“The western borders were with crimson spread,
The sun descending looked all flaming red;
He thought good manners bound him to invite
The strange youth to be his guest that night.
'Tis true, coarse diet, and a short repast,
He said, were weak inducements to the taste
Of one so nicely bred, and so unused to fast:—
But what plain fare his cabin could afford,
A hearty welcome at a homely board,
Was freely his; and, to supply the rest,
An honest meaning, and an open breast.”
DRYDEN.
Richard Rolfe was a high-toned and chivalrous Virginian, born and
reared in Petersburg, a beautiful town lying within the county of
Dinwiddie, and stretching along for a mile or more on the southern
bank of the river Appomattox. An orphan in early life, he was educated
under the guidance of an uncle, and completed a course of studies at
William and Mary college, at that time, and, I dare say at the
present, the best institution within our country for the sons of
Virginia.
The law, as a matter of course, was selected as his future pursuit,
for parents thought then, as they do now, that every child who is
educated, must be bred to that profession. Scarcely had he commenced
this pursuit before his uncle died, leaving him pennyless and alone in
the world. Yet, destitute as he seemed, he was of great promise, and
his friends, looking far into the future, predicted his advancement to
the highest honours of his native state.
There is one requisite, without which, no man in the practice of the
law can arrive at any degree of eminence, and this is untiring
perseverance. I care not what his talents may be; there is no
exception. We sometimes, though rarely, meet with instances which seem
to be exceptions, and they indeed are beautifully bright. They dazzle,
and we are delighted; yet, like _ignes fatui_, which charm the
beholder, they last not. No—they endure not unto the end, and however
brilliant their efforts, they are distanced in the long race of life,
by far inferior, yet more laborious competitors.
Yet Rolfe reckoned not on this important, though common-place truth,
but endowed with many estimable qualities, commenced his profession,
flushed with hope, and sanguine of success. The world said of him that
he was good-looking; yet his particular appearance, his mode of dress,
the colour of his hair or eyes, with other minutiae generally deemed
all-important by novelists, I never knew; so, let them pass; he was of
good family, and had received the best education the country could
afford. Generous to a fault, ardent in temperament, and glowing with
youth, there would at times burst forth feelings and opinions which
characterized him as a being of a high order. Yet he was too
sensitive, with opinions of principle too refined, for the practical
sphere in which he was destined to act; so that he often deemed the
world selfish and dishonest, because its views did not coincide with
his own; imagined a friend cold and unfeeling, because he was less
ardent than himself, and often conceived himself slighted when no
offence was intended; with all this, frank in his manner, and ever
ready to forgive, he was endowed with many elements of true greatness,
but what is a rare occurrence, he possessed them in too great a
quantity, for he wanted that power which would enable him to control
and regulate them.
Such was Richard Rolfe, when he commenced the practice of the law, and
such was he, when fate threw him in the company of a gentle being,
who, unwittingly to herself, initiated him into the mysteries of that
delicious passion, which, Burns says, “in spite of bookworm
philosophy, and acid disappointment, I pronounce to be nature's
dearest gift, our greatest blessing here below.” He loved, and what
southerner, who has arrived at the age of twenty, has not?
“The cold in clime are cold in blood,
Their love can scarce deserve the name;
But his was like the lava flood,
That boils in Ætna's breast of flame.”
He loved—the expression seems cold when used to characterize a passion
deep, ardent, and intense, as was that of Rolfe—and still she was
neither a sylph, nor a fairy, nor an angel, but merely flesh and
blood, cast in nature's prettiest mould—“a sweet, sonsie, bonnie
lass.” Her eyes were hazel, and she was a gentle, quiet little
creature, well calculated to rob you of your peace, without your ever
dreaming even for a moment that she intended it. Her hair—a poet would
have called it auburn—was rich, and glossy, and fell curling and
clustering beautifully down her shoulders, forming a rich drapery for
the loveliest face my eyes ever beheld. A face, not brilliant, nor
splendid, nor even pretty; no, these are not the epithets which would
have characterized it; but it was lovely, and gentleness and purity
held dominion there, and cheerfulness often came, and still had it
been wanting, she would not have been melancholy.
As I said before, she was a quiet, gentle creature, and seemed unfit
for the cold and selfish world in which she was destined to play her
part. With these qualities, she was intellectual, without being too
much book learned, kind without seeming to intend it, and artless
without affectation. Not a dog but read her countenance aright, and
would follow her until he obtained his dinner; not a servant, but
loved her more than any member of her family.
She was not a showy girl, and yet a stranger would have admired her
without knowing why, and though placed in a room graced by beauty and
fashion alone, and in the most retired part of it, a place she always
sought, he could scarcely have passed without inquiring who she was.
Perhaps the charm lay in her retiring and timid manner. Her entrance
into the world was like the mountain daisy, “scarce glinting forth
amid the storm,” or it was like the first rose of spring, half blown,
which comes out blushing at its own appearance, and nestling for
concealment among the leaves which surround it. She was sweet
fifteen—the spirit of love—whom to see, was to love, and who could not
live without loving; playful as a child, with a disposition warm and
confiding; and Rolfe loved her; she was, indeed, “the ocean to the
river of his thoughts.” And did she love him? “She never told her
love.”
Yet they had often walked together upon the rocky bank, which, on
either side, bounds the river at the western extremity of the town,
and had during their excursions, inhaled the fragrance of the
woodbine, wooing with its petals the summer breeze, and beheld it
wreathed in festoons, locking its tendrils one within another, and
forming for the little islets a rich drapery. Often had they seen the
mysterious love-vine creeping over the tops of the shrubs which rose
along their path, or weaving itself among their tender twigs; often
had they gathered the golden vine, and from it demanded their future
fortunes. They had stood upon the towering rocks, which upon either
side curbed the rushing river, and listening to the dashing torrent,
had remained, charmed by its music, until the last rays of the setting
sun warned them of the hour for departure. These, to young hearts, are
dangerous things. Now, did she love him? Really, I know not; yet think
you she could do otherwise, often meeting with Rolfe, gifted above his
fellow men, and aware how much his happiness depended upon herself? He
was poor, and on that account she was required not to love him, and
that she might not encourage, she affected reserve. Formality now
presided over all their meetings, which were less frequent than when
first he knew her; yet Rolfe loved deeply, and would sometimes brook
her reserve, and the cold glances of her parents, by repeating his
visits. Although no smile of welcome greeted his entrance, a gleam of
joy sometimes shone for an instant from the dark eyes of her he loved,
and then again, it was _yes, sir_, and _no, sir_, to every question;
and rigid ceremony prevailed during their meetings. Yet there were
moments, when, overcome by the urbanity of his manner, or fascinated
by the glowing powers of his conversation, formality made her exit,
and sunshine gleamed over the little party. Then sparkled the glad
thoughts of youth, then burst forth the untrammelled opinions of his
refined nature, bright and dazzling as the gleam of rockets; or, if
his thoughts soared from this world into the regions of speculation,
they shone forth as beautiful and startling as the forked lightning
which sports of a dark night 'mid summer clouds. Or, if he rather
chose to tell a tale of tenderness, or of suffering, and thereby touch
the chords of the human heart, spell-bound, his hearers followed
whither he led, and only ceased to follow when he released them.
Although such was his power, and such may have been the impression
left, yet it was an equal chance, that at his next visit to the
family, he would find them all icy cold.
It may well be conceived that Rolfe's present frame of mind was but
ill suited to the study of the law; moreover, he was too restless and
impatient to serve that regular apprenticeship through which all must
pass who come forward relying for success solely on their own
resources; which consists in unceasing attention and apparent devotion
to business, when one has nothing to do; which implies incessant
labour, without present benefit, for future and contingent good.
Time rolled on, and Rolfe became still poorer; unsuccessful in his
profession, and apparently slighted by her he loved, he became gloomy
and unhappy. The glow of early life was fast departing; his feelings
were withering under the blight of mortification, and the world for
him had no joys. To alleviate his sufferings, he courted dissipation,
and neglected his studies; became reserved in his manner towards his
friends, and consequently conceived them cold and unfeeling; when,
being alone in the world, he resolved to leave the scene of his
unhappiness, and seek a home in the western wilds.
This resolution was scarcely taken, before he communicated it to many
of his companions. They laughed at it as the whim of a man in love,
yet he was fixed in his determination, and a few days sufficing to
make his little preparations, he set off, having been absent for
several weeks, to gaze for the last time, on her he loved. Slowly, and
with a full heart, he moved forward, and approaching the house of her
father, discovered her in the porch, nursing her flowers, and twining
into wreaths the woodbine, which, full blown, hung clustering in rich
luxuriance above her. The last rays of the setting sun yet lingered on
her form, which was partly concealed by the sweet foliage which
surrounded her; and Rolfe thought he had never seen her so beautiful.
Then there passed over his mind the reflection that the hues of the
dolphin are brightest when it dies, and he added, “she too is
loveliest when I leave her;” and, moving on, he was soon at her side.
Upon discovering him, she turned, and with great gentleness, though in
a slightly upbraiding tone, said, “Oh, Richard! why so long absent?
You know not how much I have missed you.”
“A thousand thanks for those kind words,” said Rolfe, pressing her
hand affectionately, “tell me truly, have you wished to see me?”
“Certainly,” said she, “for I have been lonely and wanted some body to
talk with me.”
“Somebody,” repeated Rolfe, “then you cared not who?”
“No; we have had company enough, and, could numbers interest, I should
never be lonely; but it is not every one whose conversation pleases.”
“Come, dearest,” said Rolfe, “you are grave this evening; why so?”
“No,” replied she, “I am not, and if you think so, it is your long
absence which has caused it.”
“Pardon me, my love,” said Rolfe, “for though absent, my heart and
thoughts have both been with you; not an hour passes but I in thought
give half to you, and I would be oftener with you, but that I fear to
trust myself.”
“Fear,—what?” said she.
“Why, that I shall love you more than I wish.”
“Then you do not wish to love me?” said she, inquiringly.
“I did not say that,” replied Rolfe, “although I think I should be
happier if I had never known you.”
“And would you forget our acquaintance?” said she; “forget that which
has been to me the happiest circumstance of my life? Richard, I have
never given you cause to be unhappy.”
“My love, I mean not to chide,” said Rolfe, “but you know our
attachment is an unfortunate one. Your parents always regard me as an
unwelcome visiter.”
“Come, let us walk into the parlour,” said she, “there is no one
there;” and in a few moments they were seated on the sofa, when
raising her handkerchief, she pressed it to her eyes in silence.
“Come,” said Rolfe, “taking her hand, tell me, why so grave this
evening, has any thing farther occurred to make you unhappy?”
“No,” said she, “but you know there are moments in which sadness
sometimes steals over us without a cause—it comes like twilight,
following the close of a summer day.”
“It is a beautiful comparison, love,” replied Rolfe, “but twilight is
always succeeded by night. Do I read aright our fate?” “The present is
dark,” said she, sighing, “and we cannot read the future.”
“And is the present dark to thee, love,” said Rolfe, “to thee,
embodying within thyself all that is pure and bright, in human
nature?”
“Hush, Richard,” said she, “could I be, you would make me vain, for
you love me, and therefore think me better than I am. It is that which
makes you speak so extravagantly.”
“Never mind that,” said Rolfe—“come, tell me, is there any hope that
your parents will consent to our wishes?”
She blushed, and casting her eyes on the floor, was silent.
“So much for being poor,” said Rolfe, as a shade passed over his
features, and he pressed his eyes with his hand, as if suffering with
thought.
“Come, Richard,” said she, aroused by the attitude he had assumed,
“please, don't do so; all may yet be well.”
“Will you marry me without their consent, at some future day?”
inquired he.
“No,” said she, “I cannot do that, I should never forgive myself if I
did, for they love me, and if they err, it is in doing what they think
will advance my happiness.”—
“Then you will not run away with me?”
“No:—and never mention that again unless you wish me to like you
less.”
“Then our dreams of happiness are over,” said Rolfe, “and this is our
last meeting.”
At this speech, she turned her eyes full upon Rolfe, and gazed
searchingly in his face, and when she read in his countenance that his
resolution was taken, she became agitated, and said, “please don't say
so; why not love me, and visit me as you have always done; I will
never love another.”
“My purpose is taken,” he replied, “I shall ever love you dearly as I
now do, and, should fortune smile, will at some future day return to
claim you as my first, and only love. But in a day or two I shall
leave for the west.”
At the mention of that word, a shudder passed over her frame, for in
her mind it was associated with many stories of Indian massacre, and
she said, “O! something is ever occurring to make me wretched. I had
almost as lieve hear of your being tomahawked, as of your going to the
west.” When she had made the remark, she turned her eyes on Rolfe, and
on meeting his, her countenance was instantly changed, and she eagerly
cried, “Oh, pardon me, pardon me, I did not mean it,” then laying her
hands caressingly upon his, and looking imploringly in his face, she
said, “forgive me that speech; will you, will you forget it? I am ever
doing something wrong, though I do not intend it, now promise me, will
you forget it?”
“Yes, most certainly,” said Rolfe, who had remained silent, charmed by
her mode of atoning for a thoughtless speech. And that speech he had
promised to forget. Yet the exaction of that promise had stamped it on
his mind never to be effaced. No, never can he forget the slight and
girlish form which prayed his forgiveness, never forget that
countenance so full of tenderness and regret; no, never forget the
thrill which ran over him when her light fingers touched his; never
forget how each auburn lock seemed to woo his pardon; never forget how
her dark eyes, full of affection, by their every glance expressed her
penitence. Thou hast promised to forget, yet often in future years
shall that scene rise before thee, whether thou mayest be standing
above the roar of some cataract, gazing on some beautiful landscape,
beholding the ever varying tints of a golden sunset, or reposing after
the fatigues of battle. Yes, often, in the darkest hours of night,
whether on the prairie, in the forest, or in a cabin, shall it rise
before thee, and in all its loveliness shalt thou hug it to thy soul.
Yes, it shall be to thee like an oasis in the desert, like a sail to
the wrecked mariner, like hope to the criminal. Yes, time after time
in future years shall it rise before thee, as green, as fresh, and as
vivid, as though it were but the date of yesterday.
The above scene was little calculated to strengthen Rolfe in his
determination, and a continuance of it might effectually have changed
his purpose; but a step was heard, and her father, upon entering,
found her cold and reserved, and apparently uninterested by the
company of Rolfe.
After the common salutations of the day were over, she said, “father,
Mr. Rolfe says he is going to move to the West, but I cannot believe
it—do you?”
“I think not, my daughter,” was the reply, “for surely no one would
venture there, in its present new and unsettled condition.”
“I shall leave in a few days,” said Rolfe. His remark was unnoticed,
save by her he loved; she gazed at him for some time with searching
eyes; the conversation then took another turn, and soon after he
arose, wished them a good evening, and retired. Though struggling to
conceal his emotion, his embarrassment was plainly visible, so much
so, as to be the subject of remark after his departure.
“Father, I fear Mr. Rolfe is going, he seems so unhappy.”
“I hope not, my daughter, for, with perseverance, he will become an
ornament to his profession, and although at present I should not like
him as a son-in-law, yet I had rather he would not leave us.”
At the word, “son-in-law,” his daughter's cheeks were suffused with
blushes, and running away, she was soon engaged in some household
occupation; yet her heart was sad, and often did she detail to her
mother Mr. Rolfe's remarks, and wonder if he was going to the West.
Having retired to his lodgings, he threw himself on a bed, where he
remained for some time absorbed in thought, when suddenly assuming an
energy of character, he arose, strode several times across the room,
laughed wildly, and then suddenly curbing himself, his face grew dark
as he said, “even she believes it the whim of a boy.” A shudder ran
over him, his soul seemed wrung with anguish, and he added, “it is a
sad duty to say farewell to friends we love, when we think we shall
meet them, O! never.” Then pausing a moment, he continued, “O!
poverty! poverty!—how often hast thou been sketched in some humble
sphere, as fascinating in the extreme—and lovely art thou in the
abstract;—but oh! let him tell who has felt thy gripe, how thy fangs
creep into the soul, torturing it, and destroying its powers of
action; or how, with thy cold, icy hands, thou freezest up the
feelings, making this earth a hell!”
“Educated in a style unsuitable to my fortune; called into a class of
society, whose expenses I cannot afford; brought up to a profession,
whose profits, for some years at least, will not buy me bread,
starvation, with her thin, lean, devouring look, sits gazing at me. My
happiness, too, dependent on a girl whose parents slight me because I
am _poor!_ O! mine uncle! why did you not give me a profession
suitable to my fortune? Had you but made me a mechanic, though never
so humble, my thoughts would not have been exalted, and I should have
been happy. But to be tacked on to the fag end of a profession, to
spend my days lounging about the doors of a county court, wrangling
over petty strifes, while my soul sickens with disgust, these, O! most
noble profession, are thy duties. But I will away—I will leave my
native land, and become a wanderer in the wide world,—yes, my
resolution is taken.”
It is easy to conceive the state of mind, and the bitterness of
feeling which gave rise to the above soliloquy, and I deem it not
exaggerated, under the circumstances just described. Intense suffering
often produces delirium, and that of the wildest kind; and while the
mind labours under it, no language can be too strong for the
expression of feeling.
Early on the following morning, a servant was holding at Rolfe's door
a fine horse; a light pair of saddle-bags were thrown over the saddle,
and the master appeared equipped for a journey. So easy and dignified
was his deportment, so manly his carriage, that you would never have
suspected that he was about to leave the home of his fathers. For
there was no wavering of purpose, no flow of feeling to announce his
departure; calm and unmoved, he was about to place his foot in the
stirrup, when his dog Carlo, running and yelping playfully, jumped up
against him, and commenced licking his hands, as if asking permission
to go. This silent tribute of affection could not be withstood,
patting him on the head, Rolfe wept like a child. “No, Carlo, I will
not make thee a partaker of my misfortunes, the fate of an exile shall
not be thine;” then shaking his weeping servant by the hand, “take
this dog,” said he, “when I am gone, to my former friend Lucerne, and
tell him to keep him, as a gift from me, and also tell him that,
should all the world prove false, Carlo will remain true to his
master.” Then spurring his horse he cantered off, threading street
after street, until he found himself on the western highway, where we
must leave him to pursue his journey.
His departure created quite a sensation, and for a time shed a gloom
over the circle of his acquaintances. All his good qualities were
called up and enumerated over and over again; his foibles forgotten.
He was frank, manly, and generous. Then came speculations as to the
cause of his leaving, and all recollected that he was poor, and that
his profession yielded him nothing; and then all regretted his
departure, and, were he now here, all would have assisted him.
But of all the crowd which entertained for him so many kind feelings,
she who felt most, said least. Not a syllable in reference to him she
loved was ever uttered; an indifferent spectator would never have
imagined that she knew him. Yet to those who knew her, although she
appeared gay and cheerful, her gaiety seemed forced. For so silently
did she listen when Rolfe's good qualities were mentioned, that her
soul seemed to drink in his praises, and her guitar, which once
emitted sounds as light and playful as her own buoyant feelings, was
now as sad as the heart of its mistress, for when she touched it, so
plaintive were its strains, that they seemed to sound the knell of
departing joys.
Several months elapsed, and no tidings were heard of Rolfe, when, at
the close of a beautiful summer's day, a solitary and jaded traveller
might be seen in the wilds of Kentucky, urging his weary horse along a
wide path, which led on to the little village of Bowling Green. He was
distant from it several miles, and night was shedding abroad her
sombre hues, when, approaching him by the same path, walked a hunter
of the west. He was strong and athletic in figure, and on his
shoulder, supported by his left arm, was carelessly thrown a heavy
rifle. A rough hunting shirt, fastened around his middle by a cincture
or girth, from which gleamed forth a large and well sharpened Spanish
knife, formed his upper garment, while his lower limbs were encased in
leggins, which fitted with great neatness and regularity. His beard
was the growth of many moons, and served to impart to him a ferocity
of aspect, which accorded but little with his character.
But since this encounter, casual as it may seem, was destined to exert
a great influence on Rolfe's after life, it is proper that we should
detail the circumstances which accompanied it. The meeting between a
traveller and a hunter, on the frontiers, has so much in it
characteristic of that peculiar class of persons, who, from the time
of earliest settlements, have been the pioneers of our western
wilderness, that one who has once witnessed, can never forget it. In
manner there is so much apparent familiarity, that you are apt to be
displeased. But when you reflect that it is the offspring of the
kindest feelings, and springs most generally from the purest fountains
of the heart, you are gratified; for myself, of all welcomes, give me
the hearty shake of a western hunter; for if you measure his good will
towards you by the strength of his gripe, he never leaves you
dissatisfied on that point.
The hunter wound his way along the path until he came directly up to
Rolfe, when he eyed him for a moment from head to foot, and thus
addressed him:—“Stranger, give us your hand, I'm glad to see you;
don't see a man every day in these parts.”
Rolfe was at first disconcerted, and disposed to recoil from the rude
familiarity of the hunter, but there was so much frankness in his
manner, that he extended his hand, and thanked him for his kindness.
“You seem a stranger in these _capes_?” continued the hunter.
“Yes, sir,” replied Rolfe, “but I hope I shall not remain so, inasmuch
as I came out with an intention of settling.”
“Give us your hand again for that,” and he grappled it like a vice;
“we want men here awful bad; we have seen hard times, but I fear worse
are coming. There was a whole family murdered just down here, a few
nights ago.”
Rolfe started at the tidings; the scenes in which he seemed destined
to act, flitted before him, but suppressing his feelings, he asked,
“by whom?” “And who should it be but the Ingens?—I got upon their
track right soon, and made a light through one of 'em.”
“Shot him?”
“Yes, look at the bore of that gun,” passing it to him. “Don't you
think 'twould make a light through him? And he don't know to this day
who it was that did it, but come, it's getting late, where are you
going to camp to night?”
“That is more than I can tell,” replied Rolfe, “I did hope to get on
as far as Bowling Green.”
“Oh! that will never do! 'tis too far; come, draw in your horns, and
take the back track. The trail from here to Bowling Green is a bad
one, and I do not think you can follow it; moreover, I have a friend a
short mile from here, and what little he has, you are as welcome to as
a brother. It is right rough living, but with a hearty welcome, and a
good appetite, I should think you might get along, come, you can tell
us the news from the old settlements.”
Rolfe, who was fatigued and weary, accepted the stranger's invitation
with as much frankness as it was given; and proceeded with him to the
cabin of his friend, where he met with much hospitality, and passed
the night in telling them of “their kin[1] in the old country,” or
else listening to hunting stories, with the more exciting details of
frontier warfare. Several days passed, and still Rolfe remained,
charmed by the bold daring, the manly frankness, and lofty
independence of his companion. Time wore on, they became inseparable,
and the accomplished and talented Rolfe became a hunter of the West.
[Footnote 1: See note B.]
That he should have become strongly attached to hunting, an occupation
so little in unison with his former habits, seems at the first view a
strange annunciation, yet such he became, and such, from the nature of
his situation, was the pursuit most likely to be followed. Having left
home sick at heart, with blighted hopes, and feelings mortified, he
arrived in Kentucky at a time when a frontier war was daily
apprehended. A hunter's life was the life of a warrior, for he knew
not where he might meet an enemy. Rolfe had no plan sketched out for
the future, and his sole object was to forget the past.
In this situation, the first person with whom he forms an
acquaintance, possesses in an eminent degree some of the nobler
virtues of our nature; charms him with tales of border warfare, of
lofty daring and bold conception, describes to him as a hunter only
can, the high, yet pleasing excitement produced by being alone in the
wild woods, where danger is known to be abroad. The effect of these
things upon the mind of Rolfe may be conceived, when, rather more than
a year after this time, the two hunters who are crossing the Ohio, may
be identified with the persons we have been describing.
Rolfe and Earthquake, for so I shall designate the latter, having
succeeded in passing the river, hurried on their clothes, and were
soon ready for a march. Landing at the base of the limestone cliffs,
upon which the Indians were encamped, they lost sight of them, and
being unable to ascend the bank at that point, proceeded down the
river until a more favourable ascent presented itself. Then seeking
the woods, they cautiously crept along until they reached a large tree
situated on the edge of a ravine, which commanded a tolerable view of
the ledge of rocks, and there they resolved to await the approach of
the Indians. They were led to do this chiefly because the tree, being
hollow, offered them a hiding place in case it should become
necessary.
Scarcely had they taken their position, when a light was seen moving
about on the rocks, and soon after, an Indian, bearing aloft a torch,
descended, apparently lighting the way to his companions.—Then came
another, forcing along, and at the same time assisting, his beautiful
and unfortunate captive, and then came the remainder of the gang, each
following on in Indian file. Arriving at the base of the rocks, and
gathering together, they consulted for a moment as to their route,
then starting off, led the way directly towards the hunters.
When this plan was adopted, Rolfe and Earthquake, who had expected
them to take a different direction, found themselves so near to the
party, that retreat was impossible, and adopting the only alternative
which presented itself, they concealed themselves in the cavity of the
tree, and there awaited the issue.
As the light shot upwards with a vivid glare, “by heaven, Earth,” said
Rolfe, “how the past springs to life at seeing that face; the girl of
whom you have heard me so often speak, was very much like her.”
“Hush,” said Earth, “or you will have a tomahawk about you, afore you
know it; hush, don't breathe, they are coming.”
The torch which they bore shed abroad a flickering light, showing at
one moment every object with distinctness, the next, veiling them in
darkness; and their heavy steps as they dragged their feet through the
leaves, were heard approaching. The sobs of the captive, with the
harsh language of the captors, as they urged her along, caused a
shudder to thrill through the frames of the hunters, and Rolfe wrung
his hands in agony, saying, “O! Earth! let us try them.”
“Hush,” said Earth, “we are gone if they come to the left of this
tree; they come; we are gone! we are gone!”
The Indian who bore the torch was now within a few feet of
them—another step, and the light must have shone in the cavity of the
tree—another step, and discovery would have been inevitable. His foot
was raised, his body advanced, but before the step was taken, the
deadly rattle of a snake was heard, proceeding directly from the root
of the tree. At the sound of the rattle, Rolfe started and drew up his
feet; Earth pinched him into silence, and the Indian, recoiling at the
well known sound, jumped back, pronouncing the word “achgook!
achgook!” meaning, “snake! snake!” then filing off, he made a circuit
to the right. It was a moment of wild and fearful excitement, as the
Indians each approached the tree, and filed off. Death seemed already
to have encircled the hunters in his icy fetters, yet the last of the
band passed on, and all was safe.—“Thank God,” said Earth, “we are
still alive.”
“I don't know that,” said Rolfe, shuddering; “where is that snake?”
“There is no snake here.”
“I certainly heard one.”
“No;—don't you recollect my killing a snake yesterday, and cutting off
the rattles?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I was the snake just now, I made the noise. There are many of
the Ingen tribes who will not disturb a rattle-snake; they say it is
as harmless as a lamb, for that it never attacks, and even when about
to strike in its own defence, always gives warning that you may get
out of its way. On this account, they avoid it, and when found, turn
from its path. This was all that saved us just now.”
“My thanks to you, Earth, it was a bright thought. Is there not
something noble about the rattle snake. I like the motto, ‘don't tread
on me.’”
“Come,” said Earth, stepping out of the tree, and peeping round,
“there they go, eight in number; see those hindmost how they are
loaded with plunder. Rolfe, I fear we can do nothing.”
“But we must do something, Earth; let us follow on and wait a chance.”
“Recollect,” said Earth, “we are in their country, and must be
cautious:—we may follow them through the night, for their torch will
be of more service to us, than to them; yet, when morning comes, if we
have done nothing, we must return.”
“To spread the tidings?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“But, Earth,” said Rolfe, “they profess to be at peace, and surely
would not add another crime to the one just committed.”
“Yes, they will do any thing,” said Earth, “never put any trust in one
if you can help it.”
“Well, Earth, tell me where do you think they are going?”
“That is more than I can tell,” said Earth, “you know that large
numbers are constantly gathering upon the Wabash to see their new made
prophet, and these may be hurrying on there, like a parcel of 'coon
dogs on a warm trail. But this looks mightily like some of Tecumseh's
work.”
“How? What do you mean by Tecumseh's work?”
“Why, I mean I never knowed any one of his band to leave any thing
unfinished. I've known 'Cumseh a long time; I knowed him when he was a
mere boy, in the old ‘Black Snake's’ time. I have set for him many a
night on his paths, and watched for him like I would for a deer at a
lick. That was a good while ago, Rolfe, but he used to make his mark
then mightily like this one we've seen to night.”
“Whom do you mean by the old ‘Black Snake?’” inquired Rolfe.
“Who? Mad Anthony to be sure; why, Rolfe, you don't know any thing.
The Ingens called him the ‘Black Snake,’ because, although they kept a
sharp look out, he would crawl upon their lands before they knowed
it.”
“Well, where is Tecumseh?” said Rolfe, “tell me that, for I think it
probable they are going to his camp.”
“There is no knowing,” said Earth, “I hear he is always moving about
in spots;—but what say you, shall we go or not?”
“Go on certainly,” said Rolfe, “we must follow them, at least for a
time.”
“Be it so,” said Earth, at the same time following on. “The way I'll
use up one or more of them will be quite alarming.”
“Come, Earth, do not follow their example;—let us have no more cold
blooded butchery. If there is the least hope of rescuing the prisoner,
I will help you to cut them into mincemeat; but to kill only one, when
no possible good can result from it, I will not agree.”
“I used to hate this business, Rolfe, as much as you do, but they
would make me git used to it. I've got a grudge agin 'em of mighty
long standing. I once had a mother.” There was something in the
pronunciation of the last word which precluded reply, not another
syllable was uttered, but, darting from tree to tree, they began to
move on in pursuit of the Indians.
For some time the pursuit was a silent one. The excitement which had
been produced on the Indians in the early part of the evening, had
died away, and sullenly they were moving forward to their camp. No
sound was heard but the stifled sobs of the captive, and the rustling
of the leaves as they marched along.
Rolfe had filed off to some distance, in order to get a side view of
their movements, while Earthquake followed immediately on their trail.
For some time this was the order of pursuit; then the Indians began to
move more lazily, and one of their band, tall and rawboned, fatigued
with the weight he was carrying, lagged behind, until he was separated
by a considerable interval from his companions. Earthquake was not
unmindful of this circumstance, nor of another, that he was the same
who had tangled his fingers in the hair of the captive; and he was
soon creeping after him, as a setter does, when he is winding birds.
The torch gave an irregular light, yet by its dim glare, as it shot
upward, Rolfe beheld Earthquake, but a few feet behind his intended
victim, who stooping forward to support his burden, was lazily drawing
himself along. He saw Earthquake cautiously draw from the cincture
which confined his hunting shirt a knife, which glittered as the light
fell upon it. Shuddering with emotion he turned his head from the
scene. Yet a moment and no noise, still another, and all was quiet;
turning to see what had happened, he beheld the Indian moving along at
his accustomed gait, while Earthquake was no where to be seen. He
searched the woods in every direction, yet nothing could he discover;
several minutes elapsed, when looking far ahead of the Indian, between
him and his gang, yet directly in his path, he saw a head peep round
from a large tree, then quickly draw back. The Indian approached, the
light seemed for a moment fainter, Rolfe heard the ripping of a knife,
and as the light again glanced forth, he beheld Earthquake with the
quivering body of the Indian in his arms, easing it gently to the
ground to prevent the noise of a fall. The legs contracted, and kicked
several times with the spasms of death, and then not a muscle moved.
Earthquake withdrawing his knife, wiped it several times on his
hunting shirt, examined its edge, and returned it to its sheath; then
taking the bundle which the Indian had been carrying, he secreted it
at a short distance, and continued the pursuit.
Though the execution of this plan was as quick as its conception, yet
Rolfe, without Earthquake's being aware of it, had been a silent
looker on. Paralyzed by the scene, he was for a moment at a loss how
to act; it had been so cool, so silent, so effectual, and perpetrated
withal in a boundless forest, at the dark hour of night. There was no
sudden burst of passion, not a muscle had been distorted, but with the
same quiet ease that he would have butchered a bear, did he go through
the ceremony. Rolfe was lost in thought while considering how he
should act, for his soul revolted at what he had seen, and he
continued almost mechanically the pursuit, while Earthquake gliding
along, bent his steps towards him, and upon coming up, playfully shook
the rattle before mentioned. At the sound, Rolfe started from his
reverie.
“What!” said Earthquake, “still afraid of the rattle snake?—You know
it always gives warning.”
Rolfe turned upon him with eyes plainly showing his dissatisfaction;
for the speech, as he thought, was bitterly sarcastic, while
Earthquake, believing him ignorant of what he had done, intended
nothing by it. The darkness of the hour prevented Earthquake from
seeing the change which had come over Rolfe's countenance, and Rolfe
was about to go a step farther and vent his detestation of such an
act, when Earth calling his attention, pointed to a gathering of the
Indians. “See, Rolfe,” said he, “they are consulting as to where they
shall halt, for they believe themselves far enough from the
settlements now, to rest in safety for a few hours.”
This luckily changed the direction of Rolfe's thoughts, and he asked,
“what can be the hour of the night?” “Hard upon day-break,” said
Earth, “you see it is darker than it has been, and you know it is
always darkest just before the day dawns.” Leaving the hunters to
hover about the temporary camp of the Indians, we must bring forward
other parts of our story.