“Where is the stony eye that hath not shed
Compassion's heart drops o'er the sweet McCrea?
Through midnight's wilds by savage bandits led,
Her heart is sad, her lover far away.”
DRAKE.
The leader of the party which Rolfe and Earth were following, was
named Yanatah, who only halted for a few moments, that he might
consult with his followers as to where they should rest; when again
setting off, they soon emerged from the woods into an open prairie,
and seeking a small elevation, which was no other than an ancient
mound, they prepared to pass the remainder of the night. The spot
which they selected commanded a view for some distance in every
direction, and as the grass was too short for concealment, the hunters
were obliged to content themselves with lying on the edge of the
prairie under cover of the woods.
Each one of the Indians as they left the forest, picked up some wood,
and in a few moments they had a large fire blazing, around which they
gathered.
“We are not all here,” said Yanatah; “where is Begwa?”
“He had a heavy pack,” said a warrior, “and stays behind; he is
tired.”
“Give the pale face a blanket,” continued the chieftain, “and let her
sleep; she wants rest; she must travel to the Prophet's camp.”
This was done; but her heart seemed breaking, and death for her had no
terrors. From the first moment of her capture until the present, she
had been hurried along without time for reflection; and now, at rest,
began to doubt whether she was dreaming, or whether her situation was
really what it appeared to be; and when consciousness came with its
sad reality, she gave vent to her feelings in a flood of tears.
Some time elapsed, and yet Begwa had not arrived. His absence
occasioned much anxiety, until some one hinted that he had gone off in
order to secure to himself the plunder with which he was loaded. There
being no other rational way to account for his sudden disappearance,
the suggestion was agreed to, and vowing vengeance, they were silent.
After a few moments, Yanatah said, “while we sleep, let two warriors
keep watch; I fear the pale faces are on our steps; I doubt if Begwa
would have left us for the sake of plunder. Begwa was a good warrior.”
“Begwa,” replied one of the party, “would not have fallen without a
struggle. If the pale faces were on our steps we should have heard
them.”
“Can you hear an eel,” asked Yanatah, “when it moves through the
water? say no more, but let the watch be kept.”
Soon after this, they were all reposing by the fire, save the two
warriors on duty, who were perfuming the air with kinny kaneek, and
inhaling its odour through the handles of their tomahawks, the heads
of which were fashioned into pipes. The captive maiden soon sank into
a troubled slumber, for although she slept, her frame was often
violently agitated, and there were moments, when her limbs quivered as
in the agonies of death; with this exception, the Indian camp was
quiet.
The prairie, as we have before observed, was too naked to allow the
hunters to approach nearer to the Indian camp, than the outer edge of
the woods; and nothing remained for them, but to rest where they were
as mere spectators; for although at some distance, they had it
entirely within their view.
Having seated themselves with their backs against a tree, whose widely
spreading branches kept off the dew, they gathered themselves up and
adjusted their garments that they might be as comfortable as possible.
“There is as yet no chance to benefit the captive,” said Rolfe.
“No,” said Earth, “see! those two devils are wide awake; but let them
fall asleep if they dare, and we will not have crossed the river for
nothing.”
The feelings, like every thing else, require relaxation, and Rolfe and
Earthquake forgot in a few minutes the excitement under which they had
been labouring.
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “the dews are very heavy, I feel a little
chilly.”
“That is, you would like a little back-warmer,” said Earth, “come out
like a man, and don't be so mealy-mouthed.”
“I thought it was all gone.”
“No,” said Earth, drawing from his pocket a small, flat, _stone
tickler_, and shaking it, he smiled as he heard it wash up against its
sides. “I'll try it first, to convince you 'tan't poison,” and
throwing his head back, he emptied a part of its contents into his
throat, and smacking his lips, passed the tickler to Rolfe.
Rolfe went through the same ceremony, and as gurgling out, it
pronounced the words, _good_, _good_, “there's no lie in that,” said
Earth, “it speaks the truth every word _on_ it.”
“It's all _lie_, I believe,” replied Rolfe, “for it has taken the skin
from my tongue, why did you not put some water with it?”
“What! wade through water in order to get at the liquor! no, no,
Rolfe, never do that when you have any respect for the spirit.”
“Earth,” said Rolfe, changing the subject, “how little do the people
in the States know of the life of a Western hunter; here are we
sleeping night after night without a bed, often without food, and now
lying in an enemy's country, watching a party of Indians four times
our number.”
“Not quite four times, I think,” said Earth; and so saying, he looked
archly at Rolfe.
“I understand you, Earth; I saw it all, but did not like the deed;
there were eight.”
“I could not help it, Rolfe, 'twas so good a chance. Moreover, I
thought I might as well put him out of the way, that there would be
one less, in case we have to take a brush.”
“I have no objection if any good is to result from it,” said Rolfe,
“they are now seven to two, and I don't think we have gained much; I
can't say that I liked it.”
“But, Rolfe, tell me, did you not think the operation was performed
very neatly?”
“Yes, I must give you credit for that, Earth, it was certainly a very
cool murder.”
“Oh! no, no, don't call it a murder, Rolfe, I only killed an Indian;
it was over so quick with him, I didn't hurt him; he only said
‘humph!’”
“What did you do with the bundle he was carrying?”
“I hid it, thinking we would examine it on our return.”
“You did well, for from it we may learn the name of the family
murdered. Earth, ever since I caught a glimpse of that poor girl's
face to night, I have thought of nothing else; she is so much like her
I loved, that if I could divine a reason for her father's having
emigrated, I should think her the same. But her father was rich and
happy; and surely he would never have left a quiet and peaceful home,
for the wild woods of the west.”
“God only knows who she may be,” said Earth, “I pity her from the
bottom of my soul, for she has suffered a thousand deaths to-night.
You know she is a stranger to me, Rolfe, but if there be any such
thing as truth, I would, to restore her to her friends, willingly take
her place.”
“Poor girl!” said Rolfe, “she will never see her home again; doomed,
perhaps, to the torture, or else to fill the office of some Indian
squaw.”
“It is hard, hard, Rolfe! yet such is their savage nature; no one
escapes. But if they carry her to Tecumseh, and all things be true
which they tell of him, she will not suffer. 'Cumseh and I have seen
some hard times.”
“What do they say of him?” inquired Rolfe.
“Why, that he respects the treaty, is famed for his humanity, and has
never refused to surrender a murderer; moreover, he is the only Ingen
whom I have heard of as being perfectly disinterested. He is very
different from his brother.”
“And do you know his brother?”
“I have never seen him, but know him to be cruel in the extreme. He is
the man who has lately become a Prophet, and you know he has been
burning his own people until he is tired of it. Now I think it more
than probable that he is at the bottom of this murder.”
“Then God forbid,” said Rolfe, “that she should fall into his hands,
her fate will be bad enough without.”
“You may say that,” said Earth.
“But from your statement with regard to Tecumseh, Earth, I should
think he was a noble fellow, and if they carry her to him, he will
restore her to her friends.”
“Yes, he is as noble as a red skin can be, and that's not much; I
don't trust any of 'em. I suspect he is our worst enemy, and every
thing that his name implies.”
“What is that?”
“Why, Tecumseh, in the Shawanee tongue, means ‘tiger crouching for his
prey.’”
“Look, Earth,” said Rolfe, pointing to the fire, “what are those
Indians at?—making baskets?”
“No,” said Earth, “they are twisting those twigs in order to make
small hoops to dry their scalps upon. Do you not see between that
fellow's legs something that looks like small hoe-cakes? Well, they
are scalps stretched upon a hoop and placed there to dry.”
“Tell me, does the maiden see them?” inquired Rolfe.
“No, I think not,” said Earth, “see, she lies covered up, and, I hope,
is asleep.”
Much desultory conversation occurred, which whiled away the time till
day began to dawn. The hunters were now getting drowsy, and yet the
Indians showed no disposition to move. But when the eastern sky began
to grow red, and the sun rose up, the Indian camp was in motion, and
soon after the red men with their captive were treading their way
across a prairie, boundless in extent, and beautiful as the
imagination can conceive.
For the hunters to follow on, was now a perilous undertaking. The
country was so open, that they could not keep near enough to watch the
movements of the Indians, without detection; and the only plan was, to
allow them to get out of sight, and to follow on to their trail,
hoping for some fortuitous occurrence.
To this plan Earthquake was opposed, and he urged the great risk that
must be run without the probability of doing any good. But Rolfe had
become so much interested in the fate of the captive, that he begged
his companion to continue the pursuit, if only for that day; and if no
opportunity should offer for assisting her, that he would then return.
“Were we in the forest,” said Earth, “I would willingly follow for a
week, but in an open prairie there is risk and no benefit; however,
since you so much desire it, follow on.”
“Earth, you talk of risk; you know war is not declared, and that the
Indians still profess peace. Now suppose we show ourselves and demand
the maiden, they will perhaps surrender her.”
“I thought of that,” said Earth;—“there is peace, 'tis true; but,
Rolfe, you see what sort of a peace 'tis. Were we to show ourselves,
instead of getting the maiden, we should have our scalps taken off.
They have done this to pay for some murder committed on 'em, and it
must lead to war, and sooner than we wish, if we are to remain long on
this side of the river; but if they carry her to 'Cumseh's camp, we
may venture, and if he be present, perhaps we may succeed.”
“Then,” said Rolfe, “let us follow for a time, and see where they are
going.”
“Agreed,” said Earth.
Suffering the Indians to advance for some distance, the hunters
crawled up to the fire which they had left, and there remained until
the party dwindled down to a few dark spots on the surface of the
prairie; when, rising up, they followed fearlessly on their trail.
“How beautiful are these plains,” said Rolfe. “Earth, do you blame the
Indians for not surrendering them?”
“No, I cannot say that I do: nor do I blame the whites for
endeavouring to take them away.”
“Why? are not the Indians the rightful owners, and have not their
fathers owned them time out of mind?”
“Rolfe, it will not do to argue this matter: we have treated the
Ingens so badly, that we cannot now live in peace, but are obliged to
add insult to injury. You know I've a great many grudges agin 'em, and
use them up on all occasions, for I well know they would have killed
me long before this, if they had had a good chance.”
“And because you have treated them badly, you think you ought to kill
them? Is that your argument?”
“No, I never argue about it; if one comes near me, and he gives me a
cause, I'm very apt to kill him. Somehow or other it is bred in me,
and I hate them; for you see they are always straggling along the
frontiers, and committing murders.”
“Yes, and you see our frontiers are always extending, so that the
Indians are compelled either to move or else to be continually at
war.”
“The fact is,” said Earth, “I believe I think as most of the whites
do, and that is, that these lands are too good for them; they should
be cultivated instead of lying waste for them to prowl over.”
“From present appearances,” said Rolfe, “it will be a long time before
they are cultivated; the Indians, I think, are preparing for a general
war.”
“They are,” said Earth; “and it would still be a hard fight if they
were all united; but their dissensions and our enmity, will root them
out at last.”
“I have often thought of this,” said Rolfe, “and also of Pontiac, the
Ottawa chieftain. He was a great man, and would have been great, even
among the whites. Had he lived on the sea-board when this country was
first discovered, a settlement would never have been formed by the
whites in his day.”
Nothing occurred worthy of note during the progress of the hunters
across the prairie. Not being able to mark particularly the movements
of the Indians, they merely followed on at a distance. It was now
evening, and a dark line was seen on the horizon in the direction the
Indians were travelling, which, increasing as they journeyed along,
proved to be a forest bounding the prairie.
“They must be near their journey's end,” said Earth. “See the smoke
how it hangs over yon wood; it is there they are encamped.”
But before we introduce the predatory party, let us again return to
the camp of Tecumseh. That chief having left some few hours before,
all was quiet, and his warriors now lay lounging idly about. The sun
was fast sinking in the west, the trees were casting their longest
shadows, and birds were hurrying by to roost, when from the depths of
the prairie came a scalp yell floating on the breeze.—All were silent,
for none knew its exact import, and in an instant the camp was again
in motion, and then again as still as if no living soul moved in it.
Anxiety was visible in every countenance. With heads inclined to the
prairie, and listening ears, they might have been mistaken for the
finest specimens of sculpture; so breathless, so mute, so intent were
they upon catching the wished for sound. Then arose another
yell;—still breathless they stood. Then another, and another, until
the eighth came passing by, drawn out much longer than the first; when
from the camp arose one universal shout, each person having found a
tongue; and then were seen bright faces, and happy hearts, and
congratulations that eight pale faces had gone to their long homes,
and then were bursts of joy, and many ran bounding forward to meet the
returning party.
While this was acting, the Prophet sat alone in his tent, for he never
mingled with the common herd, lest by so doing they should become too
much familiarized with his person. The cause of the scalp yell which
agitated the camp was also entirely unknown to him, but a smile played
over his countenance when the glad sound first reached his ears, and
he rubbed his hands and said, “mischief,—good!”—and after a few
moments summoned one of his attendants that he might learn its cause.
The messenger having retired, soon ascertained the particulars which
we have detailed, and returning, told them to the Prophet, who was
evidently pleased at the narration; but a moment's reflection told
him, that the affair, if not already known, must be hushed up, and not
a trace left which might lead to its discovery. “Eight gone,” said he
again, rubbing his hands; “it would bring war quick.” He also
recollected that his camp was generally believed by the whites to be a
place of rendezvous for all the murderers in the country, and he also
knew that it had often served them as a safe place of concealment from
the most diligent search. The present affair had been one of greater
magnitude than had occurred for a long time, and its publication would
lead at once to hostilities, for which he was not yet ripe. To prevent
this was the first object, knowing that, were the perpetrators of so
great a crime found in his camp, it would call down the unmitigated
vengeance of the whites, and involve in one common ruin the innocent
with the guilty. Furthermore, it was requisite that he should censure
their conduct, lest a further commission of such crimes should render
it impossible longer to preserve a show of peace, and yet in doing so,
policy required that he should cherish the hatred which they felt
against the whites. This was a delicate part to play; but throwing a
few skins around him, and assuming rather a more mysterious appearance
than usual, he adjusted himself in a seat, and ordered before him the
party who had just arrived from the Ohio. He was now nearly in the
plenitude of his power, and his words were law and none dared to
disobey them.
When Yanatah and his party were informed of the Prophet's commands,
clouds of fear passed over them, for they knew that they had acted
counter to his expressed orders, and committed an act which might
involve their tribe in war, and lead to its total extirpation. Hurried
away by revenge, these thoughts had not before suggested themselves;
but now that they were about to stand in the dread presence of the
Prophet, they all swept past, and they saw before them only the ruin
into which their rashness had plunged them, and trembled, not with
personal fear, but at that intangible something, which gave character
to the Prophet, and rendered him the dreaded object of their hopes as
well as fears. With downcast countenances, and in dogged silence, they
moved forward to his tent, and making humble obeisance stood uncovered
before him. He seemed not to regard their entrance, but remained for a
time muttering with his lips, and rolling his eyes towards heaven, as
if repeating some prayer, then turning on them a savage gaze, he
looked as though he would have looked them through. When his scrutiny
was over, he said, “why the scalp yell, Yanatah? Has the Great Spirit
sent red war upon our lands, or does the Prophet, his agent, preach
peace unto the tribes?”
Yanatah cast his eyes upon the ground, and was silent. “Speak,” said
the Prophet, “whence these cries of murder in the air? Who dares lift
the tomahawk? Shall battle rage, and I not know it; I, the chosen of
the Great Spirit? Speak!”
Yanatah paused for an instant, then nerving himself for the effort,
looked the Prophet in his mighty face, and spoke: “Chosen of the Great
Spirit, listen! A brother, dear to my heart, was slain by the whites.
I sought their wigwams, and demanded his murderer. They gave me
promises. I went again; they laughed me to scorn. His blood cried for
vengeance, and I sought it.” He was then silent, and the Prophet's
visage assumed rather a gentler aspect, and he said: “Thou hast done
wrong, Yanatah; the hatchet is buried; the Prophet of the Great Spirit
will tell the red men when to strike;” then, pausing for a moment, he
continued: “Did no pale face escape?”
“Not one,” answered Yanatah, “darkness was over the land; yet a
captive lives, and is here, a slave for my mother, who weeps for her
son.”
“It is well,” said the Prophet; then pausing again, and rolling his
eyes toward heaven, and muttering with his lips that those before him
might see he held converse with the Great Spirit, he continued with
renewed energy, “Yanatah, take thy band and away, far, far from our
camp. Blood red are thy steps, and the whites follow on, like hounds
on the track. Be seen no more, till a runner from the Prophet calls
thee to battle. Away!—”
At this speech, surprise sat upon the countenances of Yanatah and his
band. The Prophet had told them that they were pursued; though merely
a random assertion, the truth of which he feared, and uttered only to
serve his own purpose. They believed it, and were unable to account
for the manner in which he had received his information; in silence
they gazed at each other for a moment, when Yanatah, desirous to know
what was to become of the prisoner, pronounced the words “the
captive?” in an inquiring tone, for he durst not directly ask the
question. “Remains with me,” said the Prophet sternly. “Let her be
brought before me. Away. An hour hence, Yanatah must be without our
camp.”
There was no reply, and bowing humbly, they left his presence.
In the great excitement of the moment, the prisoner had been in a
measure forgotten, and when she first arrested public attention, “Red
Sky of the morning” was seen leaning over her, arranging her dress,
and doing many little offices of kindness. So resigned was she, so
worn with fatigue and suffering, that even the savages, upon beholding
her, manifested some slight feelings of sympathy, and the desire which
many cherished when she first entered the camp, of seeing her brought
to the stake, passed away.
When the order was given that she should be brought before the Prophet
to be disposed of by him, Miskwa, who felt assured that, as he had
always inculcated peace, he would not adjudge her to death, started to
his tent to entreat him to give her the prisoner for a slave. But upon
approaching near enough to catch a glimpse of his dark and lowering
countenance, she abandoned the idea, and returning, sought her mother
and begged her to prefer the request.
No one in the camp possessed more power than Netnokwa, and no one in
the camp in making a request, was more likely to succeed. Yet she saw
at a glance the difficulty in which the Prophet was placed. He could
not order the captive to death; it would not be in accordance with the
doctrines he now preached. He could not send her to the settlements;
she would tell her story, and excite the whites to immediate war; all
trace of the massacre must be concealed, and she knew not that under
these circumstances the Prophet would be willing to trust the prisoner
out of his own immediate sight. With a knowledge of these things, she
accompanied the maiden and stood with her alone in the presence of the
Prophet. The captive now, weeping bitterly, neither looked up nor
spoke; the world for her had no joys; her life was in the past. She
sobbed as if her heart would burst; yet the Prophet regarded her not,
but in his own tongue carried on a hurried dialogue with Netnokwa. Not
knowing the object of her visit, aware of the influence she wielded,
and also of her connexion with Tecumseh, he began to explain to her
the difficulty in which he was situated, the necessity there was for
concealment, and his fears that the captive would be searched for by
the whites; founding them on the sudden disappearance of Begwa, a
thing almost inexplicable on any other supposition than that the
whites were now on their steps. Saying this, he paid a compliment to
the wisdom and experience of Netnokwa, and asked her what was best to
be done. She stated the wishes of her daughter, and added, that should
the captive be given to her, they would set out with the first light
of day, and in the distant regions to which they were journeying there
would be no probability of her being discovered. At this piece of
intelligence, a feeling of pleasure was manifest in the countenance of
the Prophet, and again turning to Netnokwa, he hinted the ease with
which the maiden, when far away, might meet with a secret death.
Netnokwa seemed not to understand, and suppressed her feelings,
whatever they were. The death of the captive the Prophet could have
required of Yanatah, and his request would willingly have been
complied with; but he feared that the act, if intrusted to him, would
be viewed as a license for the commission of any other crime his
passions might suggest.
Being foiled in the attempt he had made to make Netnokwa connive at
the death of the prisoner, he yielded her up without annexing thereto
any condition; for it saved him the trouble of devising some other
mode to get rid of her, and he was also satisfied that, provided
Netnokwa and her daughter set out sufficiently early, it was the best
plan that could possibly be adopted.
Netnokwa having now succeeded in her request, took the hand of the
weeping girl, and was leaving the Prophet, when, in an authoritative
manner, he again urged her to set out early, and on no account to
leave any clue by which the maiden might be traced. Bowing, she
departed, and returned with the captive to her bower, and, though in
common with most of the Indians, she felt a fear of the Prophet, yet
her opinions of his character had been materially changed by the
interview.
With the first gray light of morning, Netnokwa and Miskwa rose and
began to prepare to set out upon their journey. Waking a warrior,
Netnokwa ordered him to bring their horses, and she began to get ready
her bundles, while Miskwa was sent to arouse the captive, to whom she
had extended all the little comforts of which she was possessed, and
whom she now found overpowered by fatigue, and sleeping away as
sweetly as innocence could do. But the hour having arrived at which
they were to set out, she bent close over her, and hesitated, as if
fearing to break a slumber so soft and quiet; when after a moment, she
said in her own beautiful language, “Great Spirit! can a pale face who
looks as she does, delight in hunting us as dogs, taking away our
lands, and driving us far from the graves of our fathers? it cannot
be.” Then, recollecting how lonely and unprotected was her situation,
she was still more softened in her manner, and laying her hands gently
on the captive, she continued, “Sweet Flower, arise, arise, we must be
moving.” Her mother, who saw how much her feelings were interested,
stood apart in silence waiting for her; when the maiden awoke she
gazed about her with a vacant stare, and rubbed her eyes and looked
again, and when the recollection of her situation crossed her mind,
she called upon her father and mother, and began to weep.
Miskwa was now all tenderness, and throwing her arms around the
maiden, she spoke as though each word was understood, saying, “Sweet
Flower, weep not, I will love thee, I will take care of thee, thou
shalt dwell with me.” Even Netnokwa was affected by the scene, but she
was anxious to be off, for the rosy light of morn was now just peering
forth, and she ordered her horses to her tent. Miskwa expressed a wish
that “Sweet Flower,” for so she continued to call the maiden, should
ride with her; in accordance with it, both were mounted on one horse,
while Netnokwa on another leading the way, plunged at once into the
forest.
She had continued her journey for nearly an hour, when, counter to the
expectations of the Prophet, and also to the intention with which she
sat out, she resolved not to proceed directly to her place of
destination, but first to visit some friends on the Wabash, whom she
had not seen for many years; where her wish was to stay only a few
weeks, and then proceed on her journey. In adopting this resolution,
she saw the difficulty she would have in carrying along the captive,
and that she would increase the probability of her being discovered.
But then the point to which she was bound was far from the borders,
and she trusted to her own wisdom for the power of concealing the
captive. This incident, though seemingly trifling within itself, was a
matter of much moment, since it was unknown to the Prophet, and his
chief object in giving the captive to Netnokwa, was, that in her being
carried at once to a distant region, she might the more effectually be
concealed.