankly expressed the
high admiration he entertained for his noble foe. He also added his
most earnest wishes that the storm which impended might pass away, and
peace and happiness crown the evening hours of Oloompa.
CHAPTER XXIII.
“The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
Cries, hark! the foes come:
Charge, charge!—'tis too late to retreat.”
DRYDEN.
The spot where Oloompa left Rolfe and his party, and which they still
occupied, was a small glade or opening in the forest about half a mile
from Tippecanoe, and nearly the same distance from the American camp.
It commanded a tolerable view of each, yet they were now rendered
rather indistinct by the continual passing of dense heavy clouds over
the face of the moon, and by a thin mist which also seemed settling
over the land. For some time after he left them, they gazed in silence
on the scene. In one direction, lay the Indian town, faintly
discernible through the “struggling moon beams' misty light,” and
apparently as quiet as though it were the abode of peace and
contentment; for from it there came not a sound, and nothing indicated
life therein, save the occasional gleam of a torch which suddenly
burst upon the view, and then flitted away before you could mark its
place. In another, lay the camp of the whites, equally quiet, yet
wearing a less gloomy appearance, for their fires burned brightly, and
imparted a degree of cheerfulness to the scene.
When the flow of feeling consequent upon Oloompa's departure had
somewhat subsided, “Come, Rolfe,” said Earth, “let us do something;
and first let me advise that we go a little within the forest, for
were any one now to pass here, we should be discovered.”
“For Heaven's sake then, let us go;” said Gay, “and oh! Richard, let
us escape quickly, for should they find that I have left the camp,
they will come in pursuit.”
“Fear not, lady,” said Earth, “they are now thinking of other
things;—you will not be pursued to-night.”
“Then say, Earth,” said Rolfe, “what shall we do? shall we take
Oloompa's advice, and hurry away, or seek safety within the American
camp.”
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “I can't hurry away, that is out of the question;
I don't believe I could leave a chance like this, to save my life; and
yet I hardly know what to do. Oloompa has behaved nobly; I didn't
think it was in a red skin.”
“Oh! that he has,” cried Gay, “and so has Miskwa and Netnokwa; who
could have been kinder?”
“Well,” continued Earth, “as I was going to say, he has told us what
he thinks best, and he has his reasons for telling us what he did.
Now, you can see from the fact that the whites are encamped so near to
their town, that the Prophet is amusing them with professions of
peace. If that was not the case, you know, that as they came all the
way here to punish the Ingens for their late doings, they would have
attacked them at once. From Oloompa's hint, the Ingens may intend to
strike a blow to-night, but they can't do any thing; the whites must
beat 'em if they have a fight, for, you may be certain, General
Harrison would never have come so far upon their lands without men
enough to answer his purpose. My notion, therefore, is, that if we
could once get within the camp, we should be safe. But, Rolfe, I don't
like their large fires, we can see every thing that's going on in the
camp. Look in the Ingen town; they are too keen for that.”
“Then, Earth,” said Rolfe, “if there is a doubt, had we not better
seek safety in flight?”
“Rolfe,” answered Earth, “that will not do. If I was to run off now,
and the Ingens and whites were to take a brush, I don't think I should
ever git over it, as long as I lived.”
“Well, Earth, you may take a brush or not, as you please, but I am
determined to adopt some plan for our safety.”
“Rolfe,” replied Earth, “you are getting mighty independent all at
once; I didn't say that I was so run mad for a fight, as you seem to
think, that I would take a brush whether any body else did or not. I
merely meant that if they went at it, I should like to go snacks;—and,
I say agin, if they were to do it, and I didn't have a hand, it would
go with me to my grave. I don't believe I should ever hold my head up
agin as long as I lived. But I am just as much determined to see this
lady safe as you are.”
“Then, good sir,” said Gay, addressing Earth, “please let us fly, and
you go with us; then we shall all be safe.”
“Lady,” answered Earth, “we cannot fly, for old Juno is as stiff as if
he had the rheumatics, and all we could do, would be to move on in a
short trot.”
His remark was perfectly unintelligible to Gay, and turning to Rolfe,
she said, “tell me, what does he mean, Richard?”
Rolfe smiled at the artless manner in which she asked it, and replied,
“He means, my love, that his horse is foundered from pursuing the
party who brought you here captive;” then turning to Earth, said, “I
did not think of that, Earth; our horses are surely in no condition to
travel.”
“No,” answered Earth, “I said old Juno might move in a short trot, but
I don't believe one of 'em could move a peg, if you were to place a
dozen ears of corn in their sight, and just so far that they couldn't
reach it; and you know, if any thing could jerk 'em out of their
places, that would be the thing to do it. They were stiff when we got
off of them, and the thing is worse now; for they have been standing
some six or eight hours, or perhaps longer,—for it is so cloudy that I
can't exactly see what is the hour. No, Rolfe, 'taint worth while to
talk about running away; as I said before, the best thing we can do,
is to enter the camp. Let us get as near to it as we can to-night, and
when morning comes, go in;—we shall then be safe.”
“Would it not be better for us to go in to-night?” inquired Rolfe.
“No,” answered Earth, “that would be rather dangerous; you can see
from here, that in the camp they all seem to be asleep; the sentries
are, no doubt, keeping a bright watch, and if we were to go poking
about there to-night, we might be used up as so many Ingens, before we
could make them know who we were.”
“That we should,” said Gay; “Richard, you know they would take me for
an Indian; and indeed, I should feel ashamed to go into the camp in
the morning disguised as I am. Will you not let me try and get off
some of the paint first?”
“My love,” answered Rolfe, “that is a matter of no moment, they will
only compliment you for your heroism, and respect you the more for the
dangers you have escaped.”
“A woman will be a woman,” said Earth; “she cares more now about the
paint on her face, than she does about the fear of being scalped.”
“Oh! how can you say so,” said Gay.
“Come, Rolfe,” said Earth, “I think we had better be moving; it must
be getting towards day, and every thing is so quiet now, that we
cannot have a better time. We must leave the horses to take their
chance, and I will return and see about them to-morrow.”
“Then move on,” said Rolfe, “we will follow,” and starting off, Earth
led the way, saying, “step lightly, and let no one speak until we
stop.”
The ground over which they were now to pass, was somewhat broken, and
covered in many places with thick dwarf bushes; through these, they
had with the utmost caution made their way, and were now nearing an
open prairie, covered with tall grass, which lay immediately in front
of the camp, and between it and the Indian town. Earth halted a moment
when he beheld it, and seemed to hesitate as if doubting whether it
were prudent to proceed or not. But gazing around, and seeing nothing
to excite his fears, he whispered to his companions, “stoop low, and
move on.” He had now continued his way some short distance further,
and until a small cluster of bushes indicated that there the land was
rather drier than that over which they had just been passing, and
thither he bent his steps. But no sooner had he reached the little
knoll upon which they grew, than stopping suddenly, he beckoned to his
companions, and when they had approached him, crouched down and
motioned to them to do the same.
“What see you?” said Rolfe.
Earth made no reply, but pressed his finger to his lips, and then
raised his hand to his ear, as if endeavouring to catch some passing
sound. Not a moment elapsed, before there was heard the light step of
coming feet. “Lay closer down,” said Earth. The sound increased, and
then died away, as though it proceeded from persons who were passing.
When all seemed quiet, Earth gently raised his head, and scarcely did
he do so, before he heard persons moving in another direction, and
through the dim moonlight, saw a party of Indian warriors treading
their way with hurried, though cautious steps, toward the camp of the
whites. Then listening a moment,—“by gum, Rolfe, the prairie is
nat'ally alive with them; I can hear them in every direction; we did
run a great risk; they must have seen us when we crossed that piece of
grass, and taken us for Ingens, I reckon.”
“Oh! then I fear we shall yet be discovered,” cried Gay.
“Oh, hush! Rolfe, I wish you would make her be quiet. There will be
all sorts of work presently; the Ingens are moving on to attack the
whites.”
“Oh, God!” said Rolfe, “is it possible? may they not be
reconnoitring?”
“No,” answered Earth; “in a night attack they generally go off in
small parties; hardly ever more than three or four at a time.”
“Oh!” cried Gay, “is there no way in which we can give our friends
notice? Should the Indians enter the camp while they sleep, they will
all be massacred.”
“This is what Oloompa meant,” said Rolfe, “when he told us to hurry
away.”
“Yes,” said Earth, “and we may wish we had taken his advice. I do wish
those fires were out,—hush!” and at that moment, two Indians were seen
to glide by, within rifle shot:—“Look at them,” continued Earth,
“there can be no mistake, and I am not sure but that the camp is
surrounded before this.”
“Is there no way,” repeated Gay, “in which we can warn the whites of
their danger?”
“Lady, you are the real genuine,” said Earth; “most people would think
of themselves first; but you are right; if the Ingens get into the
camp before the whites have notice, they will use 'em all up. I think
a single life is nobly disposed of, when given for the preservation of
many, so I will slip away and risk it;—hush!”—then listening,—“I hear
some more passing along on the edge of the prairie. I will try and get
into the camp if I can; if not, I will fire my gun and give the alarm.
But oh! Rolfe, if I can only get inside, and tell them what the Ingens
are about, we will have as much fun as if we were shooting turkies at
a bait.” Then rising,—“good bye, may God bless you both.”
“Stop, stop!” said Gay, addressing him, “I did not mean that you
should go.”
“Lady, I intended it from the first minute;—I was only waiting for
them to stop passing a little, that I might at least have a chance to
do some good.”
“Earth,” said Rolfe, quickly, “what is to become of us, if you leave?”
“Oh! I can do no good by remaining now,” said Earth; “you had better
conceal yourselves as well as you can, and remain where you are;—keep
a sharp look out, and if an Ingen comes near you, shoot him down. You
will hardly be in danger, unless they stumble over you, for you see
they have something else to think of. Watch how the battle goes, and
if you find it going against us, why do the best you can; take the
woods, and try and reach the settlements. The Ingens are now passing
in every direction:—it will not do for you to stir yet; so, hide
awhile longer; keep close, until the rifles begin to talk pretty pert,
then, if you choose, get as far as you can from the town, and wait the
result. If the Ingens are beaten, come to the camp, and if every thing
goes well, we shall again meet; if not, why, as I said before, do the
best you can; and as in that event, I shall probably be used up, we
had as well, before we part, shake hands; for it may be for the last
time.” Taking Gay's hand, he grasped it cordially, saying,—“lady,
these little fingers tell that the forest should not have been thy
home.—Good bye! may heaven bless you.”—then, turning to Rolfe,—“well,
Rolfe, we have seen some strange things in our time. I wish I had told
you, before we parted, of the last fight that old Jupe had; but I
hav'nt time now. If I should happen to quit to night, why sometimes
think of Earth when you take a glass, and recollect, that though a
rough fellow, his intentions were always to do what he believed right.
Farewell!”
Gay and Rolfe made no reply, but were much affected, and moving off,
Earth turned and said,—“there is one thing I forgot, which I had as
well tell you: you are both young, and likely to travel the same path;
so, try and go along in a spirit of compromise; we all have our
quirks, and it is no use to get cross about small things;” and still
talking, he glided away through the grass, and his last words which
were heard by Rolfe, were,—“take a brush.”
Continuing to approach the camp, Earth moved on as cautiously as
though he were one of the party of Indians now attempting to surprise
it; thinking that, even should he be seen, he would not be recognized,
but regarded merely as one of the assailing band. Leaving him to
continue his exertions to enter the camp, we must return for a moment
to the Prophet.
As Oloompa expected when he left Tippecanoe, the warriors succeeded in
forcing the Prophet to give them immediate battle, and in accordance
with that resolve, they all left the town, and at the moment that
Earth was endeavouring to enter the American camp, they were creeping
stealthily around it, or rather, lying down, were cautiously drawing
their bodies through the grass and bushes. When Elkswatawa determined
to fight, he again resumed the character of Prophet, which for a few
moments he had laid aside, in his great anxiety to preserve peace, and
calling his warriors around him previous to their setting out, he
reiterated to them his predictions of success beyond a doubt, and
renewed the promise of the Great Spirit, that the balls of the whites
should fall harmless among them, and that they should have light,
while their enemies would be involved in darkness. The fiat of Heaven
itself could not have inspired them with more confidence, and scarcely
were the words uttered, before stealing away in small parties, they
began to surround the American camp, with a hope of realizing its
truth.
When the plan of attack was determined on, at the Prophet's suggestion
it was also agreed, that he himself was not to mingle in the fight;
his person was too sacred; but, remaining in the rear, he was to
direct by his counsel, and hold intercourse with the Great Spirit. The
object of the Indians in surrounding the camp, and approaching it so
cautiously, was at a given signal to despatch all the sentries, and
rushing forward before the whites could be organized, commence the
massacre. At the time that Earth left Rolfe, they had already
approached so near to the American lines, that even the guards as they
moved on their posts were heard by them, and still all went well. Not
a whisper, not a sound, save the heavy tread of the sentinel as he
walked his path, broke upon the ear. Leaving them for a moment, let us
enter within the camp of the whites.
It now wanted a quarter of four o'clock, and General Harrison had
already risen, and was conversing with his aids, who, wrapped in their
blankets, were reclining around him.
“How long before we shall turn out, general?” was asked by one of
them.
“Ten minutes;”—was the reply.
The mist, which for some hours had been gathering over the land, was
now condensed into a cold drizzling rain; thick clouds swept by ever
and anon, obscuring the moon, and all was hushed in silence, when the
report of a gun rang through the camp, and with it came the war-whoop
of five or six hundred Indians. Then, in an instant, was heard the
long roll of the drum, and there was hurrying to and fro, “and
mounting in hot haste,” and swift winged messengers of death were
flying in every direction. From one end of the camp to the other,
there was heard the crash of arms, and the whites fired against an
unseen enemy, and yet they saw themselves falling, fast and thick. It
was now discovered that their camp fires only served to render them
visible, while they tended more effectually to conceal the Indians.
They were, therefore, hurriedly covered over, and then the doings of
death were done in darkness, or by faint glimpses caught from the red
glare of the discharging guns. On each side might be seen the
impetuous onset, and the deadly struggle; and men fell grappling hand
to hand, yet saw not the face of him who dealt the blow.
While thus the battle raged, the Prophet was stationed on an eminence
at a comfortable distance, and though he fought not, he sang loud and
long, and howled his war song until it reached the ears of his
warriors. But now a messenger came from them with the tidings that,
counter to his predictions, the balls of the whites came straight, and
that his men were falling. “Fight on! fight on!” cried the Prophet,
“it will soon be as I said;” and when his answer was borne to his
warriors, they again rushed upon their enemies, and the tomahawk
struggled for life or death with the musket. The bayonet was pushed
aside and the soldier brained with the war-club, and hand to hand they
fought, and yielded not. On each side would the combatants, with a
recklessness of life scarcely ever before witnessed, approach the
fires and mend them up, for the purpose of adjusting their firelocks.
They then afforded a fair mark, and rarely, if ever, returned to their
ranks. Thus they fought until morning dawned; but now that discipline
and tactics were brought into play, valour could do no more. The
half-armed Indians could no longer contend with deep lines of well
armed soldiery. There was no longer hope, and they left the field, and
were beaten; yet for the red men who had fallen many times their
number of whites had found a sad and speedy death; and among them were
several officers—noble spirits—who embodied in their own characters
all that was ennobling in human nature, and during the short time of
that struggle, won for themselves fame, which will perish only when
the battle itself shall be forgotten.
The details of this battle prove it, on the part of the Indians, to
have been the best contested engagement ever fought by them; and when
we take into consideration the many disadvantages under which they
laboured, when we reflect that they were fewer in number than their
opponents, that they were badly armed, and not knowing the use of
cartridges, were obliged to load by guess in the dark, while the
whites possessed all the advantages belonging to a well disciplined
and well equipped corps, we cannot but commend the bravery with which
they commenced and sustained the attack. They fought with a
desperation never before witnessed, and yielded only, when farther
resistance was absolute madness. This was no doubt owing to the faith
which they had in the declarations of the Prophet, who had often told
them that success was certain; and likewise to the high state of
excitement generated by the continual performance of his mysterious
rites. When the Indians retreated, they re-entered their town, and the
whites, content with their advantage, did not pursue them, but passed
the day in burying their dead, taking care of the wounded, and
fortifying their camp, lest the attack should be renewed. To them, the
seventh of November was a sad day, for very many of their companions
who had arrived the evening before, flushed with hope, were numbered
among the slain.
The firing had long ceased, and morning was several hours advanced,
when two persons were seen to emerge from the forest, and approach the
American lines. Earthquake, who had reached the camp too late to warn
the whites of their danger, but who had nevertheless succeeded in
entering it and had borne himself gallantly in the conflict, was the
first to discover them, and rushing forward he heartily congratulated
them upon their safety.
“Well, Rolfe, what became of you?”
“Why, we took your advice, Earth; escaped to the woods and concealed
ourselves until we discovered that the Indians were beaten. And pray
what became of you after leaving us?”
“Ah! that will make half a dozen good yarns,” said Earth, “I'll spin
'em some of these times, when we have less to do. I had right smart
fun, though I didn't get there quite soon enough. One of the sentinels
saw an Ingen in the grass, crawling along, and cracked it into him,
just as I was looking about to see where I could best get into the
camp. Rolfe, I thought of you both when they all whooped. I tell you
what, it was almost enough to turn a man gray:”—then, turning to Gay,
“I suppose you were badly frightened.”
“Not so much at the whooping as I was at the firing,” she replied. “I
have been so long with the Indians, that I have become familiarized to
all their customs. They often whoop in their games and amusements, and
therefore, to me it was not so startling as it was to Richard. He was
most frightened, and wished often for you. But tell me, and I almost
fear to ask, how many have fallen?”
“Ah!” said Earth, “we had better not talk about that; it is mighty
bad; we can't yet tell how many?”
“How many Indians?” said Rolfe.
“That we can't tell either,” said Earth.
“Did Oloompa fall?” inquired Gay.
“I don't know,” said Earth, “I saw him last night, after I left you;
but we will talk of that another time. We are now just going within
the camp.”
“Earth, I wish you would try and get permission for us to enter a
tent; for Gay is tired to death, and would not like to be gazed at and
harassed with questions now.”
“Do, for Heaven's sake,” she added, “for, indeed, I am worn with
fatigue, and now, if I only knew that Miskwa and her mother were safe,
I should be happy.”
“Happy! Gay;”—said Rolfe, “see there, they are burying the dead.”
“Richard, I only mean as happy as one can be, situated as I am,” she
replied.
While thus conversing, Earth had hurried away to obtain the use of a
tent, and Rolfe and Gay, having entered the camp, their appearance was
hailed with much pleasure, and every comfort which it afforded was
readily extended to them. Her story was soon known, and even there
excited much attention. Her escape was regarded as little less than
miraculous, and the many difficulties which she had already
encountered won for her the regard of many who cheered her with the
hope that all dangers were now passed, and that she would soon reach
the settlements in safety. At this time Earthquake rejoined them,
saying that one of the officers had kindly begged that the lady would
occupy his tent, and Gay complaining much of fatigue, was by Rolfe
conducted thither, and left to repose.
Throughout the whole of the day, the army lay within their
entrenchments, fearing to venture out; for they had suffered very
heavy loss, and now knew neither the number of the Indians, nor
whither they had gone. Night came, and still no enemy appeared. Every
precaution was taken to prevent another surprise, and they awaited the
return of morning with the most anxious solicitude. It came:—beautiful
and cheering was the breaking day, and with its first light, was heard
the morning drum, calling the soldiers to arms; and, soon after, the
whole army was in motion, and on parade.—The dragoons and mounted
riflemen were then detailed,—ordered to reconnoitre the town, and
report the number and position of the Indians. They performed their
task, and returned quickly, saying, that the town was deserted,—not an
Indian to be seen.
Orders were then given that the town should be burned, and the
soldiers set out for that purpose. Rolfe and Earth, leaving Gay
protected by the detachment stationed at the camp, proceeded with
them. Moving forward, they had, at every step, examined the features
of the Indians who were slain, fearing lest they should find Oloompa
among the number. He was not with those who lay around the camp, where
only the battle had raged; and now they continued on to the deserted
town, for the purpose of prosecuting their search, knowing that
thither had been carried the wounded.
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “you told us when we met you yesterday, that you
saw him during the action:—tell me where?”
“It was not long,” said Earth, “after I got into the camp. I'll tell
you all about it some of these times. It was a mighty nice thing,
that, before;—I think I had just used up a fellow, who slipped in and
squatted by the fire to fix his flint;—well, as I was saying, it was
at that time; I was loading, and mighty fast too, about as fast as if
a neighbour had had his fingers in my eyes, and I was anxious to shoot
him, when I saw a fellow with his rifle up, taking deliberate sight at
me. It was too late to get out of the way, and I made up my mind to
give up the ghost, when I saw his rifle drop. As he put it down, he
cried, ‘hah!’ and instantly disappeared in the darkness. It was just
before we covered up the fires, and I only got a glimpse of his face
as he turned off; but, Rolfe, I never saw him look as he did then.”
“Then, Earth, he spared you even in battle.”
“He did so, Rolfe, and I don't believe he would have raised his rifle
agin me at first, if he had known me.”
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “if he is wounded, I hope we shall find him, for
he behaved so nobly I should be pleased to have it in my power to
extend to him any assistance.”
“So would I,” answered Earth, “for I set him down as an exception to
all I ever knowed. I wonder what has become of the old woman, and the
Ingen gal; he had a mighty strong liking for her.”
“Oh! I trust,” said Rolfe, “that they escaped, and are safe. Gay told
me last night how kind they had been to her. Earth, no mother or
sister could have been more so, and then, in conniving at her escape,
they risked their lives, and may for ought we know, have already
suffered death on that account.”
“I reckon the Prophet's hands were too full for any thing of that
sort,” answered Earth.
Thus conversing, they entered the Indian town. It bore marks of having
been deserted in great haste, for large quantities of corn and other
provisions were left, together with all their household utensils. Some
guns, which had not as yet been divested of the coverings in which
they were imported, with a small quantity of the best double glazed
rifle powder, were also found, affording convincing proof, if proof
were wanting, that the Indians were aided and abetted by the English,
before hostilities were declared between them and the Americans.
While the soldiers, in pursuance of orders, were burning the town,
Rolfe and Earth continued their search, with the hope of finding some
trace by which they might satisfy themselves of the safety of those in
whose fate they were interested. They discovered in the town several
warriors, who, brought from the scene of battle, had there died of
their wounds; but they could recognise in neither the ill-fated
Oloompa. Proceeding on, and searching cabin after cabin, they reached
the one in which had been confined Netnokwa and her daughter.—Upon
entering it, Rolfe started back, and cried out, “Oh! God! Earth,
look!”—
Would that we could, in the due course of our narrative, draw a veil
over that which follows:—Netnokwa and her lovely daughter had fallen
victims to the Prophet's cruelty. Irritated by the failure in his
attempt upon the American camp, he had, upon his return, discovered
the escape of the white maiden, which he could account for only
through their agency, and attributing to it his defeat, he harked on
against them, his infuriated followers.—The ‘old oak of the forest’
was laid low, and the ‘loveliest flower which ever had its birth on
the prairie,’ was cut down in its bloom! They lay in death as they had
lived in life,—together.
A crowd soon collected to view the spectacle.—Rolfe told their story,
and dwelt upon the kindness they had shown to the maiden now in the
American camp, and their agency in her escape. Their characters won
the respect, and their fate excited the sympathy of all. There now
only remained the sad duty of interring their remains. Rolfe told
Earth, that it was better not to tell Gay, until the last offices were
over;—that she was now worn down with fatigue, and to witness them
would only add to her distress, without imparting any consolation.
Earth accorded with him in opinion, and making such preparations as
circumstances permitted, they, assisted by a few friends, bore them
away to a quiet part of the town, and deeply deploring their sad fate,
consigned them in silence to the grave. The ceremony was sadly
contrasted with the scene around it. Rolfe saw the soldiers setting
fire to the houses, and eagerly bent on destroying what remained of
Indian property. He thought of the fortune which had made him
acquainted with several members of that ill-starred race; he reflected
upon the many fruitless attempts they had so often made to stay the
advance of the whites;—then passed before him the conduct of those who
had so nobly served him, and leaving Earth to mingle with the crowd,
he returned to the American camp, and seeking her for whose sake he
had encountered so many dangers, he said:—“Gay, my love! I must still
add another pang to your misfortunes.”
“Oh! what! what!” she cried, “does danger threaten you?”
“No;—Netnokwa and her daughter”——
“Are killed?”
“Yes,” said Rolfe.
“Oh! Richard!”—and covering her face, she was silent for a few
moments,—“what have I done! all who love me, seem fated to death! Oh!
Miskwa; Miskwa! could not all thy virtues save thee!”
“Come, love,” said Rolfe, “rather rejoice that you escaped; for the
same fate awaited you.”
“Oh! Richard! rejoice in the death of one who knew not wrong, and who
ever loved her friends more dearly than herself! but for you, I had
rather have suffered with her than live and know that I may have
brought misfortune on herself and mother. Oh! kind, dear Miskwa!”
Rolfe used all his exertions to console her,—assured her that the
death of Miskwa and her mother had been caused solely by the cruel
orders of the Prophet; and saying every thing that he could to sooth
her, left her for a time to her own meditations.
The town had been burned, the smoke was still rising from its ruins,
the soldiers had all returned to their camp, and it was evening when
Rolfe and Gay stood alone over the fresh grave of Netnokwa and her
daughter. Upon arriving there, Gay wept bitterly, and vented her grief
in passionate exclamations. “Oh! Richard!” she cried, “only a short
time since, and she was planning my safety, regardless of her own! and
now”—her utterance was choked with grief.
“Come, Gay,” said Rolfe, “let us return.”
She spoke not, but continued moistening the earth with her tears.
Rolfe then entreated her to leave, saying, that the army would set out
on the next morning, for the settlements, and that it was necessary
that they should at once return to the camp. Twilight was shedding its
influence over the scene, when bidding a long, last farewell to the
spot where now remained those who had so nobly served her, she
permitted him to lead her away.
On the morning of the 9th the troops were early in motion. The Indians
were no where to be seen, and fearing lest they should get
reinforcements, and return to the attack, they determined to move
forward on their march to Vincennes. Forming in the same order in
which they had arrived, their loss was more apparent than it had been;
and served to shed a gloom over the whole army. All the wagons, with
the exception of one, were filled with the wounded, and in that were
carried the arms of those who had fallen. There being now no means of
transporting their baggage, they resolved to destroy it, and General
Harrison setting the example, it was cheerfully followed.
The army then took up its line of march, and Gay, mounted on
horseback, and escorted by Rolfe and Earth, proceeded under its
protection as far as Vincennes, where they rested a few days, and then
continued their journey to Kentucky.
CHAPTER XXIV.
“Last of a noble race,
To a lonely bed they bore him,
'Twas a green, still, solemn place,
Where the mountain pine waves o'er him;
Woods alone
Seem to moan,
Wild streams to deplore him.”
MRS. HEMANS.
We have now traced to a close, the main incidents in our story, and
still it is unfinished as far as regards the fate of several
characters who have played a conspicuous part in the foregoing
narrative. To give a brief sketch of their subsequent history is now
our purpose.
With the loss of the battle of Tippecanoe at once sunk the character
of Elkswatawa as a Prophet. He had prophesied success to those who
should be engaged in the battle, and with it an exemption from all
injury. His prophecies were proved false; for the battle was lost, and
many of his warriors killed. His power was now gone; those who had
lost relatives in the late action, reviled and abused him as a bad
man, and public opinion among the Indians was also very strong against
him on account of his having embroiled them with the whites, and
plunged them into difficulties from which they now saw no hope of
escape. In this state of things, he retired with a small party, to one
of the Huron villages, where he determined to remain until the
opposition against him had in some measure spent its force, when he
would again endeavour to regain that influence which he before
possessed. The immediate consequence of the defeat of the Indians at
Tippecanoe was a disposition on their part to sue for peace. The
chiefs of all the tribes which were in the late action, the Shawanees
alone excepted, repaired to Vincennes, and delivered up their arms;
and the Prophet's band having dwindled down to a mere handful of men,
circumstances seemed to promise a speedy and amicable adjustment of
the Indian affairs.
When the battle of Tippecanoe was fought, Tecumseh was absent at the
south, having avowed to General Harrison, previous to his departure,
that his object in visiting the Indians in that quarter, was to
endeavour to unite them in the confederacy he had already formed. But
no sooner had the battle taken placed and the Indians delivered up
their arms and sued for peace, than he returned to his lands on the
Wabash. When he found that all the plans which he had so long been
maturing, had been frustrated by the rashness of Elkswatawa and his
followers, his soul was wrung with anguish:—he vented his wrath
against him, and wept over the derangement of his schemes.—He had now
with him but eight followers, and the band of the Prophet amounted to
but few more;—and this was the result of their joint labours for so
many years. When Tecumseh saw this, he repined no longer, but
reconciling all differences with Elkswatawa, went at once to work to
endeavour to regain what he had lost.
Previous to Tecumseh's visit to the south, Mr. Madison, who was then
President of the United States, had expressed a wish, that those
chiefs who were dissatisfied with the late treaties, should visit
Washington, for the purpose of stating their grievances; at the same
time, promising them that they should be redressed if practicable.
Tecumseh had consented to do so, upon his return; and now, for the
purpose of gaining time, and also quieting still further the
apprehensions of the whites, he sent a messenger to General Harrison,
avowing that he was ready to set out with the deputation which had
been invited to proceed to Washington, to treat for peace; but that
his wish was to go as its chief.
He was answered, that he might visit Washington with the deputation,
but not in the capacity he desired. This wounded his pride, for he
thought himself entitled to the rank to which he aspired, and with the
refusal he relinquished all thoughts of peace. He saw that the battle
was to be fought, and he nerved himself for the contest. His exertions
were now more unremitting than ever:—again he visited every
neighbouring tribe; called its warriors together, depicted the wrongs
they suffered, dwelt upon the ruinous consequences of such a peace as
the whites would dictate, and urged them on to battle for their
rights. He spoke of the invasion of the whites, and the battle of
Tippecanoe, and in fine, left no topic untouched, which was calculated
to excite the Indians against the United States. The Prophet also was
again seen wandering far and wide, and preaching the words of the
Great Spirit. His failure at Tippecanoe, he rationally accounted for,
by saying that some woman had, by touching his sacred utensils on the
evening of the battle, destroyed their charm, and so specious were the
devices he used, and so ignorant the multitude upon which he operated,
that we find him again playing quite a conspicuous part. But he was
never destined to regain the power which but a short time before he
had wielded. Tecumseh now avowed himself the master spirit of the
projected enterprise, and rose as rapidly in favour with the Indians,
as the Prophet had declined. The result of his exertions will be seen,
when, notwithstanding the deranged state in which he found his affairs
upon his return, two months after this time, we find him at the head
of a roving band, spreading terror and devastation along the whole
range of our north-western frontier. Nothing could equal the fear he
inspired, for so extensive was the confederation he had formed, that
incursions would be made by members of his band, and families murdered
at a distance of one and two hundred miles apart. When pursuit was
made, the Indians were gone, and the occurrence of these things at so
many different points, tended so much to distract and divide public
attention, that it was found impossible to embody the militia at any
one place, in sufficient numbers to be of service. No one knew when he
was safe, for murders were committed in places deemed hitherto secure,
and very often the attack was directed where least expected. There was
no guarding against it, for no one could tell where the blow was to
fall, and the result was, that entire families were seen deserting
their homes, and flying they knew not where for protection. Many
sought Vincennes, but scarcely would they reach it, before rumour
represented that the Prophet, with a numerous band was coming down
upon the town, and the fugitives left it, to continue their flight. In
every quarter, was terror, consternation, and fear exhibited.
To counteract this, all the troops under General Harrison were called
out, and so disposed as to protect as much of the frontier as
possible, and a special messenger was likewise despatched, for the
purpose of calling together a council of the tribes, and either
settling upon the terms of peace, or else securing their neutrality.
This was essential, because the chiefs of many of the tribes had
delivered up their arms, after the battle of Tippecanoe, and expressed
a willingness to treat for peace; and it was also highly necessary,
because the attitude assumed by England at this time, warranted the
belief that war would soon be declared between the two countries; and
as in case of such an event, the contest would lay in a great measure
along the lakes, it became a matter of great moment, to conciliate as
many of the tribes as practicable.
The special messenger appointed by General Harrison, so far succeeded
in his mission, that, in May, 1812, a grand council of twelve tribes
was held at Mississinniway, on the Wabash. Each tribe had its orator,
who addressed the council, and all were for peace, with the exception
of Tecumseh. Even he, seeing that all were against him, dissembled,
and said he was willing to treat for peace; but in his speeches, he
never lost sight of the injuries which had been inflicted by the
whites, nor did he fail to advert to the causes of complaint which he
considered most irritating. He deemed it unwise there to avow that his
intentions were for war, yet at the close of one of his speeches, in
allusion to the whites, he said, “should they come again and make an
unprovoked attack on us at our village, we will die like men, but we
will never strike the first blow.” During the discussion, the Prophet
was spoken of by several of the tribes, as a bad man, and their
present difficulties were attributed to him. They protested that they
would no longer listen to his doctrines, nor have any connexion with
him; and the council adjourned, leaving an impression on the whites,
that peace would be adhered to by most of the tribes which were
present.
Although Tecumseh had expressed a willingness to be at peace, and a
disposition to remain so, no sooner was the council broken up than we
find him going among the very tribes whose chiefs had just pledged
themselves to preserve peace, strengthening the confederacy which he
had already formed, and urging the Indians in the most exciting
language, to prepare for battle. With the breaking up of the council
at Mississinniway, he drew off all reserve, and no longer pretended to
conceal his designs. He proclaimed that his voice was for battle, and
battle he would have until he and his warriors should be no more, or
until the Ohio river should be acknowledged as the northern boundary
of the United States, and a promise on the part of the whites be
given, never more to purchase lands of the Indians, without the
consent of every tribe on the continent.
The breach between England and the United States, was now every day
widening, and all foresaw that war was inevitable. In consequence of
this, extensive preparations were made:—forts were built and
garrisoned, and the whole northern frontier placed in the best
possible state of defence. Tecumseh, who when he first projected the
scheme which he had been so long maturing, was as bitter in his
feelings against the English as the Americans, now saw that he could
do nothing by opposing both, and that he must at once take part with
one or the other. The injuries inflicted by the Americans, were fresh
in his mind; he saw them in possession of lands to which he thought
his tribe entitled, and he saw them grasping at the small portion of
territory yet left to the red men. He had received overtures before
this, from English agents, and he now bent his steps toward the Canada
lines.
On the 18th of June, of the year 1812, war was declared against
England, and affairs in the west wearing a more alarming aspect,
greater preparations became necessary. To General Harrison was
assigned the command of the western army, and all his exertions were
devoted to making preparations for the opening campaign. Tecumseh had,
in the meantime, formed an alliance with the English; for soon after
his return to the Wabash, he was heard to state to the commander at
Fort Wayne, while on his way to the Malden council, that he had orders
from the English, to receive twelve horse loads of ammunition, for the
use of his people at Tippecanoe. He was also placed at the head of the
Anglo-Indian Department, and to him was assigned the rank of a general
officer in the English army.
The council at Malden, to which allusion has been made above, was
called by the English for the purpose of counteracting the effect of
that which had been held at Mississinniway, and with a hope of gaining
over to their side, the few tribes which still adhered to the American
cause. It was numerously attended; Tecumseh and the prophet, Elliot, a
British Indian agent, and the commanding English officer, were all
present. The few tribes which had resisted the influence of Tecumseh
and the Prophet, and still adhered to the American cause, were
threatened and persuaded, but in vain; they remained firm; and after a
warm and animated discussion, all the chiefs who were favourable to
the English cause, seized the hatchet of their English
father.—Tecumseh was the first to do so,—as emblematical of their
determination,—saying, “we now come forward and take hold of your war
hatchet, and will assist you to fight against the Americans.” The
council then adjourned. Tecumseh now redoubled his
exertions,—journeying by night and day, he again visited the tribes of
his confederacy, and to each applied that stimulus which was most
likely to excite them to immediate action. Some he persuaded, others
he threatened; no labour fatigued him; no exertion was too great; and,
while he himself was thus engaged, his emissaries were likewise
travelling in every direction for the purpose of assembling the
Indians.[1]
[Footnote 1: See note E.]
Such were the exertions of Tecumseh, and although they were so far
crowned with success, that by his means a greater number of Indians
were embodied than were ever before known to have assembled at any
former time, still he failed in the accomplishment of those great ends
for which he had so long been labouring. He failed in establishing the
Ohio River as the north-western boundary of the United States, which
he often asserted to be a favourite measure, and his determination to
effect. Yet, his endeavours to do so, have won for him a reputation
which will last until the aborigines of our country shall be
forgotten. He also failed to unite in one confederacy, as was his
purpose, all the tribes in the great Mississippi valley. Still his
visit to the south has generally been regarded as the exciting cause
of the subsequent hostility of the Indians in that quarter.
When Tecumseh and Elkswatawa commenced their operations, no improper
motive influenced them. They contended for the possession of a waste
and unimproved territory. They fought to establish the principle, that
all the lands held by the Indians, belonged to the whole collectively,
and not to particular tribes. Believing that the United States had
grievously wronged them in purchasing large tracts from a single
tribe, they thenceforth resolved, that it should be regarded as common
property, never to be disposed of without the consent of all. They
also united, heart and soul, endeavouring to fix a limit to the
growing power of the United States. For they saw the stream of
population fast pouring upon their lands, and knew that, unless
stayed, it would soon sweep from them the few possessions they still
held.
These, with them, were praiseworthy objects, and by them for a long
time, were they solely influenced. But, circumstances changed in a
measure, the current of their thoughts, and thenceforward personal
vengeance urged them on in all their operations. At first, their
resentment was against the whites, whether as English or Americans,
they knew no difference; it was the whites who had wrested from them
their lands. But when they saw that hostilities were about to commence
between England and America, and reflected upon the growing power of
the latter, they began to waver in their original purpose. They gave
their ears to the soft persuasions of the English agents, who
flattered their pride, courted their assistance, sympathized with them
in all their sufferings, and attributed their misfortunes to the
grasping power of the Americans. When the brothers heard these things,
and remembered that those oft told tales were not the date of
yesterday, but had been reiterated for years, they yielded, and in
lending their assistance to the English, changed in a great degree the
holy nature of the war they were waging.
It is not our purpose to enter minutely into the details of all the
campaigns in which Tecumseh was conspicuous, and therefore we must
condense the events of his latter days into a few brief pages. We do
this unwillingly, for every incident connected with him is
interesting, and proves him to have possessed a great mind, imbued
with chivalry of character which would have shed lustre over any
person, in any age. Throughout the whole of the contest, his conduct
was bold, frank, and manly, and though a savage, no act of inhumanity
ever stained his fair fame. The cause which called forth his exertions
was an holy one; it was to stay the encroachments of the whites, to
render the rights of his countrymen respected, and secure to them the
quiet possession of the lands which they still retained. In his own
beautiful language, he compared the continual advancement of the white
settlements to a “mighty wave overspreading the land,” and the
confederacy he was forming, to “a dam made to resist it.”
The history of the Prophet is so blended with that of Tecumseh, that
we cannot well separate them, even did we wish it. Cowardly, cruel,
and treacherous, he possessed but few redeeming virtues. Yet all the
incidents which marked his career as a Prophet, prove him to have been
a most extraordinary man. In the first place, the assuming of a
character which was founded in deception, and the many petty artifices
which he was called on daily to practise for so long a time, in order
to sustain that character, prove that he must have had a mind both
singularly constituted and of great power. And this is still more
apparent, when, also, we reflect that, notwithstanding the most
violent opposition from the chiefs of all the tribes upon which he
operated, and also from the whites, long before his designs were
regarded as hostile, he succeeded in creating in his own person a
power which was felt throughout the remotest tribes, and in wielding
an influence not less fatal and mysterious in its effects, than was
that of the inquisition, in the plentitude of its power. That power
must have been great, and a great mind alone could have created it,
which enabled him to lead as he pleased, the lawless band of Indians
who generally accompanied him; which enabled him, like Prospero, who,
by the wave of his wand, called up tempests from the vasty deep, at
his bidding, to lash his followers into the fury of a raging storm, or
hush them when excited, into quiet deep as that of a sleeping child.
But, luckily for the whites, with the battle of Tippecanoe, was lost
the influence of the Prophet. Had he won that battle, or had the
Indians, throughout the north-western war, fought with the same
desperation which marked their conduct at Tippecanoe, the result,
though in all probability the same, would, by the whites, have been
far more dearly purchased. Yet, although he there failed, he relaxed
not in his exertions; for, after this, we often find him associated
with Tecumseh, though always playing a subordinate part.
But, as regards Tecumseh, if there be one trait in his character more
attractive than another, it is the clemency and humanity which ever
marked his conduct; and this is the more remarkable, when we regard
the many irritating circumstances which urged him on in his hostility
to the United States. Had he, in the many contests in which he
engaged, acted according to the general rule of Indian warfare, he
would still have been great, then how much brighter appears his fame,
when we recollect, that, during the north-western war, atrocities were
perpetrated without a parallel in the annals of civilized warfare, and
that against Tecumseh not a single act of wanton cruelty was ever
charged. When the battle, or rather the massacre of the River Raisin
took place, Tecumseh was collecting his warriors on the Wabash, and
his after conduct proves that, had he been present, the scene that
there occurred, would not now remain a blot upon the fame of England.
In one of the sorties from Fort Meigs, many Americans were captured,
and when confined and disarmed, the Indians proceeded inhumanly to
butcher them. Tecumseh having heard what was going on, rushed to the
spot, reproached them with their cruelty, and stopped the massacre. He
is said to have stipulated with General Proctor for the delivery of
General Harrison into his hands, in the event of his being captured.
What disposition he would have made of him, had it so happened, we can
never know, and can only conjecture from what is known of his
character. In all probability his pleasure would have been to have
extended to him the hospitality of his wigwam, and like Roderick Dhu,
have guided him safely beyond the confines of his lands, and then set
him free.
Tecumseh succeeded in bringing more men into the field than were ever
before embodied by any other chieftain. From a single excursion on the
Wabash, he returned at one time, with six hundred warriors, and from
the commencement of hostilities, up to the period of the battle of the
Thames, was hovering along our frontiers, with a force of from two to
three thousand. At the head of two thousand warriors, he aided General
Proctor, in the two attempts which he made on Fort Meigs, and was
likewise engaged in many other skirmishes along our line of posts.
But distinguished as Tecumseh was for his deeds as a warrior, we have
ever regarded him as still more conspicuous, from the convincing
proofs he has left, that he was an orator, in the highest sense of the
term. That he was fearless, see his declarations in council, when
surrounded by his enemies. What apophthegm, though uttered in Rome, in
her happiest days, surpasses his reply to the interpreter, when,
fatigued from speaking in council, at Vincennes, he saw that no chair
had been provided for him. “Your father,” (alluding to General
Harrison,) said the interpreter, “requests you to take a chair,”—at
the same moment handing one. “My father!”—replied Tecumseh, “the sun
is my father, the earth my mother; upon her bosom I will repose;”—and,
suiting the action to his words, he laid himself on the ground. What
more striking than his reply to General Harrison, when discussing in
his own tent, the probability of war. Alluding to the situation which
the President of the United States would occupy in such an event, he
replied,—“True, he is so far off, that the war will not injure him; he
may sit still in his town, and drink his wine, while you and I will
have to fight it out;” or the words of Tecumseh, when, in one of his
speeches, alluding to the earthquake which overwhelmed New Madrid, he
says:—“The Great Spirit is angry with our enemies; he speaks in
thunder, and the earth swallows up villages, and drinks up the
Mississippi; the wide waters will cover their low lands, and the Great
Spirit will sweep from the earth, with his terrible breath, those who
escape to the hills.” Of all his speeches which have been preserved,
the one which we here extract, gives perhaps the best idea of his
manner and mode of expression. In judging of it, as of all other
Indian productions, we should make allowance for the loss they must
necessarily sustain in being translated, and secondly, for the fact
that, as a general remark, all the persons who have been employed as
interpreters among them, have generally been uneducated men. Tecumseh,
being at Malden, with General Proctor, when the latter began to make
preparations for retreating, in consequence of Perry's victory, and
not knowing why he was hurrying away, demanded a council in the name
of all the Indians, and spoke as follows:—
“Father—Listen to your children! You have them all now before you.
“The war before this, our British father gave the hatchet to his red
children, when our old chiefs were alive. They are now dead! In the
war, our father was thrown on his back, by the Americans, and our
father took them by the hand without our knowledge. We are afraid our
father will do so again at this time.
“Summer before last, when I came forward with my red brethren, and was
ready to take up the hatchet in favour of our British father, we were
told not to be in a hurry, that he had not yet determined to fight the
Americans.
“Listen! When war was declared, our father stood up and gave us the
tomahawk, and told us that he was then ready to strike the Americans;
that he wanted our assistance; and that he would certainly get us our
lands back, which the Americans had taken from us.
“Listen!—You told us at that time to bring our families to this place,
and we did so; and you promised to take care of them; that they should
want for nothing, while the men would go and fight the enemy; that we
need not trouble ourselves about the enemy's garrisons; that we knew
nothing about them, and that our father would attend to that part of
the business. You also told your red children that you would take good
care of your garrison here, which made our hearts glad.
“Listen!—When we were last at the Rapids, it is true, we gave you
little assistance. It is hard to fight people who live like
ground-hogs.[2]
[Footnote 2: Alluding to the Americans in their forts.]
“Father, listen!—Our fleet has gone out; we know they have fought; we
have heard the great guns; but we know nothing of what has happened to
our father with one[3] arm. Our ships have gone one way, and we are
much astonished to see our father tying up every thing and preparing
to run away the other, without letting his red children know what his
intentions are. You always told us to remain here and take care of our
lands; it made our hearts glad to hear that was your wish. Our great
father, the king, is the head, and you represent him. You always told
us you would never draw your foot off British ground; but now, father,
we see you are drawing back, and we are sorry to see our father doing
so, without seeing the enemy. We must compare our father's conduct to
a fat dog, that carries its tail upon its back, but when affrighted,
it drops it between its legs, and runs off.
[Footnote 3: Commodore Barclay.]
“Father, listen!—The Americans have not yet defeated us by land;
neither are we sure that they have done so by water; we therefore wish
to remain here, and fight our enemy, should they make their
appearance. If they defeat us, we will then retreat with our father.
At the battle of the Rapids, last war, the Americans certainly
defeated us; and when we returned to our father's fort at that place,
the gates were shut against us. We were afraid that it would now be
the case; but instead of that, we now see our British father preparing
to march out of the garrison.
“Father!—You have got the arms and ammunition which our great father
sent for his red children. If you have an idea of going away, give
them to us, and you may go and welcome. Our lives are in the hands of
the Great Spirit. We are determined to defend our lands, and if it be
his will, we wish to leave our bones upon them.”
During the retreat of General Proctor, which finally ended in his
discomfiture, he returned with Tecumseh and a small guard to view the
ground at a place called Chatham, where a large unfordable creek falls
into the Thames. Having thoroughly examined the place, it was approved
of, and Proctor told Tecumseh, as they rode in the same gig, that upon
that spot they would either defeat General Harrison or there lay their
bones. Tecumseh seemed much pleased at this determination, and said,
that “it was a good place, and when he should look at the two streams,
they would remind him of the Wabash and Tippecanoe.” It was here that
a skirmish took place but a short time previous to the general battle,
Proctor having left Tecumseh to defend the pass, with about twelve
hundred Indians. He was unsuccessful, and rejoining Proctor they
formed in order of battle, near the Moravian towns. Tecumseh commanded
the right wing of the allied army, and was himself posted on the left
of that wing. It is said, he entertained fears that Proctor would
retreat, and that some few minutes before the battle commenced, he
rode up to him, and told him that the British wing was not far enough
up to be in line with his.
This incident in the history of Tecumseh, is narrated on the authority
of an English officer who was taken prisoner, and Tecumseh was surely
authorized in making the assertion, from Proctor's failing to assist
him in defending the pass at Chatham. An examination of that place
will show, as stated by historians, that had the ground been occupied
by the Indians and English conjointly, and had they defended it with
even tolerable bravery, it would have been utterly impossible for the
American army to have crossed over. Great as were the exertions of
Tecumseh, and untiring as were his efforts for so long a time, it was
his misfortune to be connected with, and in a great degree governed by
one to whom he was in every point of view superior. In forming an
alliance with the English, he necessarily placed himself under the
guidance of Proctor, who was at the head of the English forces. From
the time of their first connexion, Tecumseh was ever urging him on to
battle. Upon the first tidings of Perry's victory, Proctor,
notwithstanding Tecumseh's remonstrances, hurried away from Malden,
where he was then encamped. “If,” says the historian of the western
war, “he had taken Tecumseh's advice, and fought the Americans before
retreating, the result must have been more glorious at least, if not
entirely favourable to the British arms.” And throughout all his
subsequent retreats we always find Tecumseh stationed in the rear, and
guarding the passes, while the English army continued its flight in
safety; and to such an extent was this cowardly policy carried, that
even when they had resolved to fight, and all their forces were
arranged, we see Tecumseh just on the eve of the battle, going up to
the English general, and telling him that his wing was not
sufficiently advanced. How must Tecumseh's soul have glowed with
indignation when he saw this conduct in one whom he had so faithfully
served, and who, instead of attempting to withdraw himself from the
contest, and thrust forward his allies, ought rather by his example,
to have incited them to deeds of noble daring. Leaving Proctor, and no
doubt deploring the hard fate which had made them acquainted, he
returned to his warriors, and with his return, the battle commenced.
Here was Tecumseh's last struggle. With the first onset of the
Americans, the British lines were broken, and their troops either
surrendered or fled precipitately.—The only resistance, then, to our
victorious arms was found in the right wing, where stood Tecumseh,
with his swarthy band. Conspicuous among his warriors, by a plume of
white feathers, which he wore in his cap, he was seen dealing
destruction around him, and in the most exciting language, was heard
to urge his followers to the onset. Although the regular troops of the
allied army were routed, and Tecumseh saw them flying from the field,
still he, with his trusty band, quailed not. They yet breasted the
storm of war, fighting hand to hand for the position which they first
occupied. But now, when charge followed charge, and mounted infantry,
flushed with success, came rushing impetuous on, and bearing down all
before them, the Indians began to waver, and yielded to the shock. But
no sooner did they turn to fly, than the voice of Tecumseh, who still
stood firm as a mountain rock, was heard rising far above the crash of
arms and din of battle, rallying them, and again cheering them on to
the attack;—again they returned,—but to be beaten back; and again and
again they braved the battle's fiercest shock.—Then fled; but, hark!
no rallying voice recalls them now. The chief with the ostrich plume,
lies low! Tecumseh had fallen! But not alone; for many of his best and
bravest followers lay close around him.
The sequel is soon told. The allied army being routed, the Indians
immediately after, sued for peace, and the spirit of opposition which
had so long been manifested to the measures of the government, was
effectually quelled.
As to the individual who killed Tecumseh, public opinion ever has
been, and still remains divided. Sometime previously to the battle of
the Moravian towns, Colonel Richard M. Johnson, than whom no one bore
himself more gallantly in the north-western war, joined the army, with
a corps of mounted volunteers, from Kentucky. He was present at the
battle of the Thames, and commanded that part of the American army
which was opposed to Tecumseh and his immediate followers. To him has
generally been assigned this honour.[4]
[Footnote 4: See note F.]
“The grave in which Tecumseh's remains were deposited by the Indians,
after the return of the American army, is still to be seen near the
borders of a willow marsh, on the north line of the battleground, with
a large fallen oak tree lying by its side. The willow and wild rose,
are thick around it, but the mound itself is cleared of shrubbery, and
is said to owe its good condition to the occasional visits of his
countrymen.”
A brief mention of the remaining characters of our story, and we have
done.
Oloompa! yes, noble, generous Oloompa! all thy virtues could not save
thee! ill-fated wert thou as the noble chief whom it was thy destiny
to follow. Escaping from the battle of Tippecanoe, he united himself
with Tecumseh immediately upon his return from the south, continued
one of his firmest adherents, and fell fighting by his side, in the
battle which closed his career.
A word of the Prophet.—Tecumseh having forgiven him for his agency in
the ill-timed explosion of their schemes, they again became united,
and the Prophet continued for some time unremitting in his exertions
to unite the Indians. In the records of that period, we frequently
find mention of his wandering about and preaching even up to within a
short time of the battle of the Thames. We can find no evidence of his
having been present in any engagement; yet it would perhaps be unfair
to presume that therefore he was absent, inasmuch as even though
present, he himself would have been overshadowed by the greater fame
of Tecumseh. When, subsequent to the battle of the Thames, the Indians
sued for peace, and began to form treaties with the United States, the
Prophet retired to the neighbourhood of Fort Malden, on the Canada
side of Detroit River, where, without exercising the least influence,
and even despised by the Indians, he continued to reside, a pensioner
on the bounty of the British government, until the time of his death,
not many years since. The general contempt with which he was treated
during his latter days, must in his mind, have been sadly contrasted
with the vast power which he once wielded, and formed a good
commentary on the cruel and treacherous policy which characterized
him. Had he, in his exertions for his countrymen, pursued a different
course, he might have left a more enviable reputation, yet he could
never have equalled Tecumseh; nor could Tecumseh, by possibility, have
played the part assigned to Elkswatawa. Had the brothers succeeded in
the accomplishment of their wishes, volumes would have told the story
of their praise. They failed, their joint endeavours have been almost
forgotten, and even of their history, though so intimately blended, in
the recollection of the public, scarcely any remains save the proud
name of Tecumseh.
We have now to dispose of the hunters and Gay Foreman; and first in
place, comes our old friend Earth, whom to forget would be a crime.
Having, as we have seen, returned with Rolfe to Kentucky, he for some
time devoted himself to the duties of his office: but the exciting
events of the north-western war, calling for the assistance of every
patriot, he buckled on his armour anew, and formed one of the
regiments of mounted volunteers who accompanied Colonel Richard M.
Johnson, to the scene of battle. Upon leaving home, he was still heard
to repeat the words, “take a last brush,” and to caution the boys, as
he called the citizens of his county, “to settle up, and not hold back
merely because he was absent.”
As each one in that gallant corps bore himself bravely, it is needless
to pass encomiums on Earth, but let us take it for granted from what
we know of his character, that he did his duty, and as he himself
would add, “a little extra.” After the close of the campaign, he
returned to Kentucky, and though not then very far advanced in years,
yet he was a weather-beaten and war-worn soldier. Settling down
quietly in life, he also followed Rolfe's good example, and married.
But as it often happens in like resolves, he married directly counter
to all the promises he had made himself; for, notwithstanding his
often avowed predilection for large and fat ladies, he chose for his
partner, one who was remarkably thin and delicate. And some time
after, upon being rallied by Rolfe on his choice, he answered,—“I did
always think, Rolfe, that if by any very singular quirk, I should
happen to be married, that it would be to a large woman. But Polly,”
for so he called his wife, “was an orphan; her father fell fighting
the battles of his country, and her mother dying soon after, she
became dependent on the world's charity. I always thought her a good
girl, Rolfe, and when left alone, her being thin and delicate, I
regarded as a strong reason why she should have a protector, and,
therefore, I have sworn to love and cherish her.”
“Pardon me, Earth,” said Rolfe, “thou art a noble soul, and may the
choicest blessings of heaven attend thee.”
Rolfe, upon his return to Kentucky, was married to Gay Foreman, and
they long lived happy in their domestic relations, beloved by all who
knew them. Assiduous in the discharge of its duties, he won for
himself the highest place in the profession to which he belonged; and
honoured by the confidence of the people, became conspicuous in the
councils of his adopted state, and afterward stood among the foremost
of the Kentucky delegation to the seat of government, where, during
hours of recreation, he was often seen dashing through the streets of
Washington, in a handsome curricle, with his forest bride, whose
powers of conversation, grace of manner, and singular story, rendered
her the idol of every circle she entered, and enabled her to exercise
not less influence in the gay and fashionable world, than did her
husband in the councils of the nation.
APPENDIX.
NOTE A.—_Page 7_.
This being the identical speech sent by General Harrison to the
Indians, on hearing of the burning of the chiefs, we make no apology
for inserting it entire. The beauty of its composition and its
remarkable adaptation to the Indian style, will render it interesting
to every reader, and the spirit of humanity which it breathes does
honor to the head and heart of its accomplished writer.
NOTE B.—_Page 26_.
The speech here attributed to Kenah, is reported by Tanner, who was
thirty years a captive among the Indians, as having been made to him
by one of the Prophet's agents, and he also farther states, ridiculous
as it may seem, “that very many of the Indians killed their dogs and
obeyed the commands of the Prophet, in every particular, as far as it
was practicable.”
NOTE C.—_Page 60_.
The speech which we have here attributed to Tecumseh is reported by
Hunter, in his “Manners and Customs of several Indian Tribes,” to have
been delivered by Tecumseh in his presence to the Osages in Council,
when wandering for the purpose of effecting a general union. We have
given it in order to strengthen the view which we have taken of his
policy.
Hunter thus speaks of Tecumseh and his speech:—
“He addressed them in long, eloquent and pathetic strains, and an
assembly more numerous than had ever been witnessed on any former
occasion, listened to him with an intensely agitated, though
profoundly respectful interest and attention. In fact, so great was
Tecumseh's eloquence, that the chiefs adjourned the council, shortly
after he closed; nor did they finally come to a decision on the great
question in debate, for several days afterward.
“I wish it was in my power to do justice to the eloquence of this
distinguished man; but it is utterly impossible. The richest colours,
shaded with a master's pencil, would fall infinitely short of the
glowing finish of the original. The occasion and subject were
peculiarly adapted to call into action all the powers of genuine
patriotism; and such language, such gestures, and such feelings and
fulness of soul contending for utterance, were exhibited by this
untutored native of the forest in the central wilds of America, as no
audience, I am persuaded, even in ancient or modern days, ever before
listened to.”
The great question here alluded to, was whether or not they should
give their assistance to the English.
NOTE D.—_Page 73_.
We have used the words camp and town as synonymous; they were
literally so. Tippecanoe was at this time the Prophet's residence, and
no sooner did he hear that the whites were marching upon his lands,
than he began to place it in the best state of defence, and actually
bestowed more labour upon it, than was ever before known to be done by
Indians upon any fortification; and at the time we speak of, it was a
regular encampment, fortified on every side.
NOTE E.—_Page 226_.
The following extract from a letter of the Commander of Fort Wayne, to
an American Authority, which we find in that truly interesting work,
“Thatcher's Indian Biography;” will serve to give the reader some
faint idea of the exertions the Brothers were now making for the
promotion of the great cause which lay so near their hearts.
“On the 12th [July, 1812,] the Prophet arrived at this place, with
nearly one hundred Winnebagoes and Kickapoos, who have ever since been
amusing the Indian agents at this place with professions of
friendship, and it is now evident that he has completely duped the
agent who had suffered him to take the lead in all his councils with
the Indians, giving him ammunition, &c. to support his followers until
they can receive a supply from Tecumseh.
“On the 19th instant an express arrived in the Prophet's camp from
Tecumseh. In order that it should make the better speed, the express
stole a horse from some of the inhabitants of the river Raisin, and
rode night and day. The horse gave out within twenty miles of this
place. This messenger was directed by Tecumseh to tell the Prophet to
unite the Indians immediately, and send their women and children
towards the Mississippi, while the warriors should strike a heavy blow
at the inhabitants of Vincennes; and he, Tecumseh, if he lived, would
join him in the country of the Winnebagoes.
“The Prophet found no difficulty in keeping this information to
himself and one or two of his confidential followers, and forming a
story to suit the palate of the agent here; and, on the 20th instant,
he despatched two confidential Kickapoos to effect the objects
Tecumseh had in view. In order that these two Indians might make the
better speed, they stole my two riding-horses, and have gone to the
westward at the rate of one hundred miles in twenty-four hours, at
least. To keep the agent blind to his movements, the Prophet went
early in the morning yesterday, and told the agent that two of his
_bad_ young men were missing, and that he feared they had stole some
horses. The agent found no difficulty in swallowing the bait offered
him, and applauded the Prophet for his honesty in telling of his bad
men, as he called them, stealing my horses.
“To keep up appearances, the Prophet has this morning despatched two
men on _foot_, as he tells the agent, to bring back my horses, &c. He
says he and all his party will certainly attend the Commissioner of
the United States next month at Piqua.
“This he will do, if he finds he cannot raise the western Indians
against the United States; but if he finds the western Indians will
join him, you may rely on it, he will strike a heavy blow, as Tecumseh
says, against the whites in that quarter. You may rely on the
correctness of this statement, as I received information relative to
the views of Tecumseh, last night, from a quarter that cannot be
doubted. The conduct of the agent towards the Prophet, I have been an
eye-witness to.”
NOTE F.—_Page 239_.
As to the individual who had the honor of shooting Tecumseh, public
opinion ever has been, and still remains divided, and though a matter
of no moment in itself, his death has often been discussed with as
much warmth and zeal, as if the ascertaining of who killed him,
involved the settlement of some cardinal principle. This discussion
owes its origin to party feeling, together with the exertions of the
friends of Col. Johnson on the one side to give him the honour, and to
the equally zealous efforts of his opponents on the other to wrest it
from him, without being able to agree on any other individual upon
whom they will bestow it. Could it be proved that Colonel Johnson did
kill Tecumseh, it would add nothing to his fame as a hero; could the
world be convinced that he did not, it would detract nothing from the
glory which he has already won. The settlement of this question,
therefore, even were it in our power, could neither add to, nor take
from his reputation. It has no sort of connexion with his character as
a statesman, and could not affect him otherwise. That he was an able
officer is proved by the success of the division under his command at
the battle of the Thames:—that he was a brave man, and ever present at
the post of danger, is apparent from his having received during that
action five wounds, while a small white mare which he rode, died under
him of sixteen. These facts establish for him the character of an
intrepid and dauntless soldier; while the proving that he killed
Tecumseh could do no more, even if it effected so much.
In the work which I have just written, I profess to set forth the
principal acts, as well as the most striking features in the character
of this celebrated chieftain, and as on that account some information,
or at least a detail of those circumstances which are known relative
to his death, may be expected, I shall give in a concise manner such
particulars of the battle in which he fell as I have often heard
stated in connexion with this event. Before doing so, however, I will
mention the sources from which they have been drawn, and leave the
reader to award to them such a degree of belief as he pleases.
An admiration for the character of Tecumseh, and a desire to obtain as
much information as I could relative to him and the Prophet, induced
me, long before I entertained the idea of attempting to write a novel,
to examine every source which promised to aid me in my wishes.
Travelling much throughout most of our western states, I often met
with persons who were present in many of the engagements which took
place along our north-western line of Posts, during the late war with
Great Britain, and also with several who were actors in the battle of
the Thames, and the exciting events of that period becoming a subject
of conversation, from them I heard many details. From passing
conversations, therefore, and from books, the following facts have
been gathered.
The battle of the Thames was fought on the evening of the 5th of
November, 1813. On the morning of that day the American army, in
pursuit of the English, arrived at Arnold's mills, situated on the
river Thames, and distant twelve miles from the Moravian Towns. By 12
o'clock, the whole army had crossed the river; the ford being too deep
for infantry, each horseman was required to take up a soldier, and the
remainder passed over in boats. No sooner was this effected, than
Colonel Johnson was ordered to hasten forward with his regiment, for
the purpose of ascertaining the number and situation of the enemy, who
were now known to be near at hand. His regiment numbered twelve
hundred men, and allowing for the sick, it always presented an
effective force of at least one thousand. They were all volunteers,
well mounted, and well equipped, burning with a desire for glory, and
anxious to meet the enemy. This was the only part of the American army
which was mounted, and consequently it was the most effective in
pursuit. In pursuance of the order received. Colonel Johnson moved
forward with his regiment, followed as rapidly as was practicable by
the Infantry, and had advanced some ten or twelve miles, when he found
his farther progress checked by the appearance of the English army
drawn up in order of battle, and apparently waiting an attack. A
messenger was despatched with these tidings to General Harrison, and
in the mean time Colonel Johnson drew up his regiment, and remained in
front of the enemy. The English army was stationed not on a plain or
even a partially open space, but entirely in the woods. The left wing,
composed altogether of British regulars, rested on the Thames, and
extended to a swamp which was almost impassable, and which ran
parallel to the river for several miles, and distant from it, only
some two or three hundred yards. Across this swamp, and in a line with
the regulars or left wing, was posted the right wing of the English
army, commanded by Tecumseh, and composed wholly of Indians. The
Infantry of the American army had not yet come up, and the afternoon
was fast wearing away. Colonel Johnson's regiment still remained where
it was first halted, namely, in front of the British regulars, who
were now known to number only some six or seven hundred men, and upon
General Harrison's arrival, Colonel Johnson was ordered, at the
approach of the American Infantry, to file off to the left, take post
in front of the Indians, and leave the Infantry alone to contend with
the British regulars. An examination for some time, of the swamp, on
the other side of which the Indians were posted, proved this to be
impracticable, for at first, no place could be found where it was
possible to cross it. The mounted volunteers were also sanguine of
success, and impatient for immediate action. The plan of battle was
therefore changed; and Colonel Johnson was ordered to divide his
regiment into two lines of five hundred each, and refusing the right
wing, to charge upon the British regulars, while every exertion would
be made to bring up the Infantry to his assistance. The regiment was
divided. To Lieutenant Colonel James Johnson was assigned the command
of the right division, while Colonel Richard M. Johnson retained the
command of the left, and they were in the act of leading the charge,
when information was brought by some persons who had been despatched
for that purpose, that a place had been discovered where it was
practicable to cross the swamp. In consequence of this, Colonel
Richard M. Johnson determined to file off still farther to the left,
cross the swamp, and oppose the Indians, leaving his brother to charge
with his single division against the left wing. His reasons for doing
this were, that Colonel James Johnson insisted, as did likewise the
men who were with him, that they themselves were amply sufficient to
beat the left wing or British regulars, and they also judged it
impossible to employ effectually, a thousand mounted men in a compact
body in the woods, and on so small a strip of land as the one they
then occupied. They also feared lest their numbers, by hindering each
other, should prove injurious to themselves.
Colonel R. M. Johnson, having, as before stated, resolved to cross the
swamp, parted from his brother, each agreeing that the blast of a
bugle was to be the signal for an attack upon each wing at the same
time. Leading his division, he had no sooner crossed the swamp, than
the bugle was heard, and with it, commenced the charge of cavalry.
Colonel James Johnson charged at full speed with his division formed
into five columns, each column presenting a front of but two men
abreast. He received, as he rapidly advanced, the fire of the whole
English force, yet not a man of his division was killed, and in less
than five minutes from the first moment of the charge, the British
ranks were broken, and the men threw down their arms and surrendered
themselves prisoners of war. In this encounter, two or three only of
the volunteers were wounded, while some ten or twelve of the regulars
were killed, and about twice that number wounded. At the same time
that Colonel James Johnson led the charge against the left wing;
Colonel R. M. Johnson led the charge against the Indians or right
wing. At his order, however, his men moved forward at a slow pace, for
no opposing force was visible, and as yet they were charging against
an unseen enemy. They were however prepared, each man was ready for
instant battle, and all were advancing, Colonel Johnson being at the
head of a company of rather more than one hundred men, which was but a
short distance in advance of the remainder of his division, when from
behind each tree sprung a warrior, and the war whoop was yelled, by a
thousand voices, accompanied at the same time by an instantaneous
discharge of fire-arms. This was returned by the cavalry, more than
half the advanced division of which was dismounted at the first fire.
The different companies in the rear however now rushed forward, charge
followed charge, and the battle was maintained with the greatest
obstinacy. The Indians were several times forced to give ground, but
when they did, a voice was heard distinct and clear above the din of
battle, rallying them in the most exciting language, cheering them on
to the attack, and again they returned, and renewed the contest. This
was counter to all former experience in Indian engagements, for, when
once broken, they had heretofore invariably been beaten. When Colonel
Johnson began the charge, he selected from his division twenty men,
and ordered them to remain near his person during the engagement; the
battle had now raged only a short time, and out of the twenty,
nineteen had been either cut down or dismounted;—only one remained by
his side. It was now deemed advisable that the whole division should
dismount, the horses of the soldiers were accordingly turned loose,
and the battle renewed on foot. The soldiers now fought with the
Indians hand to hand, and in several places the appearance was that of
many engaged in single combat, and repeatedly did they struggle for
life or death separated only by the body of a tree. So literally was
the battle in this part of the line fought hand to hand, that the
blood often spurted out from the person killed, upon the one who
killed him. At this stage of the battle, Colonel Johnson occupied the
extreme right of his division, and, as subsequent events proved, he
was directly in front of Tecumseh and his immediate followers, who
occupied the extreme left of their right wing. The Indians numbered
more than a thousand men, and extended for some distance in the woods,
and while Colonel Johnson's division was still warmly engaged,
seasonable assistance was afforded by the remainder of the army, which
had now come up, and the Indians were engaged throughout the whole
extent of their line. Opposite the extreme left of the right wing,
where Colonel Johnson with his division was still fighting, and where
indeed the only contest may be said to have taken place, the Indians
had been several times repulsed since the cavalry were dismounted, yet
still, they continued to rally and return to the attack. It was now
discovered that this was effected by the power of a single chief, who
was conspicuous from his apparel, and also from a plume of white
feathers which he wore in his cap; and in consequence of it, many
efforts were made to cut him off, which for a long time proved
ineffectual; for he was scarcely stationary a moment, but was present
every where, his voice was heard in every quarter, and no sooner was
he seen in one position, and an attempt made upon him, than moving
rapidly away, he occupied another, and was still heard cheering on his
men.
Up to this time, Colonel Johnson had received four wounds; he was shot
through the left arm, hip, knee, and leg, was bleeding freely, and
consequently becoming weak. His mare, from the loss of blood, was also
fast failing him; he was unable to dismount, and even if dismounted
could not move; he therefore saw plainly that if his mare fell before
the Indians were routed, he must inevitably be tomahawked; and to beat
them, there seemed to be no other hope, but by killing the gallant
chief who exercised so powerful an influence over them.
Colonel Johnson was still in advance of his division, and the weakness
of his mare admonished him that she could stand up but a short time
longer, when he saw at a distance of about thirty or forty yards from
him, the chief whom he was anxious to meet. He had at the instant when
discovered, stopped at the root of a large fallen tree, the top or
branches of which serving somewhat as a cover, Colonel Johnson moved
forward, with a determination to meet him in single combat. At this
time, he had only one loaded pistol, which he cocked, and holding it
in his right hand, pressed it close against the saddle, and rather
behind him, for the purpose of concealing it; his bridle he held in
his left hand, and in this situation he advanced. His mare could now
only walk, and even in that gait, her step was unsteady, yet, he
reached the top of the tree, and was as yet undiscovered, but in
endeavouring to get round it, for the purpose of placing himself on
the same side with the chief, and also approaching near enough to
render his own fire certainly effectual, his mare became entangled in
some of its branches, and in endeavouring to free herself, arrested
the attention of the chief, who instantly moved forward a step or two,
and raising his rifle, deliberately shot at Colonel Johnson, who still
continued to advance. His ball entered the left hand of Colonel
Johnson, between the first and second fingers; shattered his wrist,
and then glanced off—causing his hand to relax the grasp of the
bridle, and fall powerless by his side; yet his mare, still reeling,
walked forward. The chief having discharged his rifle, quickly changed
it to his left hand, drew from his belt his tomahawk, and sprung
forward. Colonel Johnson's pistol was still concealed, and he seemed
only to be armed with the sword which hung at his side, and thus they
now advanced. They had approached so near, that the chief raised his
arm, as if in the act to throw his tomahawk, for he was not near
enough to strike with it, when Colonel Johnson raised his pistol. It
was unexpected, and the chief recoiled a step at the sight. Colonel
Johnson then fired, and the chief sprung in the air, and fell dead.
The Indians uttered a cry of lamentation, immediately fled, and the
battle was ended; no resistance being made after the fall of the
chief.
The most remarkable circumstance which I have ever heard relative to
this event, and I believe it to be well authenticated, is, that when
Colonel Johnson and the chief were advancing upon each other, the
former was in the presence of the Indian force, and might have been
shot down at any time during the encounter; but they forebore to fire
upon him, and all pausing, gazed in silence, and left the two brave
chiefs to decide the matter themselves.
Thus, I believe, fell Tecumseh. I say so, for that he was killed in
that part of the line whore Colonel Johnson was himself posted, has
never yet been questioned; and though unknown at the time of his
death, yet, when recognized, he was found lying by a large fallen
tree, pierced with three wounds, a pistol ball, and two buckshot. The
person who loaded Colonel Johnson's pistols on the day of the battle,
deposed that such was the load he placed in each; it was usual to fire
with single balls, and no other pistols than Colonel Johnson's were
proved to have been differently loaded on the same day. The balls
which entered the breast of Tecumseh ranged downwards, a proof that
the person who shot him, must have been on horseback, or rather above
him; with the exception of Colonel Johnson, and a friend who acted as
his aid, no other persons were on horseback in that part of the line,
at the time when Tecumseh fell, and the Indians fled. Another reason
for this opinion is, that Colonel Johnson's hat, and also the scabbard
belonging to his sword, were found lying near Tecumseh.
The Indians having fled, several friends led Colonel Johnson's horse a
short distance from the field, that his wounds might be attended to,
and upon being lifted from his mare, she immediately sunk and died.
When examined, she was found to have been shot in sixteen places.
Such are the details, as I have often heard them stated, relative to
the death of Tecumseh, and a careful examination of the subject
induces me to believe that they are entitled to the fullest belief.
THE END.
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