CONTAINING SOME PARTICULARS OF THE HISTORY OF THE TWO DELAWARES AND OF
BAPTISTE. THE LATTER RETURNS WITH REGINALD TO MOOSHANNE, THE RESIDENCE
OF COLONEL BRANDON.
“I fear he will die!” said Reginald, in a tone of the deepest grief, as
he stooped over the inanimate form of the wounded boy.
“Die!” said the War–Eagle, almost fiercely; “yes, he will die! but not
by the bite of yonder serpent,” pointing to the body of the Wyandot:
“He will die when the Great Spirit orders it; but before he dies, the
murderers of his father shall hear his war–whoop! His tomahawk shall
be red in their blood; their scalps shall hang at his belt! _then_
Wingenund may go to his ancient people in the happy hunting fields!”
“My brother,” said Reginald, earnestly, and still supporting the
insensible frame of Wingenund, “do not lead this youth to shed the
white man’s blood! He cannot call back those who are gone! We have a
book which the Great Spirit gave to our forefathers; it speaks His own
words, and He tells us, ‘Vengeance is mine;’ and He also tells us that
if we would please Him, we must forgive those who have injured us: His
arrows are very sharp; His anger is fierce; His justice is sure. Leave
Him to punish those bad men, and teach the ‘well–beloved’ to be the
white man’s friend.”
For a minute the chief seemed buried in deep thought; then suddenly
starting from his reverie, he spoke a few words in a low tone to one of
his men, who instantly moved away, and disappeared in the forest.
War–Eagle then replied in a tone rather of melancholy than of reproof,
“The Great Spirit never speaks to the red man in words: if He is angry,
He thunders; if He is pleased, He sends rain and sunshine, to make the
corn and fruits to grow, and sweet grass to fatten the deer. My brother
says the Great Spirit has spoken plainly to the white man in words, and
that those words are painted in a book. War–Eagle believes it because
my brother’s tongue is not forked: but he would ask,—Did those white
men, who came in the night like wolves to the couch of the fawn, who
murdered the father, the kindred, the little sisters of Wingenund,—did
those men hear the Great Spirit’s words?”
“My brother,” said Reginald, “there are among white men many wolves
and serpents: men whose hands are bloody, and their tongue forked. The
Great Spirit does not forbid to punish, or even to kill such men, in
defence of ourselves, our wigwams, our children, or our friend. He is
not angry with War–Eagle for striking down that Huron whose hand was
raised to shed his brother’s blood; but when the grass of many seasons
has grown over the graves of those who were injured, then the Great
Spirit commands man to let his anger sleep, to bury his hatchet, and to
forgive.”
“It may be so,” said War–Eagle, gravely; “the Good Father in the
Western Hunting–ground has said the same; Olitipa, whose voice is like
the mockingbird, and who speaks only truth, she has spoken the same;
but it is very dark, War–Eagle cannot see it.”
“Who is the Prairie–bird?” inquired Reginald, whose curiosity had twice
been excited by the mention of this extraordinary name.
Before the chief could reply, the Indian, whom he had sent, returned
with a mess made from several leaves, herbs, and roots, which he had
bruised and reduced to a kind of glutinous pulp. War–Eagle now took off
the bandage from the youth’s arm: after examining it carefully, and
applying some of the above mixture to both the orifices of the wound,
he bound it again, more strongly and skilfully than before; then taking
him in his arms, as if he had been a little child, he carried him down
to the rivulet; and by dint of bathing his temples and rubbing forcibly
his hands and feet, soon restored the suspended animation.
When he was recovered so far as to be able to speak, Reginald, sitting
down by him, said a thousand kind things to him, such as were prompted
by the gratitude of a generous heart.
While they were conversing, the guide drew near to the chief; and
pointing to the body of the Wyandot, which still lay where he had
fallen, said, “He is surely dead!”
“He is so,” replied the other, gravely; “when War–Eagle is angry he
does not strike his enemy’s forehead twice.”
The guide now turned over the body; and seeing that the iron point of
the war–club had entered just above the eyes, and had sunk deep into
the brain, he knew that instant death must have ensued. The chief
calling the two Indians, desired them to bury the body where it would
be safe from wolves and buzzards. “But,” he added, sternly, “let not
the spot be marked for his kindred: he died like a dog, and none should
lament him.”
As they turned away to execute these orders, the guide observed to the
chief “that Huron has not been long with the War–Eagle.”
“True,—but how does the Grande–Hâche know it?”
“His eye has been on him more than once; Grande–Hâche sees, but he can
hold his tongue.”
“Grande–Hâche is a warrior,” replied the chief: “he has seen many
things; he has talked with the wise men; does he know why yon Huron
wished to kill the young white brave?”
“He does,” said Grande–Hâche; but as he did not of himself state what
he knew, it would have been contrary to the usages of Indian courtesy
to have questioned him further.
Baptiste now diverting the conversation to another topic, said, “It is
singular that War–Eagle, on a war–path far from his village, should
have only strangers with him excepting the youth who is wounded!”
“What means the Grande–Hâche?”
“He means,” replied the guide, “that the other two, now gone to bury
the Huron, are _Southern men_[13]—they are not Lenapé.”
“Grande–Hâche has ears and eyes open—how can he know that he speaks
truth?” said the chief.
“Because he _has_ eyes and ears;” replied the guide. “Does War–Eagle
think that Grande–Hâche has hunted twenty years among the red nations,
and knows not yet the mocassin and tongue of a Shawanon? I knew them
at a glance,” added he, with shrewd smile, “as well as I knew the
War–Eagle in the batteau, though both he and they have put on their
faces the paint of the _Mengwe_.”[14]
“Grande–Hâche speaks truth,” replied the chief dryly, without showing
the surprise and annoyance that he felt at the penetration of the
guide. “The men are Shawanons, they hunt with the Lenapé, beyond the
great river—they are brothers.”
So saying, he broke off the conversation, and turning towards
Wingenund, saw that he was talking as earnestly and freely with
Reginald as if they had been long intimate; while he contemplated this
friendly intercourse with a smile of satisfaction, the guide felt
himself called upon to remind his companion that the sun was getting
low, that they had yet some miles to walk, and that the Colonel would
be anxious and impatient.
“True,” said Reginald, springing up, “I must take leave of my brother,
and of my young preserver; but we shall meet again; we will hunt
together, and be friends.”
“Let it be so,” said the lad, with an ardour which he cared not to
conceal; “and Wingenund will tell Prairie–bird that the white warrior
who drew War–Eagle from the deep water will come to see her, and she
will thank him.”
While the boy was speaking, the chief turned away, and busied himself
in fastening a thong halter firmly to the head of Nekimi, whom he again
led to his new master.
Reginald now undid from his waist the silver buckled belt with the
couteau–de–chasse which it supported, and buckling it round the youth,
he said, “Wingenund must wear this, and must not forget his white
friend.”
The boy’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, as he received this gift; but
he was still too weak to stand, and he only murmured, in a low voice,
“Wingenund will not forget.”
The chief now taking the guide aside said to him, in his own language,
“How is my white brother called?”
“I call him ‘Master Reginald.’”[15]
After one or two ludicrous attempts at an imitation, War–Eagle shook
his head, saying, “It is not good—may his Lenapé friend call him
‘Netis?’”[16]
As soon as Reginald was informed of what had passed, and of the meaning
of his new name, he accepted it with pleasure, and Wingenund repeated
it again and again as our hero bid him farewell.
War–Eagle insisted upon accompanying him, and leading Nekimi through
the forest, until they reached the broad wheel track which passed
Colonel Brandon’s house, and thence led through other clearings to the
village of Marietta. As they went along, Reginald desired Baptiste
in a whisper to talk with the chief, and endeavour to draw from him
what article of dress, ornament or use, he would most value, as he
was anxious to make his Indian brother a present; and the guide, by
skilfully manœuvring his conversation, soon learnt that War–Eagle had,
on this last excursion, lost his rifle, and that he was also short of
ammunition. They now emerged from the forest upon the great road, if
it might be so called, leading to Marietta; and the Indian putting the
halter of Nekimi into Reginald’s hand, said that he would return to his
camp. Our hero, taking him by the hand, said, “Netis wishes to see his
brother at this spot to–morrow at noon.”
“War–Eagle will come,” was the brief reply; and shaking both the white
men cordially by the hand, he turned and disappeared among the trees.
Reginald and the guide were within a few miles of Colonel Brandon’s
house; but they could not proceed very fast, owing to the evident
reluctance shown by Nekimi to follow his new master; he neighed,
snorted, jumped, and played all manner of pranks in his endeavour to
get loose; but this War–Eagle had foreseen, and the tough halter of
undressed hide was well enough secured to defy all his efforts at
escape.
“This has been a strange day of adventures, Baptiste,” said Reginald;
“it has been to me one of the pleasantest of my life!”
“Why, Master Reginald, it has been a day of events, such as they are;
you have been twice at the outside edge of t’other world, with water
and cold iron.”
“Oh, there was not much harm in the water,” said Reginald, laughing;
“had it not been for the knock which one of the horses gave me on the
head; but that villainous attempt of the Huron makes me shudder;—to
offer a man food, and stab him while he is taking it! I thought such a
thing was unknown in Indian history.”
“It is almost,” said the guide. “But a Huron—and a Dahcotah!” added
he, bitterly—“would murder a brother to gratify revenge.”
“But I had never injured him, Baptiste.”
“His memory is better than yours, Master Reginald. He and his brother
were two of the leading warriors in that unfortunate affair where St.
Clair was beat by the Ingians, upon the north fork of the Miami. I was
there, too, and the ‘Doctor’s’ pills did some service—but not much to
signify, neither. Colonel Brandon did all that man could do, but at
last he was forced back. Well, that Tarhé and his brother, first in the
pursuit, killed two of our poor fellows, and were scalping ‘em, when
the Colonel called out to ‘em, and fired. He killed Tarhé’s brother
dead. I see’d it all; and I took a long squint with the Doctor at
Tarhé, which only lamed his arm a bit; for, you see, Master Reginald,
I was a long ways off; and a chap don’t shoot quite so fine when he’s
a retreatin’ double–quick, with a few hundred red–skins yellin’ in his
rear. However, that Tarhé has been more than once down at Marietta, and
round the neighbours’ clearins; and he knowed you, Master Reginald,
just as well as a Kentucky hog knows an acorn.”
“Now I understand it, so far, Baptiste. But if the fellow wanted to
take my life, why did he not hide in the laurel–thicket, and shoot me
as I passed? Why did he make the attempt where my death was sure to be
revenged?”
“Now, Master Reginald, you are asking a poor ignorant crittur,—who
knows nought but a little huntin’, and, may be, knows a beaver–skin
from a buffalo–hide,—all the ins and outs of a red Ingian’s crooked
mind! May be, he wanted to force War–Eagle into shedding white man’s
blood. I saw that one of those Shawanons was up to his game; and if
a general skrimmage had come, they’d have tried to do for me. Or,
perhaps, when he found his knife so convenient to the back of your
neck, he couldn’t lose the chance, for the bad spirit had got hold of
him.”
“By heavens!” cried Reginald, “I never can sufficiently admire the
quickness, and the heroic courage of that boy, Wingenund! Did you see,
Baptiste, how he drew that great knife _slowly_ out of his wounded arm;
and how all the time he smiled upon War–Eagle, as if to show him that
he despised the pain?”
“He is a brave youth,” said the guide. “I know the stock he comes from:
if he were a coward, the grisly bear might breed sheep!”
“Pray tell me something of his parents, and of his story. Is he related
to War–Eagle?”
“He is,” said the guide. “They are the children of two brothers.
War–Eagle of the eldest; Wingenund of the youngest.”
“Are these two brothers alive, Baptiste?”
“No: both were murdered by the white men, in time of peace, without
provocation. There was a third brother, who, happening to be absent
from the village on a hunt, escaped. He has now gone to the far west,
beyond the great river. Both the War–Eagle and the boy are called his
sons; and the latter, as he told us to–day, lives in his lodge.”
“Then all these three brothers were the children of Wingenund?”
“Yes.”
“And who was he?”
“One of the old Lenapé:—first in council, and foremost in the fight! I
remember him well when I was a boy,” said the guide, warming with his
subject. “He taught me to follow a trail, and to travel in the woods,
with no other guide than the wind, the stars, and the bark of the
trees; and before I was as old as that boy, his grandson, he lent me
his rifle to shoot the first Dahcotah as ever I killed.”
“What was the party, Baptiste?” said Reginald (anxious to keep the
guide from the subject of the Dahcotahs), “what party was it that
committed the atrocious murder upon the Indians in time of peace?”
“Why, Master Reginald, though you were but a youngster, don’t you
remember hearing that twelve or fourteen years ago a party of white
men, led by Williamson, Harvey, and some other rough chaps from the
Kentucky side, fell upon a village of friendly Indians on the banks
of Tuscarawas river, and murdered all they found—man, woman, and
child? Some of these poor red–skins had been made Christians, and were
called Moravians; and their village as was destroyed was called by some
outlandish name, too long by half for me to speak or to remember.[17]
They had given over their own nat’ral life of smoking, hunting, and
fighting, and did nothing but plant, and sow, and pray! And, after all,
that’s the way they was served, Master Reginald!”
“Horrible and disgraceful cruelty!” said the young man: and rather
thinking aloud, than addressing his companion, he added, “It is no
wonder that the Indians should receive so unwillingly Christian
precepts, when they have such examples of Christian practice. I am
not surprised that War–Eagle should find it hard to forgive _such_
injuries.”
“And yet you are surprised, Master Reginald,” said the guide, in a deep
voice, almost hoarse from repressed emotion, “that _I_ do not forgive
the Dahcotah? Did he not burn the log–hut where I was born and raised?
Did he not murder those who gave me birth? Did he not drive me out, a
child, into the woods, to live by berries, or wild fruits, or what I
could find or kill? Is not my father’s scalp (not half revenged!) now
hanging before a Dahcotah lodge! Oh! let me come but within rifle range
of the throat–cutter,[18] and if he comes off with a whole skin, I
_will_ forgive him!”
Our hero, seeing that further discussion would only increase an
excitement which already mastered his companion’s self–control, said to
him kindly, “Well, Baptiste, it must be owned that you have received
from these people deep, irreparable wrong! You are a man, and would
not pay them in their own base coin, by killing one of their squaws
or children: but if it is ever your fortune to meet them in a fair
stand–up fight, when I am with you, then you shall see that I can stand
by a friend, and share in his just feelings of resentment.”
“I know it—I know it, Master Reginald,” said the guide, grasping the
hand extended to him; and having now recovered an equanimity which
nothing but the Dahcotah subject ever disturbed, he added,
“If you and I were to take a summer–hunt towards the mountains, with
that light–limbed War–Eagle, who has the eyes, and ears, and the spring
of a painter[19], we might p’raps bring in a handsome load o’ skins,
and may be, pay off the throat–cutters an old debt or two.”
“It is more likely than you imagine, Baptiste, that we should make an
excursion to the West this spring; for my father told me the other
day—but see, there he is, with Lucy on his arm, and Aunt Mary, and
Wolf by her side!”
As he said this, the young man bounded forward, and in a moment was in
the midst of them, kissing his sister, shaking his father and Aunt Mary
affectionately by the hand, and patting Wolf’s great shaggy head.
“Dear Reginald! what has kept you so long?” said Lucy, reproachfully;
“where can you have been? Why, your clothes are all soiled; and see,
papa,” she added, turning deadly pale; “there is blood upon his
hunting–shirt and upon his cheek!”
“What a little coward art thou,” said Reginald, “to be the daughter
of a soldier! Why, Lucy, the few drops of blood upon my clothes must
surely have come from your cheeks, which are as pale as a magnolia
flower! Harkee, Lucy, I must do something to drive the rosy current
back to its proper channel; come here, girl:” and bending her head
aside, he whispered something in her ear.
Never was the effect of magic more rapid, or more potent; for in an
instant the obedient blood rushed to the fair girl’s cheek, suffusing
at the same time her neck and temples with the same glowing hue:
casting upon her brother a look at once playful and appealing, she
pinched his ear between her tiny fingers till he fairly begged pardon,
and promised not to do so again.
As it was now evident that Reginald was not much hurt, Lucy turned
her eyes towards the hunter, who approached, leading Nekimi still
snorting, prancing, and curvetting at the full length of his laryette.
“Baptiste,” said the Colonel, “where have you found that wild, untamed
animal?”
“He belongs,” said the hunter, “to Master Reginald.”
The Colonel looked to his son for an explanation, who giving an arm to
his sister, while the Colonel escorted Aunt Mary, turned homewards, and
narrated, as they went, the events described in this and the foregoing
chapter.