REGINALD AND HIS PARTY REACH THE INDIAN ENCAMPMENT.
The guide and his companion pursued their way leisurely along a beaten
track, which led them through a well–timbered valley, watered by one of
the branches of Grand River, until it emerged upon a rising slope of
open prairie. Having gained its summit, they saw at a little distance
the Indian encampment stretched along the banks of a rivulet, which,
after curving round the base of the hill on which they now stood, found
its way to the line of heavy timber that marked the course of the main
river. They were soon hailed by a mounted Delaware scout, to whom
Baptiste explained the peaceful nature of his mission, and desired to
be shown into the presence of the principal chiefs.
As the guide walked through the scattered lodges of the Delawares, his
eye rested on more than one Indian to whom he was well known; but as
he was now acting in the capacity of ambassador, it was not consistent
with Indian usage that he should speak or be spoken to by others on
the way. So well did he know the habits of the people among whom he
now found himself, that when he arrived before the lodge of the Great
Chief, he passed by War–Eagle and Wingenund, who had come to its
entrance on the approach of a stranger, and giving them merely a silent
sign of recognition, took the place pointed out to him in the centre of
the lodge, by the side of the venerable man who was the head of this
emigrant band of the Lenapé; to whom, as the highest proof of their
respect and veneration, they had given the name of Tamenund[24], by
which alone he was now known throughout the nation.
The pipe of welcome having been presented, and been smoked for a few
minutes with becoming gravity, Baptiste opened to Tamenund the object
of his visit, and informed him that a white warrior and chief, already
known to some of the Delawares present, desired to eat, to smoke, and
to hunt with them for a season as a brother. To this Tamenund, who
had already been informed by War–Eagle of the character and conduct
of Reginald, as well as of his promised visit, replied with becoming
dignity and hospitality, that the young white chief should be welcome;
that his heart was known to be great among the Delawares, and that
both he and his people should be held as brothers; at the same time he
informed the guide, that as they were about to move their encampment
immediately to a more favourable spot, it might be better for the
white chief to join them on the following morning, when all should be
prepared for his reception.
The guide having acceded to this suggestion, rose to take his leave,
and retired with his companion from the village. Before they had gone a
mile on their return, they heard behind them the trampling of horses,
and Baptiste recognised War–Eagle and Wingenund approaching at full
speed, who greeted him cordially, and made many inquiries about Netis
and the Lily of Mooshanne.
Having acquired the desired information, it was agreed, that before
noon on the following day Reginald should come to the spot where they
were now conversing, and that War–Eagle should be there to escort and
accompany him to his first meeting with the Delaware and Osage chiefs.
These preliminaries being arranged, the Indians galloped back to the
village, and Baptiste returned without accident or interruption to
Reginald’s camp, where he gave an account of his mission and of the
arrangements for the morrow’s conference.
Early on the following morning they set forth towards the Indian
village. By Baptiste’s advice, Reginald attired himself more gaily
than usual; his hunting–shirt and leggins of elk–skin were ornamented
with fringes; the bugle slung across his shoulders was suspended by
a green cord adorned with tassels; on his head he wore a forage–cap,
encircled by a gold band; a brace of silver–mounted pistols were stuck
in his belt, and a German boar–knife hung at his side; he had allowed
Baptiste to ornament Nekimi’s bridle with beads after the Indian
fashion; and the noble animal pranced under his gallant rider, as if
conscious that he was expected to show his beauty and his mettle. The
dress and appearance of Reginald, though fanciful and strange, was
rendered striking by the grace and muscular vigour of his frame, as
well as by the open, fearless character of his countenance; and the
party of white men went gaily forward, confident in the favourable
impression which their young leader would make on their Indian allies.
When they reached the spot where Baptiste had, on the preceding day,
parted from War–Eagle, they descried two Indians sitting at the root
of an old maple–tree, as if awaiting their arrival: a single glance
enabled Reginald to recognise them, and springing from his horse, he
greeted War–Eagle and Wingenund with affectionate cordiality, and read
in the looks of both, though they spoke little, that he was heartily
welcome. When they had saluted Baptiste, Reginald introduced them
in form to the other members of his party, and, among the rest, to
Monsieur Perrot, who having as yet seen few Indians, and those of the
meanest class, was surprised at the noble and dignified appearance of
War–Eagle, to whom he doffed his cap with as much respect as if he had
been a field–marshal of France.
Having made a short halt, during which the pipe was passed round,
and some cakes of Indian corn and honey set before their guests, the
party again moved forward, under the guidance of War–Eagle. Leaving
the heavy timber in the valley, they ascended the opposite hill, where
a magnificent prospect opened upon their view; below them was an
undulating prairie of boundless extent, through the middle of which ran
a tributary branch of Grand River; behind them lay the verdant mass
of forest from which they had lately emerged; the plain in front was
dotted with the lodges of the Delawares and Osages, while scattered
groups of Indians, and grazing horses, gave life, animation, and
endless variety to the scene.
Halting for a moment on the brow of the hill, War–Eagle pointed out to
Reginald the lodge of his father Tamenund, distinguished above the rest
by its superior size and elevation, and at the same time showed him at
the other extremity of the encampment, a lodge of similar dimensions,
which he described as being that of the Osage chief.
“How is he called?” inquired Reginald.
“Mahéga,” replied the War–Eagle.
At the mention of this name, the guide uttered one of those peculiar
sounds, something between a whistle and a grunt, by which Reginald
knew that something was passing in his mind; but on this occasion,
without apparently noticing the interruption, he continued, addressing
War–Eagle, “Will Mahéga receive me too as a brother—is the Osage chief
a friend to the white men?”
“Mahéga is a warrior,” replied the Indian; “he hunts with the Lenapé,
and he must be a friend of their brother.”
Not only did this answer appear evasive, but there was also something
more than usually constrained in the tone and manner of War–Eagle,
which did not escape the observation of Reginald, and with the
straightforward openness of his character, he said, “War–Eagle, my
heart is open to you, and my tongue can be silent if required—speak to
me freely, and tell me if Mahéga is a friend or not; is he a brave or a
snake?”
War–Eagle, fixing his searching eye upon Reginald’s countenance,
replied, “Mahéga is a warrior—the scalps in his lodge are many—his
name is not a lie, but his heart is not that of a Lenapé—War–Eagle
will not speak of him:—Grande–Hâche knows him, and my brother’s eyes
will be open.”
Having thus spoken, the young chief added a few words in his own tongue
to Baptiste; and making a sign for Wingenund to follow, he galloped off
at speed towards the encampment.
Reginald, surprised, and somewhat inclined to be displeased by their
abrupt departure, turned to the guide, and inquired the cause of it,
and also the meaning of War–Eagle’s last words.
Baptiste, shaking his head significantly, replied in a low voice, “I
know Mahéga well—at least I have heard much of him; his name signifies
‘Red–hand,’ and, as the young chief says, it tells no lie, for he has
killed many: last year he attacked a war–party of the Outagamis[25]
near the Great River, and cut them off to a man; he himself killed
their chief and several of their warriors: they say he is the
strongest and the bravest man in the nation.”
“It seems to me,” said Reginald, “that War–Eagle and he are not very
good friends.”
“They are not,” replied Baptiste; “the young Delaware has evidently
some quarrel with him, and therefore would not speak of him—we shall
learn what it is before many days are over: meanwhile, Master Reginald,
say nothing to any others of the party on this subject, for they may
take alarm, or show suspicion; and if they do, your summer hunt may
chance to end in rougher play than we expect. I will keep my eye on
‘Red–hand,’ and will soon tell you what tree he’s making for.”
“Why did they gallop off so abruptly?” inquired Reginald.
“They are gone to rejoin the bands which are coming out to receive us
on our entrance,” replied the guide. “We must put our party in the best
array, and get the presents ready, for we have not many minutes to
spare.”
The event proved the correctness of his calculation; for they had
scarcely time to select from the packs those articles destined to
be presented to the chiefs at this interview, before they saw two
large bands of mounted Indians gallop towards them from the opposite
extremities of the encampment. As they drew near that which came
from the Delaware quarter, and was headed by War–Eagle in person,
they checked their speed, and approached slowly; while their leader,
advancing in front of the band, saluted Reginald and his party with
dignified courtesy. Meanwhile the body of Osages continued their career
with headlong speed, shouting, yelling, and going through all the
exciting manœuvres of a mock fight, after their wild fashion. Their
dress was more scanty and less ornamented than that of the Delawares;
but being tricked out with painted horsehair, porcupine quills, and
feathers, it bore altogether a more gay and picturesque appearance;
neither can it be denied that they were, in general, better horsemen
than their allies; and they seemed to delight in showing off their
equestrian skill, especially in galloping up to Reginald’s party at
the very top of their speed, and then either halting so suddenly as to
throw their horses quite back upon their haunches, or dividing off to
the right and to the left, and renewing their manœuvres in another
quarter with increased extravagance of noise and gesture.
Reginald having learned from Baptiste that this was their mode of
showing honour to guests on their arrival, awaited patiently the
termination of their manœuvres; and when at length they ceased, and
the Osage party reined their horses up by the side of the Delawares,
he went forward and shook hands with their leader, a warrior somewhat
older than War–Eagle, and of a fine martial appearance. As soon as he
found an opportunity, Reginald, turning to Wingenund, who was close
behind him, inquired, in English, if that Osage chief was Mahéga?
“No,” replied the youth, “that is a brave[26], called in their tongue
the Black–Wolf. Mahéga,” he added, with a peculiar smile, “is very
different.”
“How mean you, Wingenund?”
“Black–Wolf,” replied the youth, “is a warrior, and has no fear, but he
is not like Mahéga;—an antelope is not an elk!”
While this conversation was going on, the party entered the encampment,
and wound their way amongst its scattered lodges, towards that of
Tamenund, where, as the War–Eagle informed Reginald, a feast was
prepared for his reception, to which Mahéga and the other Osage leaders
were invited.
On arriving before the Great Lodge, Reginald and his companions
dismounted, and giving their horses to the youths in attendance, shook
hands in succession with the principal chiefs and braves of the two
nations. Reginald was much struck by the benevolent and dignified
countenance of the Delaware chief; but in spite of himself, and of a
preconceived dislike which he was inclined to entertain towards Mahéga,
or Red–hand, his eye rested on that haughty chieftain with mingled
surprise and admiration. He was nearly a head taller than those by
whom he was surrounded; and his limbs, though cast in an Herculean
mould, showed the symmetrical proportions which are so distinctive
of the North American Indians: his forehead was bold and high, his
nose aquiline, and his mouth broad, firm, and expressive of most
determined character; his eye was rather small, but bright and piercing
as a hawk’s; his hair had been all shaven from his head, with the
exception of the scalp–lock on the crown, which was painted scarlet,
and interwoven with a tuft of horsehair dyed of the same colour. Around
his muscular throat was suspended a collar formed from the claws of
the grisly bear, ornamented with party–coloured beads, entwined with
the delicate fur of the white ermine; his hunting–shirt and leggins
were of the finest antelope skin, and his mocassins were adorned with
beads and the stained quills of the porcupine. He leant carelessly on a
bow, which few men in the tribe could bend. At his back were slung his
arrows in a quiver made with wolf–skin, so disposed that the grinning
visage of the animal was seen above his shoulder; while a war–club and
scalping–knife, fastened to his belt, completed the formidable Mahéga’s
equipment.
As he glanced his eye over the party of white men, there was an
expression of scornful pride on his countenance, which the quick
temper of their youthful leader was ill–disposed to brook, had not
the prudent counsels of the guide prepared him for the exercise of
self–command. Nevertheless, as he turned from the Osage chief to the
bulky proportions of his gigantic follower, Mike Smith, he felt that
it was like comparing a lion with an ox; and that, in the event of a
quarrel between them, the rifle alone could render its issue doubtful.
The feast of welcome was now prepared in the lodge of Tamenund, which
was composed of bison–skins stretched upon poles, arranged in the form
of a horse–shoe, and covering an extent of ground apparently not less
than twenty yards in length. Reginald observed also several smaller
lodges immediately adjoining that of the chief, on one side, and on
the other a circular tent of wax–cloth, or painted canvasss, evidently
procured from white men, as it was of excellent texture, and its door,
or aperture, protected by double folds of the same material.
Whilst he was still looking at this comparatively civilised dwelling,
with some curiosity to know by whom it might be tenanted, the folds
of the opening were pushed aside, and an elderly man appeared, who,
after contemplating for a moment the newly–arrived group, came forward
to offer them a friendly salutation. He was apparently between fifty
and sixty; but his years were not easily guessed, for his snow–white
hair might seem to have numbered seventy winters; while from the
uprightness of his carriage, and the elasticity of his step, he
seemed scarcely past the vigour of middle life. In figure he was tall
and slight; his countenance, though tanned by long exposure to the
sun, was strikingly attractive, and his mild blue eye beamed with
an expression of benevolence not to be mistaken. His dress was a
black frock of serge, fastened at the waist by a girdle of the same
colour, from which was suspended a small bag, wherein he carried
the few simples and instruments requisite for his daily offices of
charity and kindness. Dark grey trowsers of the coarsest texture, and
mocassins of buffalo–hide, completed the dress of Paul Müller, already
mentioned by Wingenund to Reginald as the “Black Father:” under which
name, translated according to their various languages, the pious and
excellent missionary was known among the Delawares, Osages, Ioways,
Otoes, Konsas, and other tribes then inhabiting the regions lying
between the Missouri and the Arkansas.
Such was the man who now came forward to greet the newly–arrived party;
and such was the irresistible charm of his voice and manner, that from
the first Reginald felt himself constrained to love and respect him.
The feast being now ready, and Reginald having pointed out Baptiste
and Bearskin as his officers, or lieutenants, they were invited with
him to sit down in the lodge of Tamenund, with the principal chiefs
of the Delawares, the chief and Great Medicine–man[27] of the Osages,
and the Black Father. (Mike Smith and the other white men being
feasted by a brave in an adjoining lodge.) The pipe was lighted, and
having been passed twice round the party with silent gravity, the
Great Medicine–man made a speech, in which he praised the virtues and
hospitality of Tamenund, and paid many compliments to the white guests;
after which a substantial dinner was set before them, consisting of
roasted buffalo–ribs, venison, and boiled maize.
Reginald had never before been present at an Indian feast, and though
he had the appetite naturally belonging to his age and health, he soon
found that he was no match, as a trencherman, for those among whom
he was now placed; and before they had half finished their meal, he
replaced his knife in its sheath, and announced himself satisfied.
The old chief smiled good–humouredly, and said that he would soon
do better; whilst Mahéga, quietly commencing an attack upon a third
buffalo–rib, glanced at him with a look of contempt, that he was at no
pains to conceal, and which, as may well be imagined, increased our
hero’s dislike for the gigantic Osage.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
SECOND VOLUME.
CHAPTER I.
REGINALD AND HIS PARTY AT THE INDIAN ENCAMPMENT.
While Reginald and his two companions were feasting with Tamenund, a
similar repast was laid before the rest of the party, in the lodge of
a brave named Maque–o–nah, or the “Bear–asleep,” at which Mike Smith
occupied the centre or principal seat, and next to him sat Monsieur
Perrot,—the latter personage being very curious to see the culinary
arrangements made for this, his first Indian banquet. He was horrified
at observing the carelessness with which they thrust half the side of a
buffalo to the edge of a huge fire of undried wood, leaving a portion
of the meat to be singed and burnt, while other parts were scarcely
exposed to the heat: he could not refrain from expressing to one of
the Canadian coureurs des bois, in his own language, his contempt
and pity for the ignorant savages who thus presumed to desecrate a
noble science, which ranked higher, in his estimation, than poetry,
painting, or sculpture: but he was warned that he must be very careful
neither to reject nor show any distaste for the food set before him,
as by so doing he would give mortal offence to his entertainers. It
was ludicrous in the extreme to watch the poor Frenchman’s attempts at
imparting to his features a smile of satisfaction, when a wooden bowl
was placed before him, filled with half–boiled maize, and beside it one
of the buffalo–ribs, evidently less favoured by the fire, as it was
scarcely warmed through, and was tough and stringy as shoe–leather.
After bestowing upon sundry portions of it many fruitless attempts
at mastication, he contrived, unperceived, to slip what remained of
the meat into the pocket of his jacket, and then laughed with great
self–satisfaction at the trick he had played his uncivilised hosts.
When the feast was concluded in Tamenund’s lodge, Reginald desired
his men to unpack one of the bales, which he pointed out, and to
spread its contents before him; the savages gathered round the
coveted and glittering objects with eager but silent astonishment,
while he separated the presents which, by the advice of Baptiste,
were now distributed among their chiefs; to Tamenund he apportioned
a large blanket of scarlet cloth, a silver–mounted pistol, and a
basket containing mirrors, beads, and trinkets, for his wives and
daughters; to Mahéga, a bridle ornamented with beads, several pounds
of tobacco, powder, and lead, a fowling–piece, and a blanket of blue
woollen–stuff. The features of the Osage chief relaxed into a grim
smile of satisfaction as he received these valuable gifts; and he so
far overcame the repulsive sternness of his usual character as to seize
Reginald’s hand, and to tell him that he was a great chief, and good to
his Indian brothers. The other presents having been distributed among
the chiefs and braves, according to their rank, the feast was broken
up, and they retired to their respective lodges; Reginald, Baptiste,
and M. Perrot being accommodated in that of Tamenund’s himself, and
Bearskin, with the rest of the white men’s party, in those lodges which
have before been mentioned as being contiguous to that of the old chief.
During the first night that he spent in his new quarters, the
excitement and novelty of the scene banished sleep from the eyes of
Reginald; and, finding himself restless, he arose half an hour before
daybreak, to enjoy the early freshness of the morning. Throwing his
rifle over his arm, he was about to leave the lodge, when Baptiste
touched him, and inquired, in a low voice, if he were prepared with
a reply in case of being challenged by any of the scouts around the
encampment; with some shame he confessed he had forgotten it; and the
guide then instructed him, if he were challenged, to say “_Lenapé
n’a ki Netis_,” or “I am Netis, the friend of the Delawares.” Being
thus prepared, and carrying with him the few articles requisite for a
Prairie toilet, he stepped out into the open air. Close by the opening
of the lodge, he saw a tall figure stretched on the grass, enveloped
in a buffalo robe, the hairy fell of which was silvered with the heavy
night–dew: it was War–Eagle, who rarely slept in lodge or tent, and
whose quick eye, though he neither moved nor spoke, discerned his white
brother in a moment, although the latter could not recognise his friend.
Reginald pursued his way through the encampment to its extremity, where
the streamlet before mentioned wound its course among the dells and
hillocks of the Prairie, until it reached the larger river that flowed
through the distant forest. After following the banks of the stream for
one or two miles, the red streaks in the eastern horizon gave notice of
day’s approach, and observing near him a hill, somewhat more elevated
than those by which it was surrounded, Reginald climbed to its top, in
order to witness the effect of sunrise on that wild and picturesque
scene.
To the westward, the undulations of the Prairie, wrapped in heavy folds
of mist, rose in confused heaps, like the waves of a boundless ocean:
to the south he could just distinguish the lodges and the smouldering
fires of the encampment, whence, at intervals, there fell upon his ear
mingled and indistinct sounds, disagreeable perhaps in themselves, but
rendered harmonious by distance, and by their unison with the wildness
of the surrounding objects; while to the eastward lay a dense and
gloomy range of woods, over the summits of whose foliage the dawning
sun was shedding a stream of golden light.
Reginald gazed upon the scene with wonder and delight; and every moment
while he gazed called into existence richer and more varied beauties.
The mists and exhalations rising from the plain curled themselves into
a thousand fantastic shapes around the points and projections of the
hills, where they seemed to hang like mantles which the earth had cast
from her bosom, as being rendered unnecessary by the appearance of the
day; swarms of children and of dusky figures began to emerge from the
encampment, and troops of horses to crop the pasture on the distant
hills; while the splendour of the sun, now risen in its full glory,
lit up with a thousand varying hues the eastern expanse of boundless
forest. Reginald’s heart was not insensible to the impressions
naturally excited by such a scene; and while he admired its variegated
beauties, his thoughts were raised in adoration to that almighty and
beneficent Being, whose temple is the earth, and whose are the “cattle
upon a thousand hills.”
Having made his way again to the banks of the stream, and found a spot
sheltered by alder and poplar trees, he bathed and made his morning
toilet; after which he returned towards the encampment, his body
refreshed by his bathe, and his mind attuned to high and inspiring
thoughts by the meditation in which he had been engaged. As he strolled
leisurely along, he observed a spot where the trees were larger, and
the shade apparently more dense than the other portions of the valley;
and, being anxious to make himself acquainted with all the localities
in the neighbourhood of his new home, he followed a small beaten path,
which, after sundry windings among the alders, brought him to an open
space screened on three sides by the bushes, and bounded on the fourth
by the stream. Reginald cast his eyes around this pleasant and secluded
spot, until they rested upon an object that riveted them irresistibly.
It was a female figure seated at the root of an ancient poplar, over
a low branch of which one arm was carelessly thrown, while with the
other she held a book, which she was reading with such fixed attention
as to be altogether unconscious of Reginald’s approach. Her complexion
was dark, but clear and delicate, and the rich brown hair which fell
over her neck and shoulders, still damp and glossy from her morning
ablutions, was parted on her forehead by a wreath of wild flowers
twined from amongst those which grew around the spot: the contour of
her figure, and her unstudied attitude of repose, realised the classic
dreams of Nymph and Nereid, while her countenance wore an expression of
angelic loveliness, such as Reginald had never seen or imagined.
He gazed—and gazing on those sweet features, he saw the red full lips
move unconsciously, while they followed the subject that absorbed
her attention; and forgetful that he was intruding on retirement, he
waited, entranced, until those downcast eyes should be raised. At
length she looked up, and seeing the figure of a man within a few
paces of her, she sprang to her feet with the lightness of a startled
antelope; and darting on him a look of mingled surprise and reproof,
suppressed the exclamation of alarm that rose to her lips. Reginald
would fain have addressed the lovely being before him—he would fain
have excused his unintended intrusion; but the words died upon his
lips, and it was almost mechanically that he doffed his hunting–cap,
and stood silent and uncovered before her! Recovering from the
momentary confusion, she advanced a step towards him, and with an
ingenuous blush held out her hand, saying in a gentle tone of inquiry,
and with the purest accent, “Netis, my brother’s friend?”
“The same, fair creature,” replied Reginald, whose wonder and
admiration were still more excited by the untaught grace and dignity
of her manner, as well as by hearing his own tongue so sweetly
pronounced; “but, in the name of Heaven, who—what—whence can you be?”
Blushing more deeply at the animation and eagerness of his manner,
she was for a moment silent; when he continued, striking his hand on
his forehead:—“Oh, I have it, fool, tortoise, that I was. You are
‘Prairie–bird,’ the sister of whom Wingenund has told me so much.”
Then, gently pressing the little hand which he had taken, he added,
“Dear Wingenund! he saved my life; his sister will not consider me a
stranger?”
Again a warmer blush mantled on the cheek of Prairie–bird, as she
replied, “You are no stranger: you speak of Wingenund’s good deed: you
are silent about your own! You drew War–Eagle from the deep and swift
waters. I have heard it all, and have often wished to see you and
thank you myself.” There was a modest simplicity in her manner, as she
uttered these few words that confirmed the impression made on Reginald
by the first glimpse of her lovely form and features; but beyond this
there was something in the tone of her voice that found its way direct
to his heart; it fell upon his ear like an old familiar strain of
music, and he felt unwilling to break the silence that followed its
closing accents.
It is not our province, in a simple narrative of this kind, to discuss
the oft–disputed question, whether love at first sight deserves the
name of love; whether it is merely a passing emotion, which, though
apparently strong, a brief lapse of time may efface; or, whether there
be really secret irresistible natural impulses, by which two human
beings, who meet together for the first time, feel as if they had known
and loved each other for years, and as if the early cherished visions
of fancy, the aspirations of hope, the creations of imagination, the
secret, undefined longings of the heart, were all at once embodied
and realised.[28] We are inclined to believe that, although not
frequent, instances sometimes occur of this instinctive sympathy and
attraction, and that, when they do so, the tree of affection (like the
fabled palm at the touch of the genius’ wand) starts into immediate
luxuriance of flower and foliage, striking its tenacious roots far into
the kindly soil, destined thenceforward to become the nurture of its
verdant youth, the support of its mature strength, and at length the
resting–place of its leafless and time–stricken decay.
Such seemed to be the case with Reginald and Prairie–bird; for, as they
looked one at the other, each was unconsciously occupied with teeming
thoughts that neither could define nor express, and both felt relieved
at hearing approaching footsteps and the voice of the Black Father, who
called out in English,
“Come, my child, I have allowed you full time this morning; we will
return to the camp.” As he spoke his eye fell upon Reginald, and he
added, courteously, “You have been early abroad, young sir.”
“I have,” replied Reginald. “I went to the top of yonder heights to see
the sun rise, and was amply repaid by the beauty of the scene: on my
return, I wandered accidentally into this secluded spot, and trust that
my intrusion has been forgiven.”
“I believe that my dear child and pupil would forgive a greater offence
than that, in one who has shown so much kindness to her brothers,”
replied the missionary, smiling: and he added, in a low voice,
addressing the Prairie–bird in his own language, “Indeed, my child, I
think he deserves our friendly welcome; for, unless his countenance
strongly belies his character, it expresses all those good qualities
which Wingenund taught us to expect.”
“Stay, sir,” and Reginald, colouring highly; “let me not participate,
without your knowledge, in your communications to Prairie–bird. I have
travelled much in Germany, and the language is familiar to me.”
“Then, my young friend,” said Paul Müller, taking his hand kindly, “you
have only learnt, from what I said, how hard a task you will have to
fulfil the expectations that Wingenund has led us to entertain.”
“I can promise nothing,” replied Reginald, glancing towards the maiden,
“but a true tongue, a ready hand, and an honest heart; if these can
serve my friend’s sister, methinks she may expect them without being
disappointed.”
The words in themselves were nothing remarkable, but there was an
earnest feeling in the tone in which they were spoken that made
Prairie–bird’s heart beat quicker: she answered him by a look, but
said nothing. Wonderful is the expression, the magic eloquence of
the human eye; and yet how is its power tenfold increased when the
rays of its glance pass through the atmosphere even of dawning love.
Reginald longed to know whence and who she could be, this child of the
wilderness, who had so suddenly, so irresistibly, engaged his feelings;
above all, he longed to learn whether her heart and affections were
free; and that single look, translated by the sanguine self–partiality
of love, made him internally exclaim, “Her heart is not another’s!”
Whether his conjecture proved correct the after–course of this tale
will show: meanwhile we cannot forbear our admiration at the marvellous
rapidity with which our hero, at his first interview with Prairie–bird,
settled this point to his own satisfaction. The little party now
strolled towards the camp; and as they went, Reginald, seeing that
Prairie–bird still held in her hand the book that he had seen her
peruse with so much attention, said,
“May I inquire the subject of your studies this morning?”
“Certainly,” she replied, with grave and sweet simplicity; “it is the
subject of my study every morning: the book was given me by my dear
father and instructor now by my side. I have much to thank him for; all
I know, all I enjoy, almost all I feel, but most of all for this book,
which he has taught me to love, and in some degree to understand.”
As she spoke she placed in Reginald’s hand a small copy of Luther’s
translation of the Bible. In the fly–leaf before the title–page was
written, “Given to Prairie–bird by her loving father and instructor,
Paul Müller.” Reginald read this inscription half aloud, repeating
to himself the words “Müller,” “father;” and coupling them with the
strange enigmas formerly uttered by Wingenund respecting the origin of
Prairie–bird, he was lost in conjecture as to their meaning.
“I see your difficulty,” said the missionary, “you do not understand
how she can call Wingenund and War–Eagle brothers, and me father. In
truth, she has from her earliest childhood been brought up by Tamenund
as his daughter, and as I reside chiefly with this Delaware band, I
have made it my constant occupation and pleasure to give her such
instruction as my humble means admit; she has been entrusted to us by
the mysterious decrees of Providence; and though the blood of neither
flows in her veins, Tamenund and I have, according to our respective
offices, used our best endeavours to supply the place of natural
parents.”
“Dear, dear father,” said Prairie–bird, pressing his hand to her
lips, and looking up in his face with tearful eyes, “you are and have
been every thing to me,—instructor, comforter, guide, and father! My
Indian father, too, and my brothers, are all kind and loving to me. I
have read in the books that you have lent me many tales and histories
of unkindness and hatred between parents and children, among nations
enlightened and civilised. I have had every wish gratified before
expressed, and every comfort provided. What could a father do for a
child that you have not done for me?”
As she spoke she looked up in the missionary’s face with a countenance
so beaming with full affection, that the old man pressed her in his
arms, and kissing her forehead, muttered over her a blessing that he
was too much moved to pronounce aloud; after a pause of a few minutes,
he said to Reginald, with his usual benevolent smile, “We only know
you yet by your Indian name of ‘Netis’—how are you called in the
States? We inquired of War–Eagle and Wingenund, but they either did not
remember, or could not pronounce your name?”
“Reginald Brandon,” replied our hero.
Prairie–bird started, and abruptly said, “Again, again; say it once
more?”
Reginald repeated it, and she pronounced the first name slowly after
him, pressing her hand upon her forehead, and with her eye fixed on
vacancy, while broken exclamations came from his lips.
“What are you thinking of, dear child?” said the missionary, somewhat
surprised and alarmed by her manner.
“Nothing, dear father,” she replied, with a faint smile; “it was a
dream, a strange dream, which that name recalled, and confused my
head: we are now close to the camp, I will go in and rest awhile;
perhaps you may like to talk more with Ne—I mean,” she added,
hesitating, “with Reginald.” So saying, and saluting them with that
natural grace which belonged to all her movements, she withdrew towards
the camp, and Reginald’s eyes followed her retreating figure until it
was lost behind the canvasss folds that protected the opening to her
tent.
CHAPTER II.
REGINALD HOLDS A CONVERSATION WITH THE MISSIONARY.
Reginald still kept his eyes on the opening through which Prairie–bird
had disappeared into the tent, as though they could have pierced
through the canvasss that concealed from his view its lovely
inhabitant: his feelings were in a state of confusion and excitement,
altogether new to him; for if, in his European travels, he had paid
a passing tribute of admiration to the beauties who had crossed his
path, and whom his remarkable personal advantages had rendered by no
means insensible to his homage, the surface only of his heart had
been touched; whereas now its deepest fountains were stirred, and the
troubled waters gushed forth with overwhelming force.
He was recalled to himself by the voice of the missionary, who, without
appearing to notice his abstraction, said, “My son, if you choose
that we should prolong our walk, I am ready to accompany you.” If the
truth must be told, Reginald could at that moment scarcely endure
the presence of any human being: he felt an impulse to rush into the
woods, or over the plain, and to pour forth in solitude the torrent
of feelings by which he was oppressed; but he controlled himself, not
only because he really felt a respect for the good missionary, but also
because he hoped through him to obtain some information respecting
the extraordinary being who had taken such sudden possession of his
thoughts: he replied, therefore, that he would willingly accompany him,
and they took their way together along the banks of the streamlet,
alternately observing on the scenery and surrounding objects.
This desultory conversation did not long suit the eager and
straightforward character of Reginald Brandon; and he changed it by
abruptly inquiring of his companion, whether he knew any thing of the
history and parentage of Prairie–bird.
“Not much,” replied Paul Müller, smiling; “she was with this band of
Delawares when I first came to reside among them: if any one knows her
history, it must be Tamenund; but he keeps it a profound secret, and
gives out among the tribe that she was sent to him by the Great Spirit,
and that as long as she remains with the band they will be successful
in hunting and in war.”
“But how,” inquired Reginald, “can he make such a tale pass current
among a people who are well known to consider the female sex in so
inferior and degraded a light?”
“He has effected it,” replied the missionary, “partly by accident,
partly by her extraordinary beauty and endowments, and partly, I must
own, by my assistance, which I have given because I thereby ensured to
her the kindest and most respectful treatment, and also endeavoured,
under God’s blessing, to make her instrumental in sowing the seed of
His truth among these benighted savages.”
“Let me understand this more in detail,” said Reginald, “if the
narration does not trouble you.”
“Her first appearance among the Delawares, as they have told me,” said
the missionary, was as follows:—“Their prophet, or Great Medicine–man,
dreamt that under a certain tree was deposited a treasure, that should
enrich the tribe and render them fortunate: a party was sent by order
of the chief to search the spot indicated; and on their arrival they
found a female child wrapped in a covering of beaver–skin, and reposing
on a couch of turkey–feathers: these creatures being supposed to
preside peculiarly over the fate of the Delawares, they brought back
the child with great ceremony to the village, where they placed her
under the care of the chief; set apart a tent or lodge for her own
peculiar use; and ever since that time have continued to take every
care of her comfort and safety.”
“I suppose,” interrupted Reginald, “the dream of the Great Medicine,
and all its accompaniments, were secretly arranged between him and the
chief?”
“Probably they were,” replied Paul; “but you must beware how you say as
much to any Delaware: if you did not risk your life, you would give
mortal offence. After all, an imposition that has resulted in harm to
no one, and in so much good to an interesting and unprotected creature,
may be forgiven.”
“Indeed I will not gainsay it,” replied our hero: “pray continue your
narrative.”
“My sacred office, and the kindly feelings entertained towards me by
these Indians, gave me frequent opportunities of seeing and conversing
with Olitipa, or the ‘Prairie–bird;’ and I found in her such an
amiable disposition, and so quick an apprehension, that I gave my best
attention to the cultivation of talents which might, I hoped, some day
produce a harvest of usefulness. In reading, writing, and in music, she
needed but little instruction. I furnished her from time to time with
books, and paper, and pencils: an old Spanish guitar, probably taken
from some of the dwellings of that people in Missouri, enabled her to
practise simple melodies; and you would be surprised at the sweetness
with which she now sings words, strung together by herself in English
and German, and also in the Delaware tongue, adapting them to wild
airs, either such as she hears among the Indians, or invents herself.
I took especial pains to instruct her in the practical elements of a
science that my long residence among the different tribes has rendered
necessary and familiar to me,—I mean that of medicine, as connected
with the rude botany of the woods and prairies; and so well has she
profited by my instruction, and by her own persevering researches, that
there is scarcely a tree, or gum, or herb, possessing any sanatory
properties, which she does not know and apply to the relief of those
around her.”
“Indeed,” said Reginald, laughing; “I had not expected to find this
last among the accomplishments of Prairie–bird.”
“You were mistaken then,” replied Paul Müller; “nay more, I fear that,
in your estimate of what are usually termed female accomplishments, you
have been accustomed to lay too much stress on those which are light
or trifling, and too little on those which are useful and properly
feminine: even in settled and civilised countries the most grievous
fevers and ailments to which we are subject require the ministration of
a female nurse; can it be then unreasonable that we should endeavour to
mingle in their education some knowledge of the remedies which they may
be called upon to administer, and of the bodily ills which it is to be
their province to alleviate?”
“You are right,” answered Reginald, modestly; “and I entreat your
pardon for the hasty levity with which I spoke on the subject. I am
well aware that, in olden times, no young woman’s education was held
to be complete without some knowledge both of the culinary and healing
arts; and I much doubt whether society has not suffered from their
having altogether abandoned the cultivation of these in favour of
singing, dancing, and reading of the lightest kind.”
“It is the character of the artificial state to which society is fast
verging,” replied Paul, “to prefer accomplishments to qualities,
ornament to usefulness, luxury to comfort, tinsel to gold: setting
aside the consideration of a future state, this system might be well
enough, if the drawing–room, the theatre, and the ball were the sum of
human life; but it is ill calculated to render man dignified in his
character, and useful to his fellow–creatures, or woman what she ought
to be,—the comfort, the solace, the ornament of home.”
“These observations may be true as regards England or France,” replied
Reginald; “but you surely would not apply them to our country?”
“To a certain extent, I do,” answered the missionary. “I have been now
thirty years on this continent, and have observed that, as colonists,
the Americans have been very faithful imitators of these defects in
their mother country; I am not sure that they will be rendered less so
by their political emancipation.”
The conversation was now straying rather too far from the subject to
which Reginald desired to confine it: waving, therefore, all reply
to the missionary’s last observation, he said, “If I understood you
aright, there were, beyond these studies and accomplishments of
Prairie–bird, some other means employed by you, to give and preserve to
her the extraordinary influence which you say that she possesses over
the Indians.”
“There were,” replied Paul Müller: “amongst others, I enabled her
to vaccinate most of the children in this band, by which means they
escaped the fatal effects of a disorder that has committed dreadful
ravages among the surrounding tribes: and I have instructed her in some
of the elementary calculations of astronomy; owing to which they look
upon her as a superior being, commissioned by the Great Spirit to live
among them, and to do them good: thus her person is safe, and her tent
as sacred from intrusion as the Great Medicine Lodge. I am allowed to
occupy a compartment in it, where I keep our little stores of books and
medicines; and she goes about the camp on her errands of benevolence,
followed by the attachment and veneration of all classes and ages!”
“Happy existence!” exclaimed Reginald; “and yet,” added he, musing,
“she cannot, surely, be doomed through life to waste such sweetness on
an air so desert!”
“I know not,” answered the missionary. “God’s purposes are mysterious,
and the instruments that he chooses for effecting them, various as the
flowers on the prairie. Many an Indian warrior has that sweet child
turned from the path of blood,—more than one uplifted tomahawk has
fallen harmless at the voice of her entreaty; nay, I have reason to
hope, that in Wingenund, and in several others of the tribe, she has
partially uprooted the weeds of hatred and revenge; and sown in their
stead the seeds of gospel truth. Surely, Reginald Brandon, you would
not call such an existence wasted?”
“That would I not, indeed,” replied the young man, with emphasis. “It
is an angel’s office!” he added, inaudibly, “and it is performed by an
angel!”
Although he could have talked or listened on the subject of the
Prairie–bird for hours together, Reginald began already to feel that
sensitive reserve respecting the mention of her name to another which
always accompanies even the earliest dawnings of love; and he turned
the conversation by inquiring of the venerable missionary, whether he
would kindly communicate something of his own history; and explain how
he had come from so remote a distance to pass the evening of life among
the Indians.
“The tale is very brief, and the motives very simple. I was born in
Germany, and having early embraced the tenets of the United Brethren,
of whom you have probably heard in that country under the name of
‘Herrn–Hüter,’ I received a pressing invitation from Heckewelder,
then in England, to join him in his projected missionary journey to
North America. I gladly accepted the offer, and after a short stay in
London, embarked with that learned and amiable man,—who soon became
what he now is, the nearest and dearest friend I have on earth;—and
I placed myself under his guidance in the prosecution of the grand
objects of our undertaking, which were these—to endeavour to convert
the Indian nations to Christianity, not, as the Spaniards had pretended
to attempt, by fire, and sword, and violence; but by going unarmed
and peaceably among them, studying their languages, characters, and
history; and while showing in our own persons an example of piety and
self–denial, to eradicate patiently the more noxious plants from their
moral constitution, and to mould such as were good and wholesome to
the purposes of religious truth. God be praised, our labours have not
been altogether without effect; but I blush for my white brethren when
I confess that the greatest obstacle to our success has been found in
the vices, the open profligacy, the violence, and the cruelty of those
who have called themselves Christians. Heckewalder has confined his
exertions chiefly to the Indians remaining in Pennsylvania and the
Western territory; mine have been mostly employed among the wandering
and wilder tribes who inhabit this remote and boundless region.”
“I have often heard your pious friend’s name,” said Reginald; “he
enjoys the reputation of being the most eminent Indian linguist in our
country, and he is supposed to know the Delaware language as well as
his own.”
“He is indeed,” said Paul, “the most skilful and successful labourer
in this rude but not unfruitful vineyard. Now and then, at remote
intervals, I contrive, by means of some returning hunter or Indian
agent, to communicate with him, and his letters always afford me matter
of consolation and encouragement; though I was much cast down when he
announced to me the cruel and wanton massacre of his Indian flock near
the banks of the Ohio.”
“I have heard of it,” replied Reginald; “I regret to say that the
outrage was committed not very far from the spot where my father lives.”
“Do you live in that neighbourhood?” exclaimed the missionary, suddenly
catching his arm; “then you may, perhaps,—but no, it cannot be,” he
muttered to himself; “this youth can know nothing of it—“
“My honoured friend,” replied Reginald, colouring at the idea suggested
by the words which he had overheard, “I trust you do not believe that
my father, or any of my kindred, had a share in those atrocities!”
“You misunderstood me altogether, I assure you,” answered the
missionary; “my exclamation had reference to another subject. But I
see War–Eagle coming this way; probably he is bent upon some hunting
excursion, in which you may wish to be his companion.”
“I shall gladly do so,” replied Reginald, “as soon as I have
breakfasted: my faithful follower, Perrot, desired very much that I
should taste some collops of venison, which he said that he could dress
in a style somewhat superior to that of the Indian cookery. Will you
share them with me?”
The missionary excused himself, as he had already taken his morning
meal, and was about to return to the tent of Prairie–bird.
Reginald assured the good man of the pleasure which he had found in his
conversation, and expressed a hope that he would be enabled soon to
enjoy it again, as there was much information respecting the habits,
religion, and character of the different Indian tribes which he felt
anxious to acquire, and which none could be better able to communicate.
“Whatever instruction or information I may have collected during my
residence among them, is freely at your service,” replied Paul Müller;
“and if you find yourself in any difficulty or embarrassment where my
advice can be of use, you may always command it. You know,” he added,
smiling, “they consider me Great Medicine, and thus I am able to say
and do many things among them which would not be permitted in another
white man.” So saying, he shook hands with Reginald, and returned
slowly towards the encampment.
War–Eagle now came up, and greeting his friend with his usual
cordiality, inquired whether he would accompany him in the chase of
the elk, herds of which had been seen at no great distance. Reginald
acceded to the proposal; and, having hastily dispatched the collops
prepared by Perrot, the two friends left the village on foot, and took
their way towards the timber in the valley.
The day was hot, and the speed at which the agile Indian unconsciously
strode along, would have soon discomfited a less active pedestrian than
Reginald; but having been well seasoned in his hunting excursions with
Baptiste, he found no difficulty in keeping pace with his friend; and
he amused himself, as they went, by asking him a variety of questions
respecting the country, the tribe, and its language, to all of which
War–Eagle replied with much intelligence and candour.
As Reginald had not seen Wingenund, he asked his companion how it
happened that the youth did not accompany them. “He is gone,” replied
War–Eagle, “to bring turkeys to the camp.”
“Does he shoot them?” inquired Reginald.
“No, he takes them—my white brother shall see; it is not far from the
Elk Path.”
When they reached the wooded bottom, War–Eagle struck into a small
track which seemed to have been made by a streamlet in spring, and
having followed it for about a mile, they came to a more open woodland
scene, where the Indian pointed, as they passed along, to scattered
feathers, and foot–tracks of turkeys in abundance. They had not
proceeded far, when he uttered a low exclamation of surprise as he
discovered Wingenund stretched at the foot of a tree, with his eyes
busily fixed upon something which he held in his hand, and which so
riveted his attention that he was not aware of their approach. Beside
him lay two old and two young turkeys, which he had caught and killed:
the friends had not looked at him many seconds, before he raised his
eyes and perceived them: starting to his feet, he made an ineffectual
attempt to conceal that which he had been holding in his hand, which
was, in fact, a sheet of coarse white paper. Reginald drew near and
said to him, “Come, Wingenund, you must show Netis what you hold in
your hand: I am sure it is no harm; and if it is a secret, I will keep
it.”
Wingenund, in some confusion, handed the scroll to Reginald, who saw at
the first glance that it was a fragment of an elementary vocabulary of
Delaware and English words, written in a free bold character: he ran
his eye over the paper, which contained chiefly phrases of the most
simple kind, such as, “_N’menne_, I drink,” “_N’ani pa wi_, I stand,”
“_Tokelân_, it rains,” “_Loo_, true,” “_Yuni_, this,” “_Na–ni_, that,”
&c. &c., and a smile came over his features when his eye met his own
name, “Netis,” with its translation, “dear friend.” Below this he
read, “N’quti,” “Nisha,” “Nacha,” “Newo,” and a succession of single
words, which he rightly conjectured to be numerals, 1, 2, 3, 4, &c.,
and at the bottom of the page was a long sentence in the Lenapé tongue,
which began as follows:—“_Ki wetochemelenk talli epian awassagame_,
&c.”—“What is this last sentence, Wingenund?” inquired Reginald.
“It is the prayer,” replied the youth, “that the Good Spirit taught the
white men to say, when he came to live among them.”
“And who wrote all these words for you?”
“Prairie–bird wrote them, and every day she teaches me to understand
the marks on the paper.”
Reginald’s eyes strayed unconsciously to that part of the sheet where
he had seen his own name written by the Prairie–bird’s hand. “Happy
boy!” he mentally ejaculated, “to sit at her feet, and draw instruction
from her lips!”—“With such a teacher, methinks I could learn the
Lenapé tongue in a month!—What says my brother?” continued he aloud,
addressing War–Eagle, whose fine countenance wore an expression of
indifference, almost amounting to contempt. “What says my brother of
this paper?”
“It is perhaps good,” replied the Indian gravely, “for the Black
Father, and for the white man—but not for the Lenapé. The Great Spirit
has given him a heart to feel, and a hand to fight, and eyes to see the
smallest track on the grass—that is enough. Our fathers knew no more,
and they were great, and strong, and brave!—chiefs among the nations!
What are we now? Few, and weak, and wandering. It is better for us
to live and die like them, and we shall hunt with them in the happy
fields.—Let us go and show Netis where Wingenund takes the turkeys.”
So saying, he turned and led the way, followed by his two companions.
CHAPTER III.
AN ARRIVAL AT MOOSHANNE.—A CALM ASHORE AFTER A STORM AT SEA.
While the events, narrated in the preceding chapter, were occurring
in the Western wilderness, the family at Mooshanne had been thrown
into a state of the greatest dismay and confusion, by the arrival of
Captain L’Estrange’s first letter announcing the flight of Ethelston
with his daughter, and depicting his conduct in the blackest colours.
Colonel Brandon had perused its contents half a dozen times, and they
had produced traces of anxiety upon his countenance, too evident to
escape the observation of Lucy, so that he was obliged to break to her
by degrees the painful intelligence of her lover’s infidelity: with a
calmness that surprised him, she insisted on reading the letter; as she
proceeded her brow crimsoned with indignation, and those blue eyes,
usually beaming with the gentlest expression, flashed with an angry
lustre.
Colonel Brandon knew full well the affection she had long conceived
for Ethelston, and though his own feelings were deeply wounded by
the misconduct of one whom he had loved and trusted as a son, they
were at present overpowered by the fears which he entertained of the
effect which this unexpected blow might produce on Lucy’s health
and happiness. He was, therefore, relieved by observing the anger
expressed on her countenance, and prepared himself to hear the deserved
reproaches on her former lover, which seemed ready to burst from her
tongue. What was his surprise when he saw her tear the letter in pieces
before his face, and heard her, while she set her pretty little foot
upon them, exclaim,
“Dear, dear father, how could you for a moment believe such a tale of
vile, atrocious falsehood?”
However disinclined the Colonel might be to believe any thing to the
disadvantage of Ethelston, there was so much circumstantial evidence
to condemn him, that he felt it his duty to prepare his child for the
worst at once, and to point out to her how they already knew that
Ethelston had been wounded and conveyed to the house of L’Estrange,
that his long absence was unexplained, and lastly that the character
of the French commodore, as an officer, and a man of honour, was
unimpeached.
Lucy heard him to the end; the glow on her cheek assumed a warmer hue,
and the little foot beat with a nervous and scarcely perceptible motion
on the floor, as she replied, “Father I will believe that the letter is
a forgery, or that the French officer, or commodore, or admiral, is a
madman, but never that Ethelston is a villain.”
“My dear Lucy,” said the Colonel, “I am almost as unwilling to think
ill of Ethelston as you can be yourself; but alas! I have seen more
than you of the inconstancy of men; and I know, too well, that many who
have enjoyed a good reputation have yet been found unable to withstand
temptation, such as may have beset Ethelston while an inmate of the
same house with the Creole beauty—“
“Dear father,” answered Lucy, colouring yet more deeply; “though it
were possible that Ethelston, in the presence of greater attractions,
may have yielded to them his affections, and withdrawn them from one
who had hoped to possess and treasure them for life,—though this may
be possible, it is not possible that he should be guilty of a violation
of the laws of hospitality and honour, such as that slanderous paper
lays to his charge. Promise me, dearest father, to suspend your belief,
and never to speak on this subject again, until it is God’s pleasure
that the truth shall be brought to light.”
“I promise you, my sweet child,” said her father; “and may that
merciful Being grant that your trust be not disappointed!”
“I have no fears,” said Lucy; and, as she spoke, her eyes beamed with
that full undoubting love such as can only be felt by one who has never
known what it is to deceive or to be deceived.
Days and weeks passed on without any intelligence of Ethelston; and
while the fears of Colonel Brandon became more confirmed, the agony
of suspense and the sickness of deferred hope began to prey upon the
spirits of his daughter: she never alluded to the forbidden subject;
but her nervous anxiety, when the weekly letter–bag was opened, clearly
showed that it was ever in her mind: nevertheless she continued her
occasional excursions to Marietta, and visited, as usual, those around
Mooshanne who were sick or in distress; so that neither her mother nor
Aunt Mary detected the anxiety by which she was tortured. One evening,
half an hour before sunset, as the family party were seated at their
simple supper, the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard approaching at
full speed, from which the rider dismounted, and, lifting the latch of
the unlocked door, entered the house. Traversing the vestibule with
hasty strides, and apparently guided by instinct to the apartment in
which the family were assembled, he threw open the door, and Ethelston
stood before the astonished party. His countenance was haggard from
fatigue and exposure to the sun, and his whole appearance indicated
exhaustion. Lucy turned deadly pale, and Colonel Brandon’s constrained
manner, as he rose from his chair, must have convinced the new comer
that his return was productive of other feelings than those of
unmingled pleasure. He was moving, however, a few steps forward to pay
his first respects to Mrs. Brandon, when the Colonel, touching him
lightly on the arm, said, “Mr. Ethelston, I must crave a few words with
you in the adjoining room.”
Hitherto Lucy had remained silent, with her eyes fixed intently on
Ethelston’s countenance; he returned her look with one as long and
fixed: the expression of his eyes was mournful, rather than joyous, but
there was no trace of uneasiness or of shame. Springing from her seat,
she placed her hand imploringly on the Colonel’s arm saying,
“Dear father, I told you so from the first,—I knew it always—I read
it now plain as the sun in heaven,—that vile letter _was_ a string of
falsehoods;—he is returned as he left us, with an untarnished honour.”
“Thank you, dear Lucy,” said Ethelston, advancing and pressing her
extended hands to his lips: “blessings on that trusting affection which
has rendered it impossible for you to believe aught to the prejudice of
one on whom you have deigned to fix it. Colonel Brandon,” he continued,
“I can guess how you have been misled, and appearances were for a short
time so much against me, that I acquit of all intentional malice those
who have misled you. Judge for yourself whether, if I were stained by
the crime of which I have been accused, I could now ask, on my bended
knee, for the blessing of you, my second father, and thus hold in mine,
as I dare to do, the hand of your pure, trusting, and beloved child.”
There was a truth in every tone of his voice, and a convincing dignity
in his manner, that swept away all doubts like a torrent. The Colonel
embraced him with cordial affection; Aunt Mary kissed her favourite
nephew over and over again; Mrs. Brandon wept tears of joy on his neck;
and Lucy was so overpowered by delight, that she was perhaps scarcely
conscious of all that passed around.
After they were in some degree recovered from their emotion, and had
pressed Ethelston to take some refreshment, he said to the Colonel,
“Now I am prepared to give you an account of my adventures, and to
explain those circumstances that led to the misunderstanding under
which you have so long laboured.”
“Not a word—not a word will I hear of explanation to–night, my dear
boy,” replied the Colonel. “I am already ashamed that I have not shown
the same undoubting confidence in your rectitude, both of purpose and
conduct, that has been evinced from first to last by Lucy. You are
weary and exhausted; the agitation of this scene has been trying to all
of us; we will defer your narrative until to–morrow. Our first duty
this evening is to return our thanks to Providence for having protected
you through all danger, and restored you safe to the comforts of home.”
As he spoke, the worthy old gentleman took down a Bible from the shelf;
and having desired Lucy to summon all the servants into the room, he
read an appropriate chapter, and added to the selected prayer for the
evening a few impressive and affecting words of thanksgiving, for the
safe return of the long–lost member of the family.
This duty was scarcely concluded, when the outer door was violently
opened; a heavy step was heard approaching, and, without waiting to be
admitted or announced, the sturdy figure of Gregson entered the room.
“The captain himself, as I live!” said the honest mate. “Beg pardon,
Colonel Brandon, but I heard a report of his having been seen going ten
knots an hour through Marietta. So up I sticks, made sail, and was in
his wake in less time than our nigger cook takes to toss off a glass of
grog.”
“Give me your hand, Gregson,” said Ethelston, kindly; “there is not a
truer nor an honester one between Marietta and China.”
“Thank ye, thank ye, captain,” said the mate, giving him a squeeze
that would have broken the knuckles of any hand but a sailor’s; “the
flipper’s well enough in its way, and I trust the heart’s somewhere
about the right place; but what the devil have they been at with you
in Guadaloupe?” added he, observing his chief’s wearied and wasted
appearance; “considering how long those rascally Frenchmen have had
you in dock, they’ve sent you to sea in precious state, both as to hull
and rigging.”
“I confess, I am not over ship–shape,” said Ethelston, laughing; “but
my present condition is more owing to the fatigues of my tedious
journey from New Orleans than to any neglect on the part of the
Frenchmen.”
The Colonel now invited the worthy mate to be seated; and Lucy
brewed for him, with her own fair fingers a large tumbler of toddy,
into which, by her father’s desire, she poured an extra glass of
rum. Ethelston, pretending to be jealous of this favour, insisted
on his right to a draught, containing less potent ingredients, but
administered by the same hand; and an animated conversation ensued,
in the course of which Gregson inquired after the welfare of his old
friend Cupid, the black cook.
“Poor fellow, he is no more,” replied Ethelston, in a tone of deep
feeling; “he died as he had lived, proud, brave, faithful to the last.
I cannot tell you the story now, it is too sad a one for this our first
evening at home:” as he spoke, his eyes met those of Lucy, and there he
read all that his overcharged heart desired to know.
Soon after the allusion to this melancholy incident, the little party
broke up; the evening being already far advanced, Gregson returned to
Marietta, and the members of the Colonel’s family retired to their
respective apartments, leaving Ethelston alone in the drawing–room.
For a few minutes he walked up and down, and pressed his hand upon
his forehead, which throbbed with various and deep emotions. He took
up the music whereon Lucy had written her name, and the needlework
on which her fingers had been employed: he sat down on the chair she
had just left, as if to satisfy himself with the assurance that all
around him was not a dream; and again he vented the full gratitude of
his heart in a brief but earnest ejaculation of thanksgiving. After
a short indulgence in such meditations, he retired to that rest of
which he stood so much in need. The room that had been prepared for
him was up stairs, and, on crossing a broad passage that led to it,
he suddenly met Lucy, who was returning to her own from her mother’s
apartment. Whether this meeting was purely accidental, or whether
Lucy, remembering that she had not said good–night quite distinctly to
her lover, lingered in her mother’s room until she heard his step on
the stair, we have no means of ascertaining, and therefore leave it
undecided: certain it is, however, that they did meet in the passage
above mentioned, and that Ethelston, putting down his candle on a
table that stood by, took Lucy’s unresisting hand and pressed it in
his own: he gazed on her blushing countenance with an intensity that
can only be understood by those who, like him, have been suddenly
restored to a beloved one, whose image had been ever present during a
long absence, assuaging the pain of sickness, comforting him in trials,
dwelling with him in the solitude of a prison, and sustaining him in
the extremest perils of the storm, the fight, and the shipwreck! Though
he had never been formally betrothed to her in words, and though his
heart was now too full to give utterance to them, he had heard enough
below to satisfy him that she had never doubted his faith—he felt that
their troth was tacitly plighted to each other, and now it was almost
unconsciously that their lips met and sealed the unspoken contract.
That first, long, passionate kiss of requited love! Its raptures have
been the theme of glowing prose, of impassioned verse, in all ages
and climes; the powers of language have been exhausted upon it, the
tongue and the pen of genius have, for centuries, borrowed for its
description the warmest hues of fancy and imagination—and yet how
far short do they fall of the reality! how impossible to express in
words an electric torrent of feeling, more tumultuous than joy, more
burning than the desert’s thirst,—yet sweeter and more delicious
than childhood’s dream of Paradise, pouring over the heart a stream
of bliss, steeping the senses in oblivion of all earthly cares, and
so mysteriously blending the physical with the immaterial elements of
our nature, that we feel as if, in that embrace, we could transfuse a
portion of our soul and spirit into the beloved object on whose lip
that first kiss of long–treasured love is imprinted.
Brief and fleeting moments! they are gone almost before the mind is
conscious of them! They could not, indeed, be otherwise than brief,
for the agony of joy is like that of pain, and exhausted nature would
sink under its continued excess. Precious moments, indeed! to none can
they be known more than once in life; to very many, they can never
be known at all. They can neither be felt nor imagined by the mere
worldling, nor the sensualist; the sources of that stream of bliss must
be unadulterated by aught low, or selfish; it is not enough that
“Heart and soul and sense in concert move:”
desire must go hand in hand with purity, and virtue be the handmaid of
passion, or the blissful scene will lose its fairest and brightest hues.
The step of some servant was heard approaching; and Lucy, uttering a
hasty good–night, returned to her room, where she bolted her door,
and gave herself up to the varied emotions by which she was overcome.
Tears bedewed her eyes, but they were not tears of grief; her bosom
was agitated, but it was not the agitation of sorrow; her pillow was
sleepless, but she courted not slumber, for her mind dwelt on the
events of the past day; and gratitude for her lover’s return, together
with the full assurance of his untarnished honour, and undiminished
affection, rendered her waking thoughts sweeter than any that sleep
could have borrowed from the land of dreams.
On the following morning, after breakfast, when the family were
assembled in the library, Ethelston, at the request of Colonel Brandon,
commenced the narrative of his adventures. As the reader is already
acquainted with them, until the closing scene of poor Nina’s life, we
shall make mention of that part of his tale no further than to state
that, so far as truth would permit, in all that he told, as well as all
that he forbore to tell, he feelingly endeavoured to shield her memory
from blame; the sequel of his story we shall give in his own words.
“I remained only a few days with L’Estrange after his daughter’s
death; during which time I used my best endeavours to console him;
but, in spite of the affectionate kindness which he showed me, I
felt that my presence must ever recall and refresh the remembrance
of his bereavement, and I was much relieved when the arrival of one
of his other married daughters, with her family, gave me an excuse
and an opportunity for withdrawing from Guadaloupe. The vessel which
had brought them from Jamaica proposed to return immediately, and I
easily obtained L’Estrange’s permission to sail with her, only on the
condition of not serving against France during the continuance of
these hostilities: when I bade him farewell he was much affected, and
embraced me as if he were parting with a son; so I have at least the
melancholy satisfaction of knowing that I retain his best wishes and
his esteem.
“My voyage to Port Royal was prosperous. On arriving I found a brig
laden with fruit, just about to sail in a few days for New Orleans. I
confess I did not much like the appearance either of the vessel or her
commander; but such was my impatience to return to Mooshanne, that I
believe I would have risked the voyage in an open boat.” Here Ethelston
looked at Lucy, on whose countenance a blushing smile showed that
she well knew the meaning of his words. “I embarked,” continued he,
“accompanied by my faithful Cupid, on board the Dos Amigos: the captain
was an ignorant rum–drinking Creole; besides himself there was only one
white man in the crew, and the coloured men were from all countries
and climates, the most reckless and turbulent gang that I had ever
seen on board a ship. During the first half of the voyage, the weather
being favourable, we crept along the southern coast of Cuba, and passed
almost within sight of the Isla de Pinos, which I had so much cause to
remember; thence we steered a north–westerly course, and doubled the
Cape of Saint Antonio in safety, whence we had a prospect of a fair
run to the Belise; but, two days after we had lost sight of the Cuban
coast, it came on to blow a gale of wind, which gradually increased
until it became almost a hurricane from the south–west.
“The brig drove helplessly before it; and from her leaky and shattered
condition, as well as from the total want of seamanship exhibited by
her drunken captain, I hourly expected that she would founder at sea:
for twenty–four hours the gale continued with unabated violence, and
the weather was so thick that no object could be discerned at two
hundred yards’ distance. I remained constantly on deck, giving such
assistance as I could render, and endeavouring to keep the captain’s
lips from the rum–bottle, to which he had more frequent recourse as
the danger became more imminent. Being at length wearied out, I threw
myself in my clothes on my cot, and soon fell asleep. I know not how
long I slept; but I was awakened by a violent shock, accompanied by a
grating, grinding sound, from which I knew in an instant that the brig
had struck on a rock. Almost before I had time to spring from my cot,
Cupid dashed into the cabin, and, seizing me with the force of a giant,
dragged me on deck. At this moment the foremast fell with a tremendous
crash, and a heavy sea swept over the devoted vessel, carrying away the
boat, all loose spars, and many of the crew. Cupid and I held on by the
main rigging, and were not swept away; but wave after wave succeeded
each other with resistless fury, and in a few moments we were both
struggling, half stunned and exhausted, in the abyss of waters, holding
on convulsively to a large hencoop, which had providentially been
thrown between us.
“One wild shriek of despair reached my ear, after which nothing was
heard but the tumultuous roar of the angry elements.”
At this part of Ethelston’s narrative, Lucy covered her face with her
hands, as if she would thereby shut out the dreadful view, and in spite
of all her struggle for self–command, a tear stole down her colourless
cheek.
“It was, indeed, a fearful moment,” he continued, “and yet I did not
feel deserted by hope; I was prepared for death, I prayed fervently,
and I felt that my prayer was not unheard; even then, in that strife
of foaming sea and roaring blast, God sent the vision of an angel to
comfort and sustain me! It wore the form of one who has ever dwelt in
my thoughts by day, and in my dreams by night; who seemed as near to me
then, as she does now that her gentle tears are flowing at this recital
of my trials.”
While speaking the last words, his low voice trembled until it fell
into a whisper, and Lucy, overcome by her feelings, would have fallen
from her chair, had not his ready arm supported her. A dead silence
reigned in the room; Aunt Mary wept aloud, and Colonel Brandon walked
to the window to conceal his emotion. After a few minutes, as he turned
again towards them, Ethelston, who still supported Lucy, beckoned him
to approach, and, addressing him in a tone of deep and earnest feeling,
said,
“Colonel Brandon, my guardian, friend, and benefactor; add yet this
one to all your former benefits, and my cup of gratitude will be full
indeed:” as he spoke he took the unresisting hand of Lucy in his own:
the Colonel looked inquiringly and affectionately at his daughter, who
did not speak, but raised her tearful eyes to his, with an expression
not to be misunderstood. Pressing their united hands between his own,
and kissing Lucy’s forehead, he whispered,
“God bless you, my children:” after a pause he added, with a suppressed
smile, “Ethelston shall finish his narrative presently;” and, taking
Aunt Mary’s arm, he left the room.
We will imitate the Colonel’s discretion, and forbear to intrude upon
the sacred quiet of a scene where the secret, long–cherished love of
two overflowing hearts was at length unreservedly interchanged; we need
only say that ere the Colonel returned with Aunt Mary, after an absence
of half an hour, Lucy’s tears were dried, and her cheeks were suffused
with a mantling blush, as she sprung into her father’s arms, and held
him in a long and silent embrace.
“Come, my child,” said the Colonel, when he had returned her
affectionate caress: “sit down, and let us hear the conclusion of
Ethelston’s adventures—we left him in a perilous plight, and I am
anxious to hear how he escaped from it.”
“Not without much suffering, both of mind and body, my dear sir,”
continued Ethelston in a serious tone of voice; “for the sea dashed to
and fro with such violence the frail basket–work to which Cupid and I
were clinging, that more than once I was almost forced to quit my hold,
and it was soon evident that its buoyant power was not sufficient to
save us both, especially as Cupid’s bulk and weight were commensurate
with his gigantic strength. His coolness under these trying
circumstances was remarkable: observing that I was almost fainting
from the effects of a severe blow on the head from a floating piece of
the wreck, he poured into my mouth some rum from a small flask that he
had contrived to secure, and then replacing the stopper, he thrust the
flask into my breast pocket, saying, ‘Capt’n drink more when he want:’
at this moment a large spar from the wreck was driven past us, and the
faithful creature said, ‘Capt’n, hencoop not big enough for two, Cupid
swim and take spar to ride;’ and, ere I could stop him, he loosed his
hold and plunged into the huge wave to seize the spar: more I could not
see, for the spray dashed over me, and the gloom and the breakers hid
him in a moment from my sight. I felt my strength failing, but enough
remained for me to loose a strong silk kerchief from my neck, and to
lash myself firmly to the hencoop. Again and again the wild sea broke
over me; I felt a tremendous and stunning blow—as I thought, the last,
and I was no more conscious of what passed around.
“When I recovered my senses, I found myself lying upon some soft
branches, and sheltered by low bushes, a few hundred yards from the
sea–beach; two strange men were standing near me, and gave evident
signs of satisfaction when they saw my first attempts at speech and
motion; they made me swallow several morsels of sea–biscuit steeped in
rum, and I was soon so far restored as to be able to sit up, and to
learn the particulars of my situation. The island near which the brig
had been wrecked, was one of the Tortugas; the two men who had carried
me up to a dry spot from the beach, belonged to a small fishing–craft,
which had put in two days before the hurricane for a supply of water
and in hopes of catching turtle. Their vessel was securely moored in a
little natural harbour, protected by the outer ledge of rocks: the reef
on which the brig had struck was upwards of a mile from the spot where
they had found me; and I could not learn from them that they had seen
any portion of her wreck, or any part of her crew, alive or dead.
“As soon as my bruised condition permitted me to drag my limbs along,
I commenced a careful search along the low rocky shore, in hopes of
learning something of the fate of Cupid, and at length was horrified on
discovering the mutilated remains of the faithful creature, among some
crevices in the rocks. He had clung to the spar which still lay beside
him with the pertinacious strength of despair: his hands and limbs
were dreadfully mangled, and his skull fractured by the violence with
which he had been driven on the reef. I remembered how he had resigned
the hencoop to save my life; and the grief that I evinced for his
loss moved the compassion of the fishermen, who aided me to bury him
decently on the island.
“We remained there two days longer, until the gale had subsided, during
which time I frequently visited poor Cupid’s grave; and though many
of our countrymen would be ashamed of owning such regret for one of
his colour, I confess that when on that lonely spot I called to mind
his faithful services, and his last noble act of generous courage, I
mourned him as a friend and brother.
“When the fishing–smack put to sea, I prevailed on her captain to
visit the reef where the brig had struck; but we found not a spar nor
plank remaining; nor am I to this moment aware whether any others of
her crew survived the wreck; but it is more than probable that they
perished to a man. Upon the promise of a considerable sum of money, I
prevailed upon the fishermen to give me a passage to New Orleans, where
we arrived without accident or adventure, and my impatience to reach
home only permitted me to stay in that city a few hours, when, having
provided myself with a horse, I rode on hither by forced marches, and
arrived in the travel–worn condition that you observed yesterday.”
CHAPTER IV.
AN ELK–HUNT.—REGINALD MAKES HIS FIRST ESSAY IN SURGERY.—THE READER IS
ADMITTED INTO PRAIRIE–BIRD’S TENT.
We left Reginald Brandon in the skirt of the forest bounding the
Western Prairie, accompanied by Wingenund and War–Eagle. The latter,
having taken the lead, conducted his companions through a considerable
extent of ground, covered with bushes of alder and scrub–oak, until
they reached an open forest glade, where the Indian pointed out to
Reginald a large square building, composed of rough logs, and covered
with the same material. In the centre of one side was a low aperture,
or door, about fifteen inches in height, in front of which was a train
of maize laid by Wingenund. On approaching this turkey–pen, or trap,
they observed that there were already two prisoners, a large gobbler
and a female bird, although not more than an hour had elapsed since the
lad had taken out the four turkeys which have been before mentioned.
When the captives became aware of the approach of the party, they
ran about the pen from side to side, thrusting out their long necks,
peering through the crevices in the logs, jumping and flying against
the top, in their violent endeavours to escape.
“Do they never stoop their heads?” inquired Reginald, “and go out at
the same door by which they entered?”
“Never,” replied Wingenund.
“That is singular,” said Reginald, “for the bird is in general very
sagacious and difficult to be taken or killed;—how does it happen that
they are so unaccountably stupid as not to go out where they came in?”
Before answering the question addressed to him, Wingenund cast a
diffident look towards War–Eagle, and on receiving from the chief a
sign to reply, he said,
“Netis knows that the Great Spirit distributes the gifts of wisdom and
cunning like the sunshine and the storm; even the Black Father does not
understand all his ways. How can Wingenund tell why the turkey’s eye is
so quick, his ear so sharp, his legs so swift?—and yet he is sometimes
a fool; when he picks up the maize, his head is low; he walks through
the opening; he is in a strange place; he is frightened; and fear takes
from him all the sense that the Great Spirit had given him. Wingenund
knows no more.”
“My young brother speaks truly, and wisely, beyond his years,” said
Reginald, kindly. “It is, as you say, fear makes him forget all the
capacities of his nature: it is so with men, why should it be otherwise
with birds? Does War–Eagle say nothing?”
“My brother’s words are true,” replied the chief, gravely; “he has
picked out one arrow, but many remain in the quiver.”
“My brother speaks riddles,” said Reginald; “I do not understand him.”
“Fear is a bad spirit,” replied the chief, raising his arm, and
speaking with energy. “It creeps round the heart of a woman, and crawls
among the lodges of the Dahcotahs; it makes the deer leap into the
river when he would be safer in the thicket; it makes the turkey a
fool, and keeps him in the pen: but there are other bad spirits, that
make the heart crooked and the eyes blind.”
“Tell me how so?” inquired Reginald, desirous of encouraging his Indian
friend to continue his illustration.
“Does my brother know the antelope,” replied War–Eagle; “he is very
cunning and swift; his eye is quick as the turkey’s; the hunter could
not overtake him: but he lies down in a hollow and hides himself; he
fastens a tuft of grass to his bow and holds it over his head; the Bad
Spirit gets into the antelope; he becomes a fool; he comes nearer and
nearer to look at the strange sight;—the hunter shoots and he dies.
There are many had spirits. The Wyandot who struck at my white brother,
he was a cunning snake; he had taken scalps, the ball of his rifle did
not wander; if he had crept in the bushes on my brother’s path, Netis
would now be in the happy hunting–fields of the white warriors. But a
bad spirit took him; he offered food while his heart was false, and he
thrust his head under the tomahawk of War–Eagle. There are many bad
spirits.—I have spoken.”
Reginald listened with interest to these sentiments of his Indian
friend, expressed, as they were, in broken sentences and in broken
English, the purport of them being, however, exactly conveyed in
the foregoing sentences; but he refrained from pursuing the subject
further, observing that War–Eagle was slinging the turkeys over
Wingenund’s shoulder, and preparing to pursue their course in search
of the elk. Leaving the youth to return with his feathered burden to
the encampment, the two friends continued their excursion, War–Eagle
leading the way, and stopping every now and then to examine such tracks
as appeared to him worthy of notice. They had not proceeded far, when
they reached a spot where the path which they were following crossed
a small rivulet, and, the soil being soft on its bank, there were
numerous hoof–prints of deer and elk, but so confused by the trampling
of the different animals, that Reginald could not distinguish the one
from the other. It was not so, however, with the Indian; for, pointing
downward to a track at his foot, he made a sign, by raising both his
hands above his head, to indicate a pair of antlers, and whispered to
Reginald “very big.”
“An elk?” inquired the latter; making a silent affirmative sign,
War–Eagle pursued the trail which conducted them to the top of a small
rising ground, where it appeared to branch in several directions, and
became almost imperceptible from the shortness of the grass and the
hardness of the soil. But these seemed to offer no impediment to the
Indian’s pursuit of his quarry, for turning short at a right angle to
their former course, he descended the hillock in a different direction,
walking with a swift noiseless step, as if he saw his game before him.
Reginald’s surprise overcame even his eagerness for the sport, trained
as he had been in the woods, and justly held one of the quickest and
most skilful hunters in the territory. He had looked in vain on the
ground which they were now traversing for the slightest point or
footmark: touching, therefore, his friend lightly on his shoulder, he
whispered, “Does my brother guess the elk’s path?—or can he smell it,
like the Spaniard’s dog?”
A good–humoured smile played on the Delaware’s lip as he replied, “The
trail of the elk is broad and easy; War–Eagle could follow it by the
moon’s light! My white brother will see: he is an elk–chief; his squaws
are with him.”
As he spoke he showed several marks, which Reginald could scarcely
distinguish, on the short grass: a few yards further War–Eagle added,
pointing to a low bush beside them, “If Netis does not see the elk’s
foot, he can see his teeth.”
On examining the bush, Reginald perceived that a small fresh twig
from the side of it had been recently cropped, and suppressing his
astonishment at his friend’s sagacity, in following with such apparent
ease a trail that to him was scarcely discernible, he allowed him
to proceed without further interruption, closely watching his every
movement, in the hope that he might be able to discover some of the
indications by which the Indian was guided. Moving lightly forward,
they soon had occasion again to cross the brook before mentioned; and
on the soft edge of its banks War–Eagle pointed in silence to the track
of the large hoof of the elk, and to the smaller print left by the feet
of its female companions. Desiring Reginald to remain still, the Indian
now crept stealthily forward to the top of a small hillock covered
with brushwood, where he lay for a few seconds with his ear touching
the ground. Having once raised his head to look through a low bush in
front of him, he sunk again upon the ground, and made a signal for his
friend to creep to the spot. Reginald obeyed, and peering cautiously
through the leaves of the same bush, he saw the stately elk browsing at
a distance of an hundred and fifty yards, the two hinds being beyond
him. The intervening ground being barren and almost flat, offering no
cover for a nearer approach, his first impulse was to raise his rifle
for a distant shot; but War–Eagle, gently pressing down the barrel,
motioned him to crouch behind the bush. When they were again concealed,
the Delaware whispered to his friend, that he would go round and creep
on the elk from the opposite quarter.
Reginald, in reply, pointed to the top branches of a young poplar
gently waving in the breeze.
“War–Eagle knows it,” said the Indian, gravely, “the wind is from that
quarter; it is not good; but he will try; if elk smell him, he comes
this way, and Netis shoot him.” So saying, he crept down the little
hillock by the same path which they had followed in the ascent, and
then striking off in an oblique direction, was soon lost to view.
Reginald, still concealed behind the bush, silent and motionless, with
his hand on the lock of his rifle, watched intently every movement of
the antlered monarch of the woods: the latter, unconscious of danger,
lazily picked the tenderest shoots from the surrounding bushes, or
tossed his lofty head to and fro, as if to display the ease and grace
with which it bore those enormous antlers. More than once, as he turned
to brush off from his side some troublesome fly, Reginald thought
he had become suddenly aware of the Indian’s approach; but it was
not so, for in spite of the disadvantage of the wind, the practised
Delaware moved towards his unsuspecting prey with the stealthy creep
of a panther. Reginald’s impatience was such that minutes seemed to
him hours; and his fingers played with the lock of his rifle, as if he
could no longer control their movement: at length a sudden snort from
one of the hinds announced that she smelt or heard some object of alarm
as she came trotting to the side of her lordly protector.
Turning himself to windward, and throwing forward his ears, the elk
listened for a moment, while his upturned and wide distended nostril
snuffed the breeze, to discover the danger of which he had been warned
by his mate. That moment was not lost by the Delaware, and the report
of his rifle echoed through the forest. Tossing his head with a sudden
start, the elk fled from his now discovered foe, and came bounding over
the barren space in front of the bush where Reginald was concealed.
With a coolness that did great credit to his nerves as a hunter, the
latter remained motionless, with his eye on the game and his finger on
the trigger, until the elk passed his station at full speed: then he
fired, and with so true an aim, that ere it had gone fifty yards, the
noble beast fell to the earth, and immediately Reginald’s hunting–knife
put an end to its pain and to its life. The young man looked over the
quarry with pride and pleasure, for it was the largest he had ever
seen; and the shot (which had pierced the heart) was well calculated
to raise War–Eagle’s opinion of his skill in wood–craft. Whilst he
was still contemplating the animal’s bulk and fine proportions, the
exclamation “good!” uttered in English, gave him the first notice that
the Delaware was at his side.
“Ha! my friend,” said Reginald, grasping his hand cordially; “you sent
him down towards me in fine style. Tell me War–Eagle, are there many
elks as large in this country?”
“Not many,” replied the Indian; “War–Eagle told his white brother that
the elk’s foot on the trail was big.”
“Was my brother very far when he shot?” inquired Reginald; “when his
rifle speaks, the ball does not wander in the air.”
“War–Eagle was far,” replied the Indian, quietly, “but the elk carries
the mark of his rifle—Netis shot better.” On examination, it appeared
that the chief was right; his bullet had passed through the fleshy part
of the animal’s neck; but not having cut the windpipe, the wound was
not mortal, and but little blood had flowed from it.
While the Indian was busied in skinning and cutting up the elk,
Reginald amused himself by reconnoitring the ground over which his
friend had crept before he shot, and he was struck by the extraordinary
sagacity with which the latter had made his approach; for on that side
there were but few and scattered bushes, nor was there any rugged or
broken ground favourable for concealment.
When the choicest portions of meat were duly separated and enveloped in
the skin, War–Eagle hung them up on an adjacent tree, carefully rubbing
damp powder over the covering, to protect the meat from the wolves and
carrion birds; after which the friends proceeded on their excursion.
Having found fresh tracks of elk leading towards the open Prairie, they
followed them, and succeeded in killing two more, after which they
returned to the encampment, whence War–Eagle despatched a young Indian
with a horse, and with directions as to the locality of the meat, which
he was instructed to bring home.
As Reginald walked through the lodges of the Osage village, he observed
a crowd of Indians collected before one of them, and curiosity
prompted him to turn aside and observe what might be passing. Making
his way without difficulty through the outer circle of spectators, he
found himself before a lodge, in front of which a wounded boy of twelve
or fourteen years of age was extended on a buffalo–robe. On inquiry,
Reginald learnt from an Indian who could speak a few words of English,
that the lad had been struck down and trampled on by a vicious horse:
although no sounds escaped from his lips, the involuntary writhing
of the youthful sufferer showed the acuteness of the pain which he
endured; while a bulky Indian, in the garb of an Osage medicine–man,
was displaying beside him the various absurd mummeries of his vocation.
This native quack was naked to the waist; his breast and back being
painted over with representations of snakes and lizards. Instead of
the usual breech–cloth, or middle garment, he wore a kind of apron of
antelope skins, hemmed, or skirted with feathers of various colours:
the borders of his leggings were also adorned with the wings of an owl;
in one hand he held a tomahawk, the haft of which was painted white,
and in the other a hollow gourd, containing a few hard beans, or stones
of the wild cherry, which latter instrument he rattled incessantly
round the head of his patient, accompanying this Æsculapian music with
the most grotesque gesticulations, and a sort of moaning howl—all
these being intended to exorcise and drive away the evil spirit of pain.
While Reginald was contemplating the strange spectacle with mingled
curiosity and compassion he heard a confused murmur among those Indians
nearest to the corner of the lodge, and thought he could distinguish
the name of Olitipa: nor was he mistaken, for almost immediately
afterwards the crowd divided, and Prairie–bird appeared before the
lodge. Her dress was the same as that which Reginald had before seen,
excepting that, in place of the chaplet of wild flowers, she wore on
her head a turban of party–coloured silk, the picturesque effect of
which blending with her dark hair and the oriental character of her
beauty, reminded our hero of those Circassian enchantresses whom he had
read of in eastern fable, as ruling satrap or sultan with a power more
despotic than his own!
Prairie–bird, walking gently forward with modest self–possession,
took her place by the side of the sufferer, as if unconscious of the
numerous eyes that were observing all her movements: the medicine–man,
whose exorcisms had been hitherto attended with no success, retreated
into the lodge, whence he narrowly and silently observed the
proceedings of his fair rival in the healing art.
It was not difficult for Prairie–bird to ascertain that the boy’s hurts
were very serious; for the hot brow, the dry lip, the involuntary
contortions of the frame, gave clear evidence of acute pain and fever.
She deeply regretted that the missionary had been absent when she was
summoned, as his assistance would have been most useful; nevertheless,
she resolved to do all in her power towards the mitigation of
sufferings, the cure of which seemed beyond the reach of her simple
remedies. Opening a bag that hung at her girdle, she drew from it
some linen bandage, and various salves and simples, together with a
small case of instruments belonging to Paul Müller, and kneeling by
her young patient’s side, she breathed a short but earnest prayer for
the blessing of Heaven on her humble exertions. During this pause, the
Indians observed a strict and attentive silence; and Reginald felt
a kind of awe mingle itself with his impassioned admiration, as he
contemplated the unaffected simplicity and loveliness of her kneeling
figure.
A serious wound in the young patient’s temple claimed her first care,
which having washed and closed, she covered with a healing plaster;
but observing that the symptoms of fever had rather increased than
diminished, she knew that the lancet should be immediately applied,
and cast her anxious eyes around in the hope that the missionary might
have heard of the accident, and be now on his way to the lodge. While
looking thus around, she became for the first time aware of Reginald’s
presence; and a slight blush accompanied her recognition of him;
but her thoughts recurring immediately to the object of her present
attention, she asked him in a clear low voice to come nearer, on which
he moved forward from the circle of spectators, and stood before the
lodge.
Prairie–bird, pointing to the form of the young Indian, said, in
English, “The poor boy is much hurt, he will die if he is not bled; the
Black Father is absent; can Reginald take blood from the arm?”
“I do not pretend to much skill in surgery, fair Prairie–bird,” replied
the young man, smiling; “but I have learnt to bleed my horse and my
dog, and if the necessity be urgent, methinks I can open a vein in this
boy’s arm without much risk of danger.”
“It is indeed urgent,” said the maiden, earnestly; “here are Paul
Müller’s instruments; I pray you take a lancet and proceed without
delay.”
Thus urged, Reginald selected a lancet, and having proved its
sharpness, he passed a bandage tightly round the sufferer’s arm, and
set about his first surgical operation with becoming care and gravity,
the Osages drawing near and looking on in attentive silence. Before
applying the lancet, he said in a low voice to Prairie–bird, “Must I
allow a considerable quantity of blood to flow ere I stanch it?” and
on her making an affirmative sign, he added, “Let me entreat you to
turn your eyes away, it is not a fitting sight for them, and they might
affect the steadiness of my nerves.”
With a deep blush Prairie–bird cast down her eyes, and began to employ
them busily in searching her little bag for some cordial drinks and
healing ointment, to be administered after the bleeding should be over.
Reginald acquitted himself of his task with skill and with complete
success, and found no difficulty in stanching the blood, and placing
a proper bandage on the arm; after which the restoratives prepared
by Prairie–bird were applied, and in a very short time they had the
satisfaction of finding the symptoms of fever and pain subside, and
were able to leave the youthful patient to repose, Prairie–bird
promising to visit him again on the morrow.
An elderly brave of the Osages now stepped forward, and presented
Prairie–bird with a girdle of cloth, ornamented with feathers, quills,
and beads, of the gayest colours,—an offering which she received with
that modest grace which was inseparable from her every movement; the
same brave (who was, in fact, the father of the wounded boy,) presented
Reginald with a painted buffalo robe, which, as soon as he had
displayed its strange designs and devices, he desired a young Indian to
convey to the white chief’s lodge. Our hero having, in return, given
to the Osage a knife with an ornamented sheath, which he had worn, in
addition to his own, in case of being suddenly called upon to make such
a present, prepared to accompany Prairie–bird to her lodge.
As they left the circle, Reginald’s eye encountered that of Mahéga,
fixed with a scowling expression on himself and his fair companion;
but he passed on without noticing the sullen and haughty chief, being
resolved not to involve himself in any quarrel in her presence. They
walked slowly towards the lodge of Tamenund, and it must be confessed
that they did not take exactly the shortest path to it, Reginald
leading the way, and Prairie–bird following his occasional deviations
with marvellous acquiescence.
The young man turned the conversation on the character of Paul Müller,
knowing it to be a subject agreeable to Prairie–bird, and well
calculated to give him an opportunity of listening to that voice which
was already music to his ear; nor was he disappointed, for she spoke
of him with all the warmth of the most affectionate regard; and the
expression of her feelings imparted such eloquence to her tongue and
to her beaming eyes, that Reginald looked and listened in enraptured
silence. As they drew near her tent, she suddenly checked herself, and
looking up in his face with an archness that was irresistible, said,
“Pray pardon me, I have been talking all this time, when I ought to
have been listening to you, who are so much wiser than myself.”
“Say not so,” replied Reginald, with an earnestness that he attempted
not to conceal: “say not so, I only regret that we have already reached
your tent, for I should never be weary of listening to your voice.”
Prairie–bird replied with that ingenuous simplicity peculiar to her:
“I am glad to hear you say so, for I know you speak the truth, and it
makes me very happy to give you pleasure. Now I must go into my tent.”
So saying she held out her hand to him, and nothing but the presence
of several Indians loitering near prevented his obeying the impulse
which prompted him to press it to his lips. Checking it by an effort
of prudence, he withdrew into the lodge of Tamenund, and mused on the
qualities of this extraordinary child of the wilderness,—her beauty,
her grace, her dignity, and, above all, that guileless simplicity that
distinguished her beyond all that he had ever seen; in short, he mused
so long on the subject that we will leave him to his meditations, as we
fear it must be confessed that he was almost, if not quite, “in love;”
and the reflections of parties so circumstanced, are rarely interesting
to others.
What were the feelings of Prairie–bird when she once more found herself
alone in her tent, and vainly endeavoured to still the unwonted tumult
in her heart? Her thoughts, in spite of herself, would dwell on the
companion who had escorted her from the Osage lodge: his words still
rung in her ears; his image was before her eyes; she felt ashamed that
one, almost a stranger, should thus absorb all her faculties; and was
the more ashamed, from being conscious that she did not wish it were
otherwise; her heart told her that it would not exchange its present
state of tumult and subjection for its former condition of quiet and
peace!
Lest the reader should be inclined to judge her as harshly as she
judged herself, we will beg him to remember the circumstances and
history of this singular girl. Brought up among a roving tribe of
Indians, she had fortunately fallen into the hands of a family
remarkable for the highest virtues exhibited by that people: the
missionary, Paul Müller, had cultivated her understanding with the most
affectionate and zealous care; and he was, with the exception of an
occasional trader visiting the tribe, almost the only man of her own
race whom she had seen; and though entertaining towards Tamenund the
gratitude which his kindness to her deserved, and towards War–Eagle
and Wingenund the affectionate regard of a sister, both the knowledge
imparted by the missionary, and her own instinctive feeling, had taught
her to consider herself among them as a separate and isolated being.
These feelings she had of course nourished in secret, but they had
not altogether escaped the penetration of Wingenund, who, it may be
remembered, had told Reginald on their first meeting that the antelope
was as likely to pair with the elk, as was his sister to choose a mate
among the chiefs of the Osage or the Lenapé.
On the return of the two Delawares from their excursion to the
Muskingum, Wingenund had related to Prairie–bird the heroic gallantry
with which the young white chief had plunged into the river to save
War–Eagle’s life: he had painted, with untutored but impassioned
eloquence, the courage, the gentleness, the generosity, of his new
friend. Prairie–bird’s own imagination had filled up the picture, and
the unseen preserver of her Indian brother was therein associated with
all the highest qualities that adorned the heroes of such tales as she
had read or heard recounted by the missionary.
She had reached that age when the female heart, unsupported by maternal
protection, and severed from the ties of kindred, naturally seeks for
something on which to rest its affection. Are we then to wonder if,
when Reginald Brandon first stood before her, when she saw in his noble
form and expressive features all her secret imaginations more than
realised, when he addressed her in her own tongue, and in a tone of
voice gentle even to tenderness; are we to wonder, or to blame, this
nursling of the wilderness, if the barriers of pride and reserve gave
way beneath the flood which swept over them with fresh and irresistible
force? Often had she, on various pretexts, made Wingenund repeat to
her the adventures and occurrences of his excursion to the Ohio; and
as the artless boy described, in language as clear as his memory was
tenacious, the dwelling of Reginald’s father, the range of buildings,
the strange furniture, the garden, the winding brook that bounded its
enclosure, and above all the fair features and winning gentleness
of the Lily of Mooshanne, Prairie–bird would cover her averted face
with her hands, as if struggling to banish or to recall some wild
delusive dream, and her lips would move in unconscious repetition of
“Mooshanne.” Surprised at her agitation, Wingenund had once so far laid
aside the strictness of Indian reserve as to inquire into its cause;
and she replied, with a melancholy smile,
“Wingenund has painted the Lily of Mooshanne in colours so soft and
sweet, that Olitipa longs to embrace and love her as a sister.”
The boy fixed his penetrating eye upon her countenance, in deep
expressive silence, the innate delicacy of his feeling triumphed, and
Prairie–bird’s secret meditations were thenceforward undisturbed.
To return from this retrospective digression. Prairie–bird’s tent was
divided, by a partition of buffalo skins, into two compartments, in the
outer of which was her guitar, the books lent her by the missionary,
a small table and two chairs, or rather stools, the latter rudely but
efficiently constructed by his own hands; in the corner also stood the
chest, where his medicines, instruments, and other few valuables were
deposited; in the inner compartment was a bed, composed of Mexican
grass, stretched upon four wooden feet, and covered with dressed
antelope skins and blankets of the finest quality. Here also was a
chest, containing her quaint but not ungraceful apparel, and the other
requisites for her simple toilet; at night a female slave, a captive
taken from one of the southern tribes, slept in the outer compartment,
and the ever watchful Wingenund stretched himself on a buffalo robe
across the aperture, so that the slumbers of the fair Prairie–bird were
securely guarded even during the absence of Paul Müller; and when he
was with the tribe, his small tent was separated from hers only by a
partition of skins, which in case of alarm might be cut open by a sharp
knife in a moment. There was, in truth, little fear for the security
of this extraordinary girl, who was looked upon, as we have before
observed, by all the tribe with mingled awe and affection.
In the outer room of the two compartments above mentioned she was now
sitting, with her eyes cast upon the ground, and her fingers straying
unconsciously over the strings of her guitar, when she was aroused from
her long reverie by the soft voice of the female slave who had entered
unperceived, and who now said, in the Delaware tongue,
“Are Olitipa’s ears shut, and is the voice of Wingenund strange to
them?”
“Is my brother there,” replied the maiden, ashamed at her fit of
absence; “tell him, Lita, that he is welcome.”