“These are the gardens of the desert,—these
The boundless, unshorn fields, where lingers yet
The beauty of the earth, ere man had sinned,—
The Prairies.”
BRYANT.
On the side of a green sloping hill, along whose base murmured a
little rivulet, lay the temporary camp of a roving band of Indian
warriors. It was situated within that region of country which now
forms the state of Illinois, but over which, at that time, they roamed
with all the freedom of undisputed sovereignty. Peace had reigned for
many years, and apprehending no danger, they had selected their
situation, a regard being had more to comfort than security. Somewhat
elevated, it commanded a fine view of the surrounding scenery, and
surely eyes never beheld a prospect more beautiful.
In the rear of their camp, and at a short distance, lay a boundless
forest, wild, grand, and imposing from the deep stillness which
reigned throughout it. There was no undergrowth, the Indians having
regularly burned it every spring, and in its place, there sprung up a
soft velvet grass, so green and luxuriant, that to the weary it seemed
to invite repose; and upon this, far from the wigwams of the red men,
fed herds of buffalo, deer, and elk.—Before it lay in all its silent
beauty, a prairie, of whose extent the human eye could take no note.
While you gazed searching for its boundary, the eye would sweep the
greater segment of a circle, still there it lay illimitable; there,
spread out before you, it undulated with the heavy swellings of the
sea; yet it was not monotonous, for from its bosom arose many little
islands as green and fresh as foliage could make them. The whole
prairie was covered with grass of luxuriant growth, and adorned with
every flower to which the climate gave birth, and when set in motion
by the winds as they swept over it, it assumed the appearance of a
gently heaving ocean, while the odour from the flowers, borne on the
passing breeze, shed abroad so many sweets, that a stranger would have
looked upon it as the land of promise.
And if there was a moment in which the prospect was more beautiful
than at another, it was when the sun, near the western horizon, seemed
pillowed on clouds of fire, or else sinking beneath it, grew large,
and round, and red, shedding abroad a softer light, as if sorrowing
that even for a time he was compelled to leave a scene so lovely.
Overlooking this, lay the Indian camp. A large buck which swung
against a tree, and a buffalo from which several Indians were
stripping the hide, indicated that they had just returned from a
successful hunt. Yet you soon saw that hunting was not regarded as
their sole occupation, for upon glancing round, you beheld stacked up
in various piles, rifles, unstrung bows, and all the implements of
Indian warfare; while the military dresses of the red men told
plainly, that they were holding themselves in readiness for some
warlike excursion.
The camp presented many scenes, several of which were strikingly
impressive from their contrast. Scattered about in every direction,
lay groups of warriors, some sleeping, others telling of battles, or
cleaning their arms; while hard by, leaning over a log, might be seen
several feathering their arrows, and decorating them with
hieroglyphical characters. On the outside of the camp, burned a bright
fire, over which several squaws were preparing their morning meal, and
still farther without, rose up a bower, formed by the weaving of oaken
boughs.—In this were reclining two female Indians, evidently of some
distinction, from the manner in which they were treated. They were
Netnokwa, and her daughter, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa.
Netnokwa was by birth an Ottawa, and notwithstanding her sex, was
recognized as chief of her tribe. She possessed great energy of
character, blended with ambition; bold, ardent, and indefatigable in
her exertions, she had obtained an authority over her tribe which few
of the opposite sex could have wielded. Conspicuous for her savage
virtues, she also possessed those which would have shed lustre over
any character; several times had she in former days led her warriors
on to mingle in the exterminating war which then raged on the upper
branches of the Wabash, and as often had she been successful. In the
defeats of Generals Harmar and St. Clair, her warriors had been
conspicuous, and she had also in person led them on to the decisive
battle of Presque Isle, which marked its termination. From that time
to the present, peace had reigned; but now clouds of war were again
gathering, and Netnokwa, incited by the martial recollections of the
past, had repaired from her distant home in the north-west to the
scene of former conflicts, to learn the truth of flying rumours, gaze
upon the far-famed Prophet, and acquaint herself with the situation of
the tribes along the frontier.—In this journey she had been
accompanied by her daughter, Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, whom she brought with
her to bestow in marriage on a Shawanee, whose growing reputation had
already spread far abroad.
Having arrived in his country, she had ascertained the location of his
encampment, and had with her daughter come to seek him.
Mis-kwa-bun-o-kwa, or, “the Red Sky of the morning,” which her name
implies, was as pretty as a dusky maid can be; beautiful in
proportion, timid in appearance, and as easily startled as the fawn;
with eyes so expressive, that they seemed to say a thousand things,
while her hair, darker than the raven's wing, fell without a curl in
rich luxuriance far below her shoulders.—She sate within her bower
neatly dressed, and decorated with wild flowers, the snow-white petals
of which, interwoven with her hair, wore the appearance of spotless
gems.
She was embroidering with her needle a deer-skin slipper, or rather
tracing thereon with beads, some fanciful figure, when ever and anon
she would let it drop, and gaze upon the deep blue heavens, as if
endeavouring to read therein her fate; and then her whole frame would
tremble, and in her agitation she would again resume her needle.
“Mother, I fear I shall be left alone.”
“The ‘Red Sky of the morning’ is the fairest maid of the forest; where
is the chieftain who dares refuse her?”
“Mother, I have seen chieftains decorate themselves with large and
gaudy flowers, when the sweet-briar was opening its buds to the
morning.”
“And is Netnokwa nothing? Proud may be the chief who calls me mother.
Rest, my daughter, the fawn is troubled at its own image.”
“Mother, I know not the chief. Some Shawanee maiden will enter his
wigwam. Your name is great among the red men, but I have seen a
warrior strike with his hatchet the old oak tree which shades our
wigwam, and it bled. Is not Netnokwa to her tribe, what the oak is to
the forest?”
“Then be it,” said the mother, “as the Great Spirit wills it; we must
await the hour.”
It is easy for us to conceive the feelings which agitated the breast
of the Indian maiden. Young and diffident, she was frightened at the
ceremony she was about to go through; and moreover feared a repulse
with its attendant mortifications. She had never seen the man to whom,
if it pleased his fancy, she was about to be united; nor had even a
rumour reached her ears from which she might form any conjecture as to
his decision. The hour for the ceremony had not yet been announced,
although it was known that it must take place before the close of the
day. Leaving Netnokwa and her daughter for a few moments, let us
return to the camp.
Directing our attention from that part of it which we have been
describing to another, the eye reposed upon a group of warriors, most
of whom were earnestly engaged in conversation. There was one,
however, of a dark and ferocious countenance, who spoke not, but sate
apart, brooding on the visions of his own fancy. He was clothed with
power, and not a glance that rested on him, but was quickly averted,
as if from some dread object. This mysterious being was the Prophet of
the Shawanees.
Next in rank was a character of a different order, whose dress bespoke
him chief among his tribe.—His wrists were decorated with gold and
silver bands, while rich ornaments of the same metals hung suspended
from his neck and ears. Beside him on the grass lay a beaver skin,
fancifully gathered up, somewhat after the fashion of a Turkish
turban, and from it waved over with much grace, a large plume of white
ostrich feathers. His tomahawk was keen and bright, its handle inlaid
with silver, and with it his hands were playing for the want of some
other amusement; his lower limbs were encased in leggins, on which
were traced many grotesque figures, and which fitted him so closely,
as to show the beautiful symmetry of his figure.—He was of fine
stature, and his face, but for its dusky hue, would have been thought
handsome, even by the pale faces. There was nothing dark or lowering
in his aspect, but an ease of manner, and a grace which marked him one
of nature's nobles. In gazing on him, the surprise was, that one
possessing so few of what civilized man deems advantages, should by
the power of genius alone, have already connected his name with a
system of policy, which could only have originated in the deepest
wisdom, and the most profound sagacity; a system, by which nearly all
the tribes in the great valley of the Mississippi were made
subservient to his purposes, and their power concentred for one great
design.
Yet who was there, who had not heard of Tecumseh, the Shawanee
warrior, who so often had foiled the whites, and like an eagle
stooping from his eyrie, so often struck, and was gone, no one knew
whither. Even when a boy in years, he had associated his name with so
many tales of frontier massacre, that in the settlements it would
blanch the cheek of a maiden, or hush a crying child into silence.
When the war which terminated with the humiliating peace of
Greenville, was still raging, Tecumseh was the leader of a roving band
which often swept down upon the settlements, and marked its path with
the most desolating ravages. Nor, in the long interval of peace which
succeeded, did his restless mind continue inactive, but was constantly
engaged in meditating schemes of vengeance, and devising plans for
concentrating the scattered energies of his countrymen, weakened as
they were by petty jealousies, and by divisions among their
tribes;—the particulars of which shall be shortly unfolded.
It is said that even when a child he gave marks of the prowess which
was to distinguish his riper years. Oft time had he listened to the
chiefs of his tribe, while they detailed the proud descent of the
Shawanees, and described their once princely dominions, and had wept
upon hearing their change of situation attributed to the perfidy and
aggression of the whites. Like Hannibal in his infant years, who swore
eternal enmity to Rome, Tecumseh vowed that all his energies should be
directed to resist the encroachments of the whites; that never would
he move from the lands which his tribe now held; but that there, on
the graves of his fathers, would he make the last stand for the rights
of his countrymen. It seemed as if all the wrongs his race had
suffered were glowing in him alone:—he felt them, and had been in part
avenged; for in early life, his path was like a tornado sweeping
through the forest, plainly visible from the destruction that marked
its course; and how faithfully he carried into effect the resolves of
his early years, let the sequel tell.
Still, great as he was, Tecumseh was not alone, but was one of three
brothers at a birth; and a more remarkable one, the annals of history
never recorded. Tecumseh, Elkswatawa, and Kumshaka, were born near
Chilicothe, on the banks of the Scioto, in the year 1772. Their father
fell in assisting the unfortunate Logan in the battle of Point
Pleasant, which was fought at the mouth of the Great Kanawha, in 1774,
and for instruction they became entirely dependent upon their mother,
who was by birth a Cherokee. She early made them acquainted with all
warlike sports; instilled into their minds a deadly enmity against the
whites; narrated the sad catastrophe which led to the battle of
Kanawha; and breathed into them that spirit of vengeance which had led
their father on to the battle in which he fell.
Every thing surrounding them tended to make them warriors of the first
class. They belonged to the tribe of the Shawanees, decidedly the most
warlike, and, at one time, the most powerful on our continent. For
fifty years previous to the date of which I am now speaking, they had,
with scarcely any intermission, been engaged in hostilities. They had
fought every tribe of any note, residing in that extensive district of
country which reaches from the Floridas on the south, to the great
lakes of the north, among which may be enumerated the Creeks,
Choctaws, Cherokees, Yemassees, and Delawares. Leaguing themselves
with the French, they had fought as their allies from 1755, to the
termination of the war in 1763. Recruiting for a few years, they
allied themselves with Logan to revenge upon the people of Virginia
the wrongs he had suffered in the murder of his family. Defeated in
this attempt, and the war of the Revolution breaking out, they became
the steadfast allies of the English, their former foes; remained so
throughout the war, and continued up to the treaty of Greenville to
wage an unrelenting warfare along our entire frontiers,
notwithstanding the peace of '83. They never sued for peace, but time
after time, to stay the wave of advancing population, had they swept
over the frontier settlements. They alone had preserved unadulterated
the Indian spirit of indomitable savagery; forming the forlorn hope of
the numerous bands which had been continually driven westward, they
had within their own minds marked out the boundary beyond which they
would never retreat.
This was the tribe from which descended Tecumseh and his brothers, and
where could they have found a better school for the exercise of all
warlike propensities? where have found a situation better calculated
to arouse them to action, and to make them the distinguished men they
afterward became?
Nothing could be more different than the dispositions of the brothers.
Tecumseh was noble in appearance, firm in purpose, gifted in speech,
daring in design, burning with the love of glory, and reckless of
personal aggrandizement. He was frank, open and manly with his
friends, kind, just and humane to his enemies. Elkswatawa was tall,
too slender to be finely proportioned, with sharp piercing eyes, and a
thin, lowering visage. He was dark, crafty and subtle; wavering, nor
in a stranger to mercy; and in purpose not less undaring less bold
than his brother. Kumshaka had not the qualities of either; he was a
good warrior, but wanted that comprehensiveness of mind, and fixedness
of purpose, which characterized his brothers. With regard to him it is
needless to enter more into detail, for his early death prevented him
from playing any conspicuous part. Let us now return to our story.
The camp which we have been describing, was that of the Shawanees, and
Tecumseh was its chief. Collected around him, his warriors seemed to
be discussing some subject of great interest.
“The clouds are gathering,” said Tecumseh—“the red torch must shortly
be kindled; the whites will not let us live in peace.”
“No,” said a warrior, “they kill our people and take away our lands;
we must fight or starve.”
“Fight,” cried another, “and the whites shall be scattered like leaves
by the wind.”
“Know you the number of the pale faces?” inquired the first warrior
who had spoken—“they are like grains of sand on the shore of the big
Lake:—they are like leaves on the trees.”
“Yes,” said his companion, “but the leaves on the trees sometimes
fall.”
“They do”—chimed in Tecumseh. “But when the old leaves fall, new ones
come; so is it with the pale faces. This country cannot hold us both,
and when we battle again, it must be until they, or we, no longer
struggle for dominion.”
“Before the treaty,” said the warrior who last spoke, “the red men
went to battle, and the ground was covered with the whites;—will it
not be so again?”
“It shall be so:”—said Tecumseh, “but the time has not yet come. When
we again gather our warriors, the pale faces shall fly—we shall
trample them down—and the wild beasts shall feed upon them. Did not
the Great Spirit give these hunting grounds to his red children?”
While thus conversing, they were interrupted by a messenger from
Netnokwa, who bore a bundle of presents, and said to Tecumseh, “the
Red Sky of the morning wishes to make her appearance.”
“Let the messenger retire, while I hold converse with my warriors,”
said Tecumseh; then calling them more closely around him, “Tecumseh
would hold a talk with his brothers,” said he. “The pale faces are
cleaning their guns and sharpening their knives. They wish to drive us
from the hunting grounds of our fathers. Tecumseh never will go;—his
thoughts are for his country; he has no time for a wife, and would
have his brothers tell him the best way to refuse Netnokwa's
daughter.”
“Netnokwa,” said a warrior, “is chief of the Ottawas; you had better
tear a cub from a bear in its den, than refuse the offered hand of her
daughter.”
“Netnokwa is great;” said Tecumseh. “She is a woman, and I fear her.
Her tongue is like a knife. But before another moon we may go to
battle. What would Tecumseh do with a wife?”
“Red Sky of the morning hath travelled far;” said a warrior, “her step
is like that of the bounding roe; her moccasin leaves no print on the
grass; her voice is sweet as the singing of birds. There is nothing
like her in the forest. A maiden likes not to be turned away.”
“I have not seen her,” said Tecumseh, “and though she be beautiful as
the sun when first he rises up from the prairie, and walks out to make
every thing glad, yet, I want not a wife.”
“Shall she be laughed at by the chieftains of her own tribe,” said a
warrior, “for having been refused by a Shawanee brave? She is young;
her heart will bleed.”
“Tecumseh is sorry,” was the reply, “but he has spoken. The maiden
must return to her own lodge.”
“Stay,” said a warrior, whose years entitled him to great respect,
“will Tecumseh listen? My eyes have seen many snows, and my ears have
drunk in many sounds:—something whispers me put it off.”
“Tecumseh would be glad if he could do so,” was the reply. “If the
tomahawk were deep buried, and the pale faces would let it stay there,
the daughter of Netnokwa should live in his wigwam. But it cannot be,
and it is better to refuse at once, than to delay until the long
shadows fall and then refuse. The maiden would dream she was a
chieftain's bride. No.”—Then, turning to a warrior, he said, “get
ready the presents, let them be rich, and such as should belong to a
chieftain's daughter. To-morrow the maiden returns to her own
country.”
The preparations were soon made, and “Red Sky of the morning” was seen
coming towards Tecumseh's tent, leaning for support on the arm of her
mother. As they approached, they were met by Tecumseh, who treated
them with great courtesy; nothing indicated his purpose, no marked
dislike, or even coldness of manner told that the maiden was to be
refused. Never was a girl of the forest more fair, and never did so
much delicacy and timidity encircle a dusky form. Shrinking from the
ardent gaze of the chieftain, she caused her hair to fall over her
face, serving as a veil behind which her virgin modesty retreated,
while she awaited his advances. Tecumseh had never seen any thing so
beautiful, and for a moment faltered in his determination; yet, with a
recollection of the situation of his country, he was himself again,
and taking the maiden by the hand he led her towards his tent, that he
might accompany his refusal with a sufficient number of presents.
Netnokwa, during this time, calm, dignified, and majestic, had been
supporting her daughter, without ever for a moment dreaming, that she
was to be refused; and when Tecumseh, taking hold of her hand, led her
on to his tent, she observed, “‘Red Sky of the morning’ will be the
bride of the greatest brave.”
Tecumseh heard the remark, and felt deeply; for besides the passions
of the mother which were now to be aroused, there was the daughter so
retiring, modest, and gentle, that he was pained to give a pang to one
so good. How sadly would she be mortified, not because she loved him,
for until the present moment her eyes had never beheld him, but
because of the ridicule which would be cast on her by the chieftains
of her own tribe, for having been refused by the Shawanee. Without her
consent, her mother had projected this match, in order to secure a
strong ally; she was likewise apprised of the growing reputation of
the Shawanee chief, and doting upon her daughter, had been anxious to
connect her with one, whom fame had already exalted far above his
companions.
Tecumseh, accompanied by Netnokwa and her daughter, had now nearly
reached his tent; another moment and the costly pile of presents would
have told his determination, when suddenly there arose a cry, that a
runner was coming. The camp was instantly in motion, and all minor
things forgotten in a general desire to hear tidings, whose import
none could conjecture. Great was the relief to Tecumseh; it enabled
him for a time to postpone the ceremony, and flattered him with the
hope, that its purport would compel him to defer it until some more
opportune occasion.
“What tidings are these borne on the breeze?” asked Netnokwa,
“Shawanee brave, think not now of a maiden, but gather your men, and
receive the runner.”
“I will,” said Tecumseh, as he hurried off, “return to thy bower;—I
will tell thee the tidings.” A moment passed, the warriors were
assembled in council, and the runner introduced. Addressing himself to
Tecumseh, he stated that he left a band of Indians assembled on the
Wabash, who were so excited against the whites on account of a murder
recently committed, that he feared they would make a sudden irruption
upon the settlements, and call down the force of the whites before the
Indians were ready to oppose them. That being apprised of this, he had
stolen away to tell it to the chiefs of the Shawanees, and see what
they in their wisdom would do.
At the close of this speech the air resounded with yells of vengeance.
When they had died away, and silence was again restored,—“where gather
our brothers” said Tecumseh, “and what are their number.”
“They are assembling on the forks of the Wabash,” said the runner,
“and warriors are gathering like pigeons at a roost.”
“This must be stopped,” said Tecumseh, “our fathers who have gone to
the world of spirits, shall have more white men to wait upon them. But
the time has not yet come; a little while longer, and the war whoop
shall ring.”
Again the yell of savage delight broke forth; each warrior rose upon
his feet, brandished aloft his glittering tomahawk, and made it
whistle as rapidly he moved his arm through the air.
“Silence!”—cried a voice which had something in it of an unearthly
sound; they were hushed as still as the grave, and the Prophet rose.
“Warriors, listen; it is the chosen of the Great Spirit who speaks to
you. We are not ready for battle. When we strike, all the red men must
know it. We must move like a great flood over the land. We are now but
a small stream. Our brothers on the Wabash must be calm. They must
suffer a little longer if they wish to see our rivers run red with the
blood of the whites. Tecumseh, hurry away, and tell them the time has
not yet come. They must disperse. It is the Prophet of the Great
Spirit who commands it.”
He then seated himself, and Tecumseh, making no reply, for the words
of the Prophet were by his followers deemed as unchangeable as the
laws of the Medes and Persians, the council then adjourned.
“But stay,” said Tecumseh, addressing his warriors, “what will become
of Netnokwa and her daughter?”
“We will away to our own country,” said Netnokwa, who, with her
daughter, was standing a little apart from the crowd, “‘Red Sky of the
morning’ would not detain her chief from duty:—when the sky is clear,
the Shawanee brave can find our wigwam.”
“Yes,” said Tecumseh, “if I live, I will find it, but does Netnokwa
look for a clear sky? Clouds are thickening; there may be peace
between the red men and white, but, I fear, it will only be, when the
white man's plough runs over our graves; never before. The pale face,
like a lean dog, is always hungry.”
“The red man is strong in battle,” said Netnokwa, “let him go forth;
when roused to vengeance who can withstand him; the Great Spirit is
with him.”
“We are strong,” said Tecumseh, “and were all united, we could sweep
over the settlements like a fire over the prairie. But we are divided,
and must not strike till all are one. Then the earth shall tremble
under the tramp of our feet, as we march along. We must stop our
brothers on the Wabash. The Prophet orders it. I must away. You will
return. Some of my warriors must conduct to her lodge ‘Red Sky of the
morning.’”
“Let your warriors stay;” said Netnokwa, “the clouds are darkening.
The pale faces may come down upon our lands. You may need them. I, and
my daughter can thread the forest.”
“But my Ottawa maiden will want for food,” said Tecumseh.
“‘Red Sky of the morning’ is fleeter than the doe,” said Netnokwa,
“her arrow never misses it's mark.”
Pleased by this compliment from her mother, she gracefully bent a bow
which was near her, “will the Shawanee chieftain bring me that bird?”
said the maiden, pointing to one which was sitting on a tree hard by.
“The distance is great; before I approach, it will fly:—” said the
warrior.
“No,” said the maiden.
“I may not hit it,” said the warrior.
“I will,” said the maiden.
The warrior became confused, and hesitated.
“Will you bring me the bird?” said the maiden.
Still more confused, he bent his bow, and started forward.
“You need not shoot,” said the maiden, and drawing her bow, she let
fly an arrow. The bird dropped beneath the tree; then, awaiting the
return of Tecumseh, she said, “thinkest thou the Ottawa maiden will
want for food?”
“Thou art the daughter of Netnokwa,” said Tecumseh, gently taking her
hand; “when the pale-face is no more, we will together hunt the deer
and buffalo far from our wigwam.”
With Tecumseh, this at the time was his determination; for never had
he seen a maiden more lovely, or one more worthy than Miskwa to become
a warrior's bride. Yet, dark as his forebodings were with regard to
his country, he saw not how great and deadly was to be the coming
struggle, nor how sad its issue, after having worn out in its defence
the energies of his own great spirit, and covered its plains with the
bones of his warriors.
But the time having arrived for him to set out, as ordered by the
prophet, Netnokwa said, “hast thou heard of Pontiac, Tecumseh? His
blood flows in my veins; at his name the settlements would tremble,
not one, nor two, but all; his voice in battle was like rolling
thunder; his path on the frontiers like the whirlwind's sweep; make
him thy light, thy guide, thy north-star.”
“It is well,” replied the warrior; “but let Tecumseh live, and his
country shall be respected and at peace, of the red torch of war shall
blaze from the big lakes to the far south; and the red men from the
setting sun shall hurry on to feast in the wigwams of the pale faces;
farewell.”
“May the Great Spirit bless thee,” said Netnokwa. “Tell me, when will
the Ottawa maiden see the Shawanee chieftain?”
“When there are no clouds in the horizon,” said Tecumseh, “and the
war-whoop ceases to ring through the forest;” then disappearing for a
few moments he returned equipped for a journey, and bidding his
warriors a hurried farewell, was soon hid with the runner in the
recesses of the forest.