“Why art thou thus in beauty cast,
O lonely, loneliest flower!
When the sound of song hath never passed,
From human hearth or bower?
I pity thee for thy wasted bloom,
For thy glory's fleeting hour,
For the desert place, thy living tomb,
O lonely, loneliest flower!”
MRS. HEMANS.
Nearly a month had passed away, and the hunters might be seen on the
lands of the Wabash, where they searched every avenue for information,
which promised the least hope. Telling their story to the border
settlers, they readily obtained assistance, and ranged the country for
miles in every direction, yet nothing could they learn tending either
to allay their fears, or remove their suspicions. The greatest
excitement prevailed in consequence of several murders having been
committed a short time before, by either party, and nothing was heard
but threats of vengeance. To quiet this disturbance, and keep the
Indians from breaking out, Tecumseh had been sent, and in accordance
with that deep policy which enabled him so long to conceal his
intentions, he had succeeded in persuading them to accompany him, and
had gone, no one knew whither. With the departure of this party, went
from the hunters all hope of finding the maiden. They would have gone
to the residence of the Prophet, which was still higher up on the
Wabash, but they had left him encamped with a roving band afar off in
the prairies; and thither he in his wisdom had gone, to avoid the
storm of excitement raging immediately on the frontier, which he
himself had raised, and which, by means of his brother, he was now
endeavouring to quell.
The hunters possessing now no clue whatever by which they could hope
to find the maiden; and the unsettled state of the frontier rendering
it dangerous as well as unpleasant to remain longer where they were,
determined to return at once to Kentucky. The suspicion of Rolfe, that
the lost maiden was she whom he had known in former days; and she whom
alone he had ever loved, preyed upon his mind, until, what was before
doubt, now almost became certainty. Earth did all in his power to
cheer him, but his exertions produced scarcely any effect; worn with
fatigue, and disappointed in the hope which had so long sustained him,
that of finding her he loved, he became gloomy, and spent his time,
brooding over visions of the past. This state of mind brought on a
burning fever, and Earth, with a hope of recruiting him, rested on the
bank of a streamlet which murmuring along, wound its way through the
forest, and finally contributed its quota to the waters of the Wabash.
The intense anguish which Rolfe suffered, added to the fever, produced
delirium, and while labouring under its effects, he gave vent to the
smothered feelings of his bosom. Earth watched over him, not with the
care of a friend, but with affection deep as that of a mother, bathed
his heated temples, supplied all his wants, and still held out the
hope of recovering her, who was the cause of all his sufferings. It
was the second day, and Earth was still watching over his friend,
when, approaching him from the direction in which his own journey lay,
walked with hurried steps, one whose garb proclaimed him a border
settler. He approached the hunters, and after the first civilities
were over, addressing himself to Earth, said, in an audible whisper,
“I've got him,” and turning, as he said so, peeped over his shoulder.
“Who?” said Earth.
“An Ingen,” was the brief reply, in a still lower whisper, and he
looked back again.
“What do you keep looking back for,” said Earth, “afraid of a dead
Ingen?”—
“No,” whispered the stranger, “I'm in a hurry, good morning;” and he
hurried away.
“There, Earth,” said Rolfe, who had been roused by his presence, “you
see the cause of the hostilities of the Indians; that fellow, most
probably without the least cause, has shot one whom he caught out
hunting.”
“Then, there's a devil less;” said Earth, “But I don't believe I would
have cared much if the Ingen had killed him, for he is good for
nothing; you see he is scared now.”
Soothing Rolfe, Earth gradually drew him into conversation, and
finding that his fever was leaving him, obtained his consent to
recommence their journey on the following day. Making short stages,
his health began to improve, and they wound their way along the banks
of the rivulet on which they had rested. The close of evening found
them at a point, where the lands sinking, became flat, and the little
stream, unconfined by its banks, spread over their surface, and
lingering, coursed slowly away in many rills, which parted but to meet
again at a place not far remote. The marshy ground over which the
hunters would have to travel in pursuing the direct line of their
journey, was, with Rolfe, as he was just recovering, an objection to
proceeding farther; and he proposed to Earth to stay where they were
until morning should enable them to compass the difficulty. Earth
readily consented, and selecting a dry and agreeable spot, they seated
themselves, and after a few moments, unloosing his wallet, he emptied
out the remains of his breakfast, which served them for supper.
Night had advanced an hour or two, and the hunters were still awake,
when a flickering flame shooting up, threw abroad its glare, and often
changed its position. It was soon observed, and at once gave rise to
excitement and to speculation.
“What can it be,” said Earth, “is it a spirit?”
He had scarcely spoken when another light began to dance in the air,
then a third, and a fourth, flitting about, and changing position with
the rapidity of thought.
“A four handed reel, by the powers above! Rolfe, Rolfe, it is all
over,” and Earth, crouching upon the ground, sank overpowered with
fear.
“What dost thou fear,” said Rolfe?
“Those spirits,” said Earth. “Hush, Rolfe; hush, or let us fly.”
“Nonsense,” said Rolfe, “they are merely ‘_ignes fatui_.’”
“Fat what, Rolfe?”
“Fat nothing;—they are what are termed grave lights, or _jacks with
their lanterns_, produced in some measure by the decomposition of the
dead animal matter.”
“No,” Rolfe, “it cannot be, see how they cross over, and leap up, and
dart across, and then fly away;—they must be troubled spirits.”
“Earth, you are mistaken; I have seen them often before, and I assure
you I have given the correct solution.”
“Now, Rolfe, tell me, is it true? You know I can face the living, but
I cannot bear to meet the dead.”
“It is, I assure you. Have you never, while hunting, seen a
_jack-a-lantern_?”
“A _jack-a-lantern!_ yes, often; although I don't even like _them_
much.”
“Well, these are the same.”
“Oh, no.”
“Indeed they are.”
“Well, now, Rolfe, if you have any respect for me, hereafter call
things by their proper names; if you had said they were
_jack-a-lanterns_, I would have known at once what they were; but you
said something about _knees fat_, and I took it for granted at once
that they were spirits; although I might have known, if I had thought,
that _jack-a-lanterns_ were _greasy_.”
Rolfe, amused at the idea of their being greasy, laughed outright,
asking, “In the name of heaven, Earth, how did you find out they
possessed that property?”
“Because I once caught one,” said Earth, “and laid it out upon an old
stump, as cold as a wedge.”
Still more amused by this conceit, Rolfe replied, “you are the first
man I ever heard of, Earth, who could catch one. Do tell us all about
it, and rise up; I believe you are still frightened.”
“No, I am not now;” then rising up, he said, “Rolfe, give me your
hand,” and Earthquake seizing it, drew it across his forehead. Rolfe
again burst into a fit of laughter; for the perspiration stood in
large cold drops.
Even Earth was now amused at the groundlessness of his fears, and
together they proceeded to inspect more narrowly the moving lights.
“Suppose I put them out,” said Earth?
“Well, do,” said Rolfe.
“Then, hold my gun,” said Earth, and he passed it to him, and began to
make preparation for stripping.
Rolfe was convulsed with laughter, and Earthquake had already taken
off his hunting accoutrements, before he was able to inquire into the
nature of the attack he proposed to make on them. Having at length
found a tongue, “Earth,” said he, “do tell us how you mean to
proceed.”
“I know two ways to catch 'em,” said Earth. “Now suppose you let me
tell you how I _laid out_ that one we were talking about.”
“Do, I should like of all things to hear it.”
“Well, one night, in the early part of the spring before we met, I was
going through a part of that green swamp you have heard me speak of,
when I _seed_ a jack-a-lantern just ahead of me, dodging about in the
swamp. So it turned out to be, but what sort of an animal it was, at
that time I had not the least idea. I _trapesed_ on after it,
wondering what it was, and expecting every minute to catch it, for
pretty near a mile and a half, when I found myself just about as near
it as when I started. 'Twas a thing that old Jupe was afraid of, for
she kept gitting between my legs and tripping me up, until I was so
mad that I took a stick and beat her up into a big lump.”
“Earth, what sort of a time had you?”
“Hush, Rolfe, I did'nt want to say any thing about that, for the
meanest thing I ever did was to follow a jack-a-lantern through a
cane-brake. You may guess what sort of a place it was, when I tell you
I was obliged to give over hunting, and lay by for two days, to darn
my breeches. It bothered me mightily; and I was sticking fast, up to
my hips in mud, wondering what the devil it could be, when a notion
struck me, that it must be a jack-a-lantern. All at once, I
recollected how they used to tell me to ketch 'em; so I got out, and
followed on a bit farther, and, thinking I should like to see what it
was made of, I determined to put the _thing_ out. Well, I stopped,—the
jack-a-lantern kept dancing before me,—I took off my jacket,—the
jack-a-lantern got scared, and looked sorry,—I turned the inside
towards him,—he grew fainter,—I began to pull the sleeves through, and
by the time the whole jacket was wrong side out, he settled down and
went out upon an old stump. Well, now you may laugh, but it is every
word true.”
Rolfe was scarcely able to speak:—“how do you know,” said he, “that it
did not merely go out for a little time, and then fly away to another
place as these are now doing.”
“What! that jack-a-lantern fly away,—the one that I put out;—I tell
you, it has never troubled any body from that day to this; if it has,
I don't know when a thing is dead.”
“What proof have you of it?”
“Why, I saw it the next morning, _laid out_ as I told you before, as
cold as a wedge.”
“Then, do tell us all about it, Earth.”
“Well, when the thing fell upon the stump, as I knowed it would, when
I took off my jacket,—for turning a jacket wrong side out never fails
to kill 'em,—I look my hatchet and marked the place, that I might find
it the next morning. So, soon after breakfast, I walked down there,
merely that I might satisfy myself; and I had hardly got to the stump,
before I seed the jack-a-lantern lying upon it, as I said before, cold
as a wedge.”
“How was it shaped,” said Rolfe, “and what was its appearance?”
“I don't exactly know how it was shaped,” said Earth, “but it looked
all in a heap, as if you had emptied your two hands full of jelly upon
the top of the stump.”
Rolfe had been convulsed with laughter throughout Earth's narrative,
and now sunk down overpowered at the finale.
“Earth,” said he, “you are mistaken; what you saw was merely the gum
which had exuded from the stump.”
“Gum!”—said Earth, with a contemptuous sneer, “you must think I am a
damn——” then stopping, and looking in another direction, “look there,
Rolfe,—look, look.”
He obeyed, and beheld a torch, borne by a human being.
“Can'st thou move?” said Earth.
“I can,” said Rolfe.
“Then nerve yourself for a contest, if necessary, and let us see who
venture here at this hour of the night. Who knows but this may furnish
some clue to the lost maiden.”
The above sentence infused strength into Rolfe; for it brought hope,
and excitement, and but little time elapsed before he announced to his
friend, that he was ready; and, moving forward, they began at once to
reconnoitre the ground.
“There may be danger here,” said Rolfe, “we must be cautious, or we
shall be offered as a sacrifice to the spirits of those who have been
lately murdered.”
Then crouching down, they remained for some time silent, gazing at the
light.
“It is borne by a woman,” said Earth; “an Ingen woman.”
“It is,” said Rolfe, “and she is alone.”
“I think so, for as yet I can see no one with her.”
“There may be,” said Earth, “but what can they have come for,—what can
they be arter? Rolfe, I tell you what, I feel right ticklish.”
“Hush, Earth, the torch is approaching; let us conceal ourselves, that
we may examine more closely.”
“Agreed.”
“See, she stoops, and searches;—what can it be for?”
“I know not. Let us approach, and obtain her history.”
And leaving their cover, they soon stood before an Indian woman, who,
at the moment of their approach, was stooping down, and examining an
indentation, apparently made by a human foot. Having scrutinized it
for a time, she shook her head, gathered up her torch, and moved on.
“Come, speak to her, Earth,” said Rolfe, “and find out what she is
after.”
Whereupon, addressing her in the language common among the Indians
residing near the frontiers, and which was a compound of the languages
of several tribes, Earth said: “Our mother seeks for something
lost,—does she mark the steps of the pale face, to find out the path
to his wigwam, or does she seek for a red man, whose blood is crying
from the ground.”
At this speech she turned whence the voice came, and gazed on the
hunters, without discovering the least emotion or even surprise, and
seeing the mark of another foot-print, she approached, caused the
light to fall on it, closely examined its proportions, and again moved
on.
“The white man's heart is sorry,” said Earth, “he will help our
mother.—Will she tell him for what she searches?”
Raising herself, and gazing for a moment on the speaker, she said,
with a faultering voice, “I call, and he comes not; the vine has lost
the tree which supported it.”
There was something so touching in her manner that even Earthquake was
affected, and turning to Rolfe, he interpreted her words.
“Earth, she is the mother of that Indian whom that fellow killed.”
“Yes,” said Earth, “I'll lay any thing she is;” and the only feeling
of sorrow which ever crossed his breast for the death of an Indian,
then passed over it. The hunters remained for some moments silent, not
knowing what to do, while the old woman continued her sad yet holy
purpose.
“Come, Earth,” said Rolfe, “speak to her again; speak gently, and try
and make her tell you her story, for there is something about her
which very much affects me.” And following on, Earth again sought to
draw her into conversation.
“Has thy husband gone to the settlements, and returned not,” continued
he, “or dost thou seek in a son, the hope of thy evening hours?”
“He is gone,” said the mother, “he is gone. The tree was just
beginning to cast its shade, the fountain would soon have become a
running stream; but, alas! it is now dry. He is gone, he is gone, I
call, and he comes not.”
There was something beautiful and touching in the mother's grief, and
there was something startling, yet thrilling in her occupation. Alone,
and in the dark hour of night, searching the forest that she might
again behold the face of the dead. Her affection was so pure and deep,
that even the hunters felt awed by the holy feeling which influenced
her, and forgetting their own situations, sank for a time into
silence, overcome by the emotions of the moment. Never was there a
scene more striking, never was there one better calculated to make an
impression lasting as memory itself.
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “how often have I thought of a battle-field, the
scene of glory and of triumphs. While the contest rages, and victory
having hovered doubtful of the issue, at last perches on some favoured
standard, Oh! what a moment of thrilling interest, of wild delight.
Yet view the same field, the day after the battle, how sad the
contrast! When the loud thunders of war have given place to deep
silence; when the unburied dead still sleep upon the surface, and the
helpless dying are seen writhing on the cold ground. So is it here;
the border settler who caused the distress we see, was proud of his
victory, and perhaps, at this moment, is telling its details; yet,
think you, he could look upon the scene before us, and feel happy, in
what he deems his hard won laurels?”
“I think not,” said Earth, “I have never seen a sadder sight.”
“And, yet,” said Rolfe, “it is to gaze on a scene like this, that we
peril our lives, and our fortunes. I have never felt satisfied, Earth,
of the justice of the war we have waged, and perhaps ere a month
passes may wage again; and there are moments, when I cannot but think,
Heaven will pay us off with a just retribution at last.”
“I know not how it will be,” said Earth, “when I am in open warfare
with them, I am clean without conscience, and I haint got much no how,
where an Ingen is. Rolfe, I'll tell you some of these days how they
sarved me. But in old mad Anthony's time, that was long before you
ever heard of an Ingen, we use to use 'em up till I was right sick and
tired of the business; and then, when I was so very tired, I use to
think it wrong. But what are the opinions of Heaven upon the subject,
I don't know, for the Ingens have done some shocking deeds?”
“Nor do I,” said Rolfe, “but we were the aggressors, we have forced
them into hostilities, and the time will come, I fear, when they will
live only in story.”
“And do you seriously think, Rolfe, that Heaven will hold us
accountable for merely killing Ingens?”
“Perhaps not us, Earth, but when we shall sleep with our fathers, and
our little republic become the first power upon earth, their fate may
then rise up in judgment against it.”
“How; what is to happen?” said Earth, then stopping abruptly,
“hush,—hush,—what noise is that?” and the next moment there galloped
by a gang of wolves, frightened from their anticipated prey by the
torch of the Indian mother, and having fled but a short distance
within the forest, their dismal howls broke upon the stillness of
night.
“See,” said Rolfe, “those howling beasts have been feeding upon the
dead, or else, perhaps, watching for the death of the dying; let us
again seek the mother and aid her in her search; her son may yet
live.”
“With all my heart,” said Earth, “for we cannot sleep while she
continues it.”
“Earth, is it not strange, that, entertaining so much hatred for the
whites, and knowing that if her son be dead, a white man must have
killed him, she did not vent either abuses or curses upon us.”
“Yes, it is;—if she had, I should have felt less sorry than I do, and
can only account for her conduct, by her whole soul being taken up
with the object of her search.”
“Is she not unusually devoted for an Indian mother? I always thought
their feelings were less ardent than ours.”
“That is a mistake;—the way they are brought up causes them to
suppress their feelings, and to seem indifferent towards each other.
Yet, there is no race under heaven who will suffer more privations for
their children than will the Ingens.”
Thus conversing, they again sought the mother, sympathized with her,
and assisted in the search; and Earth, drawing her into conversation,
learned the following particulars of her history:—
She resided several miles within the forest, and was seeking a son,
her only child, who, a day or two before, had left her wigwam in
search of game. Circumstances had induced her to believe that he had
been murdered by the whites, and to confirm or remove her suspicions
was now her object. Owing to the deadly enmity which existed between
the two races, she feared to venture far from her wigwam during the
day, and had prosecuted her search chiefly at night. One entire night
she had passed in this way, and she had now commenced the second in
the same fruitless manner.
Earth, with a view of consoling her, said, “Mother, thy son may think
the long knives seek his death; he is swift of foot as the deer on the
prairie; the deer, to avoid the dogs, flies.”
“Stop,” said the mother, “tell me not he fled:—could I believe that
he, in whom my blood flows, would flee from a pale face, I would seek
him, but it would be, to bury my knife in his heart. Oloompa fled!”
and she burst into a flood of tears;—“No, no, my son, thou didst not
know how to flee. Thy blood lies clotted on this cold ground. Leave
me, leave me,” she continued, “my son would rise from the dead, didst
thou tell him he would flee from a pale face.”
Rolfe and Earthquake perceiving her distress, and appreciating her
feelings, again endeavoured to soothe and console her.
“Earth,” said Rolfe, “talk to her; try, and persuade her to quit, she
can do no good by remaining here.”
“I wish she would,” answered Earth, “for I am tired of it;” and again
approaching her, he said, “Mother, thou hadst better give over thy
search, and return to thy wigwam.”
“And wherefore shall I do that?” she replied; “Is it that my lodge
shall tell of past joys no more to be enjoyed. Is it that I may listen
to the voice of the lost, in every whispering breeze that passes? or
is it to watch and see pass away the last tint from a drooping
flower?”
“Thou hast spoken of a drooping flower, lives she still in thy wigwam,
mother?”
“The sun gilds the morning and we are here,” said the mother, “evening
comes, and we are gone.” And forgetting the question of Earth, she
cried, “Oloompa!—Oloompa!—why wilt thou not answer me, my son?”
“Is the drooping flower thou spokest of a plant of the prairie,” said
Earth, “or grew it far off on the lands of the white men?”
“It may have come from the clouds;” said the mother:—“I sat in my
wigwam, and cried for Oloompa, a vision appeared, and a maiden
remained.”
“And is she a pale face? mother, tell, we too seek the lost.”
“Yes; as pale as the moon-beams which sleep on the snow.”
“And lives she still?”
“The sun gilds the morning, and we are here,” said the mother,
“evening comes, and we are gone.”
Earth, turning to Rolfe, quickly communicated the information
obtained, and a vague impression was made on the minds of both that
the maiden alluded to was she whom they sought. Rolfe was all anxiety,
and repeated question after question in rapid succession for Earth to
ask the mother, but he himself was now deeply interested, and
addressing himself to her, continued; “Mother, if thou knowest any
thing of the maiden, tell us, and make our hearts glad. She is dear to
us; we seek to protect her. She had friends, they were many, they were
happy, but the red men came among them, and she alone is left. Make
glad our aching hearts, and accept our blessings.”
“And what shall I tell thee?” said the mother. Then forgetting the
hunters, again she cried, “Oloompa! Oloompa! Oh! answer thy mother,”
and she continued searching the forest.
Rolfe was now excited to the highest degree, and continued begging
Earth to elicit quickly some particulars which would either dispel or
confirm their suspicions.
“Let me alone, Rolfe,” said Earth, “I'm doing all I can; don't be in
sich a swivet; if the gal is there, we'll git her;” then turning to
the mother, he said, “Remains the maiden thou didst mention in thy
wigwam still? If she does, mother! wilt thou tell us her condition?”
“Hast thou seen a deer,” said the mother, “when after a long chase it
escapes the dogs? It is fatigued,—it pants,—it lies down and
sleeps,—so does the maiden.”
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “the old woman says the gal is there, and that
she is tired and asleep.”
“Then, oh! Earth, ask her if she is very beautiful, if her hair is
light, and if she is very timid,—come, quick!”
Earth put the questions desired, and the mother replied: “Hast thou
gathered the loveliest flower which blossoms on the prairies,—cast it
away, and a short time after seen it again? It is still beautiful, but
withered,—the maiden reminds me of that. Knowest thou the golden
colour of the sands on the Wabash? The same is the colour of the hair
of the pale face. Hast thou caught a bird, and felt it tremble, and
its little heart beat, when thy fingers pressed it? It is timid,—even
so is the maiden.”
“Rolfe,” said Earth, “I have asked the old woman.”
“Oh! tell me what she says, Earth?”
“She says, the gal is like a flower, that her hair is like yaller
sand, and that she trimbles like you were to squeeze a bird in your
hand.”
“She is the same!” cried Rolfe.
Believing that he recognized her even in Earth's unpoetical
description, tears of joy gushed from his eyes, and falling upon his
knees, he poured out in fervent prayer, a thousand thanks to the God
of heaven, for having so conducted his footsteps as to create a full
hope of finding her who was the object of his search. Earth and the
mother listened to it, as to the voice of inspiration. It was
beautiful as an act of devotion, and, regarding the time and
circumstances, nothing could be more impressive.
While Rolfe was speaking, Earth several times drew his sleeve across
his eyes; but scarcely, however, had the last words of the prayer died
away, and silence again resumed her reign, when a voice as if of
anguish seemed to rise up from the ground. It was startling, and a
feeling of horror thrilled through the frames of the hunters. But it
touched a kindred chord in the ear of the Indian mother; and, moving
forward, again she cried, “Oloompa!” and a voice answered, “Mother,
art thou here?” Then burst forth a woman's shriek, and a shriek so
loud, that the feeding beasts fled, galloping away,—owls flapped their
wings, and hooted,—and the startling scream seemed to leap from tree
to tree, as it entered the depths of the forest.—There was silence,
and the Indian mother lay bending over the sinking frame of her son.
“Heard you that scream, Earth?”
“Do you see that Ingen, just behind you, Rolfe?”
“Where?” said Rolfe, starting, and at the same moment throwing up his
gun, he looked about him.
“I don't see him now,” said Earth, “but I thought I saw one when that
woman screamed.”
“You are mistaken, Earth, it was mere fancy.”
“Nancy who, Rolfe? I wish we were well clear of her; if I was, I'd
bind myself to quit chawing tobacco; that is, except a piece of red
streak, now and then, if ever she laid eyes on me agin:—I don't like
her any how.”
The entire misconception of Rolfe's speech, by Earth, caused a smile,
sad as the moment was; but he suppressed it, having no time for
explanation.
“Come, Earth, we must assist the mother.”
“I don't wish to do it, Rolfe; for since she screamed, I have my
doubts.”
“Then you must lay them aside, Earth, for you know the maiden whom we
seek is at her lodge; moreover, humanity requires that we should
render all assistance in our power.”
This remark brought Earth quickly to his duty, and approaching the
mother, he began to make a light, and tenderly to inquire into the
situation of her son. He proved to be an Indian youth, who had been
shot down two days before, as was expected, by the border settler, and
who with the constancy of a hero, had suffered until the present time,
without either nourishment or assistance. The call of his mother, had
for a moment aroused him; but the first flow of excitement having
subsided, he again sunk into a stupor, and life seemed fast ebbing
away.
The mother was still bending over her son, and moistening his cheeks
with the tears of affection,—when, “Rolfe,” said Earth, “do you make a
large fire, and assist her, while I run to the stream we left, and
bring some water.” It was soon done, and Rolfe returned with his
hunting cup filled, moistened the lips of the Indian boy, and gave him
drink; and with it, came returning animation, and with returning
animation, came hope; and with hope, came cheerfulness to the heart of
the mother.
Raising the boy, they discovered that both legs had been shot through,
and yet no murmur escaped him. Even Earth, touched by his fortitude,
now became more gentle and attentive, and lent his assistance to make
him comfortable. A few moments sufficed to determine, that the only
hope of recovery lay in his being carried to his mother's lodge, where
he might receive such attentions as were absolutely necessary.
Although this proposition was made in a spirit of humanity, still the
hunters had another inducement, namely, the desire of proceeding at
once to the lodge of the mother, for the purpose of finding the
maiden. It was agreed to, and Earth at once began to prepare a litter.
Every moment now seemed to give renewed strength to the Indian boy,
and he was soon able to converse a little. As Earth trimmed the sticks
for the litter near the fire, the light fell on his features, and the
boy observing this, asked, “Mother, is not that a pale face?”
“It is, my son, but he is kind to the red men.”
She had scarcely spoken, before her son stretched out his arm, as if
to strike. It fell feebly, and only gave intimation of what he would
do, if he had the power. He then said in the Shawanee tongue, “go
away.”
“Do you see that, Rolfe?” said Earth, “that fellow is all pluck; 'tis
a pity he is a red skin. I am sorry for him, and I will try and set
him up, if it is only to have a fair crack at him some future day,
when he gets well.” Then turning to the boy, he said, “when Earth
shoots you, my good fellow, he will not leave you to lie suffering for
two days; he won't be so barbarous.”
The boy turned his eyes towards Earth, but said nothing. Rolfe, who
understood Earth's character, who knew how much kindness and
gentleness there was under his rough exterior, gave in to his humour,
and said, “you have a queer way of giving consolation, Earth.”
“Did you not hear the mother say I was kind to the red men? you know I
am, Rolfe. I never let 'em suffer long, I do the thing genteely. Now,
I should like to meet this lad when he gets well, just to show him how
much difference there is between being killed, that is, as I would
kill him, and that is genteely, and being mangled up and left to die
for two days.”
“I don't imagine, Earth, he feels much curiosity on the subject; if he
gets over this, he will no doubt be satisfied.”
“Get over it, indeed!—surely he will, the Ingens know the use of so
many yerbs, that, with them, I believe they can make a leg, much more
cure one that is only shot; they are proper nice hands with yerbs, I
tell you.”
While thus conversing, Earth was diligently at work, preparing the
litter for the removal of the boy; and having finished it, the hunters
approached, and with as much tenderness as if they had been about to
remove a brother, lent their assistance. The boy, though evidently
very weak, still manifested some displeasure against Earth, and having
discovered that Rolfe was likewise a pale face, he grew still more
agitated. The mother said many soothing things, and endeavoured to
appease him;—the boy spoke not, but pointed to his mangled limbs. The
mother then requested the hunters to assist her in placing her son
upon the litter; they did so, and though every possible kindness was
used, their acts were as wormwood to the Indian boy.
Every thing being now prepared, and the party ready to set out upon
their journey, the mother took up one end of the litter, while Earth
held the other, and with Rolfe carrying a torch, and leading the way,
which the mother pointed out, they moved forward. Repeatedly, however,
had Earth to check the ardour of his companion, and cause him to walk
more slowly. The excitement, under which he had been labouring for
several hours, had imparted strength to his weakened frame, and the
hope of soon seeing her, who, for so long a time, had been the theme
of so many waking dreams, urged him on;—“Yes,” he communed with
himself, “but a few hours more, and I shall embrace her, who has been
the guiding star of my earlier days; her, whose recovery is to me the
goal of all my earthly hopes.” And then, when he reflected upon the
surprise he would create, the pleasure it would give him to restore
her to her friends, he grew wild with joy, and could scarcely restrain
himself. And then the fate of her family would pass before him, the
loss of her friends, and her desolate condition, and seeing her
wretched, dejected, and heart-broken, he was plunged in the deepest
sorrow. Then these thoughts would fade away, and there would rush by
the first moment of recognition, with its wild delight, its joy, its
heavenly bliss;—and then would follow on the thought, that she must at
once be restored to her friends in Virginia, that his lot was cast in
a different land, and then, that she might have forgotten him, and
that some one more fortunate might possess her affections. Then again
he grew sad. Thus alternating between different passions, he gave full
play to the suggestions of his fancy.
While these thoughts occupied the mind of Rolfe, Earth and the mother
had been slowly wending their way along with the litter, having
stopped several times from fatigue. Rolfe attended them closely, but
with them he seemed to have no communion of feeling; his thoughts were
of other things, and he heeded not the conversation which was passing
between Earth and the Indian mother.
“Rolfe, heard you that story?”
Rolfe was silent.
“Rolfe!”
He started from his reverie:—“What will you have, Earth?”
“Why, I have been talking to you for several minutes, and you hav'nt
heard a word.”
“Indeed, Earth, my thoughts have been pretty constantly in the wigwam
of the mother.”
“Your thoughts had better rest elsewhere, for from what I have gleaned
from the mother, I now have a doubt, if the maiden lives, and if she
does, she may not be the same we seek.”
This was perfectly startling to Rolfe, for the suggestion had not
before entered his brain.
“How! what! what is the matter,” cried he;—and he made Earth again
detail every circumstance of the conversation he had held with the
mother.
Here were two additional sources of trouble, and harrowing were they
to the soul of Rolfe. But his spirit was a sanguine one, and the
examination only served more fully to confirm him in his opinion.
“Yes!” he cried, “she is the same, and she still lives!”
“I wish it may prove so,” said Earth.
Day had now dawned, the Indian boy was gently sleeping, and Earth and
his mother were bearing him slowly along, when she announced that her
wigwam was at hand. Rolfe, buoyed with hope, eagerly moved forward. A
few moments passed, and a small cabin was seen in the forest. Rolfe
darted forward,—“it is not mine,” said the mother. He stopped,
dispirited, and dejected. A few moments more elapsed, and another
appeared,—“it is mine,” said the mother. Again Rolfe bounded forward,
reached the cabin, and entered.
Earth and the Indian mother also hurried on, and having reached her
lodge, they gently deposited the litter,—the mother, that she might
make preparations for the reception of her son,—and Earth, that he
might gaze on her who was the object of his search. Having entered her
wigwam, what a startling vision met his sight! Stretched on a rude
frame, over which were spread a few skins, lay a female figure, but
partly covered, and over it, with eyes fixed in horror, bent Rolfe.
The figure was youthful and delicate, and her hair, which was damp and
cold, having fallen somewhat over her face, veiled her features; but
she was pulseless, lifeless; and the cold dews of death had already
settled upon her! and yet, no word escaped Rolfe. Still he gazed in
the fixedness of horror. Earth, equally incapable of acting, likewise
remained a silent spectator, until the mother entering, approached,
and removing the hair from the face of the maiden, saw that her eyes
were set, and glazed, and cried, “she is gone, she sleeps, and will
wake no more.”
At this annunciation, Earth turned away, with tears streaming down his
face, while Rolfe, as if waked into life, bent nearer, gazed more
intently, and cried, “it is not she.”
The best tidings could not have given Earth more comfort; he
approached, and waited with fearful anxiety, a farther examination of
her features.—“No,” said Rolfe, “it is not she whom we seek;” and
turning away, he also found relief in tears.
Earth seemed happy that things were no worse, and but little time was
now allowed for sympathy with the dead; for the mother approached, and
told Earth, that the frame on which the maiden lay, she wished to
spread with skins, for her son, and added, “to the ‘Drooping Flower’
it is now a matter of little moment, whether she lies high or low.” So
thought Earth, for wrapping the delicate figure in the skins which
partly covered it, he placed it on the floor, in a corner of the
cabin, saying, “mother, let it remain here, until we shall determine
what to do with it.”
“While I prepare a bed, wilt thou make a fire?” said the mother. It
was soon done, and Earth and the mother, bearing along the Indian boy,
placed him on the rude couch prepared for his reception. While these
little arrangements were making, Rolfe, overpowered by disappointment,
and the rush of feelings which crowded upon his mind, had left the
lodge, and afterward Earth having joined him, they withdrew to a short
distance.
“Earth, what thinkest thou of the scene we have just witnessed?”
“Indeed, I know not what to think. I am glad, however, she was not the
maiden we seek.”
“I scarcely know whether I am or not,” said Rolfe, “if she had been
the same, her sufferings would now have been ended, and I should have
performed the last sad office she could have required from man. As it
is, I shall no more see her, and if she has not already writhed at the
stake, pain and suffering, and a broken heart will be her fate.”
“It is sad,” said Earth, “think of it as you will; all hope for the
present is gone, and when we leave here, my advice is that we make for
the settlements, and by mingling with men, try and forget the past.”
“It is well to do so; but, Earth, did you ever know so many sad events
to occur in so short a time? The scene last night, I shall never
forget.—Yet, what can be more startling than the one this morning?”
“I have witnessed many sad scenes, Rolfe, and so must every one who
lives as long as I have in these woods. I have seen the suffering of
years packed into a few short minutes, and yet I must confess, nothing
has ever come over me with more icy coldness than the fate of that
gal.”
“She is young and beautiful,” said Rolfe, “and, oh! the intense
anguish she must have suffered! Did you see how her feet were torn,
and bruised by travel? and it seemed to me, that in addition to her
other sufferings, she died of hunger. But who is she? and where did
she come from?”
“Even the mother can't tell that,” said Earth. “She has been taken
captive by the Ingens, and made her escape, or else wandering off from
some emigrant family, was lost.”
“Then she is gone,” said Rolfe, “and there is no possible clue by
which we can trace her history; and I was about to say, she died, and
there was no friend to see her buried; but, though strangers to her,
Earth, we are friends in misfortune, and her last sad rites shall be
performed by us, as brothers would do it over an affectionate sister.”
Earth's eyes filled with tears,—he spoke not.
“Come, we must perform the last duty,” said Rolfe, “let us select a
spot for her grave.”
“I hate,” said Earth, “to leave one so young alone in a wilderness,
and among strangers;—even her little spirit will be afraid to go
abroad, lest it should meet a red skin.”
“Her spirit, I hope, is in heaven,” said Rolfe, “and though I regret
the duty we are now to perform, still, since it must be done, let us
begin.”
The preparations were soon made, and the hunters returned to the
wigwam, explained to the mother the course they were about to pursue,
and demanded the body of the maiden. She gave it up, but was
dissatisfied that the burial was to be a silent one, and, in her
kindness, suggested the propriety of hiring some Indians to come and
weep over the dead.
Earth explained to her, that to hire persons to mourn, was not
customary with the whites; “and her spirit will not rest easy,”
continued he, “if the Ingens sit howling and yelling over her grave.”
These reasons seemed to satisfy the mother, and she left the hunters
to wait upon her son.
The spot, as I before mentioned, having been selected, a grave was
dug, and the hunters leaving the mother, bore along, shrouded in
skins, the last remains of the stranger maiden. She was, no one knows
who;—she came, no one knows whence, and now rests in a strange land.
Yes, on a little knoll, which rose hard by, and which receives the
full beams of the morning sun, broken only by the wild vines which
creep over it, sleep the last remains of the stranger maiden!—No
tell-tale stone is reared where she rests; yet she lives in story, and
many a dusky maid has sung her fate in the following lines:
Indian maidens, come and weep
O'er this lowly mound;
Let your grief within be deep,—
Whoop not, howl not, for the sleep
Of the pale face is not sound.
No mother watched her parting hour,
No sister cheered the “Drooping Flower.”
Know ye whence the rippling stream,
Whence the wintry blast,
Whence the mad storm-spirit's scream,
Whence the vivid lightning's beam,
Or whither it has past?—
Thus was the maiden to us borne,
Thus from us has her spirit gone.
For as she droop'd, and ere she fell,
She said her spirit did not love
With her below on earth to dwell,
And oft times has been heard to tell,
That it would soar above.
It claim'd no home on earth below—
It would not stay—it long'd to go.
Great Spirit! lend thy gracious ear,
Tho' not for dusky maid we pray,
Let thy protecting care be here,
Let the pale face know no fear,—
Guide her spirit on its way.
Far beyond the Eagle's flight,
To the realms that know no night.
Indian maidens, weave the vine,
Weave the sweetest blooms among;
Plant the rose and eglantine,
And a shady bower we'll twine;
While each morn shall hear our song:—
Blow softly breezes,—gently wave
The wild flowers o'er the stranger's grave.