“With cautious steps the thicket threading,
And startling oft, as through the glade
The gust its hollow moanings made,
The maid pursued her silent guide.”
BYRON.
It will be recollected, that we left Tecumseh descending the Wabash,
on his way to the south, having avowed to General Harrison, previous
to his departure, that his object in going, was, not to prepare for
war, but, in imitation of the whites, to form a bond of union among
all the Indian tribes, solely for their own protection and
self-preservation. He had given Elkswatawa the most positive
injunctions not to commence hostilities during his absence; he had
urged him to restrain those who were immediately under his command,
until his return, when the signal should be given, and together they
would strike a sure and heavy blow in some quarter where least
expected. But scarcely had Tecumseh left, before appearances at the
Prophet's camp, began to wear a more warlike aspect. The number
assembled generally consisted of some five or six hundred warriors,
who, by the continual practising of mysterious rites, on the part of
the Prophet, were excited to such a degree, that, notwithstanding the
most positive orders to the contrary, aggressions were daily committed
by them on the whites. From his camp, they made their incursions into
the settlements, and to it they returned for protection. It served as
a rallying point for all the Indians who committed depredations on the
citizens of the United States; and when demanded, under one of the
articles of a former treaty, the Prophet now, in every instance,
refused to deliver them up. In consequence of this, the citizens along
the frontiers became still more clamourous for energetic and offensive
measures. A correspondence was opened between General Harrison and the
Hon. Wm. Eustis, the then Secretary of War, in which all the
information relative to the conduct of the Indians, was regularly
forwarded. This produced, as was expected, an order from the War
Department, requiring General Harrison to disperse the Prophet's band,
and commence offensive operations, if they should be deemed necessary,
but at the same time, if possible, to preserve peace.
In accordance with this order, a deputation was sent to Elkswatawa,
requiring that the Indians assembled at his town should at once
disperse, and that reparation should be made for the injuries which
they had already committed, or that warlike operations would be
forthwith commenced. This, together with a knowledge that large bodies
of troops were then assembling at Vincennes, induced the Prophet to
send messengers in return, who were fully authorized to make such
promises and professions of peace, in compliance with the terms
required, as would be entirely satisfactory. By this means, that is,
by making promises and delaying the fulfilment of them, Elkswatawa
hoped he should be enabled to accomplish his design of awaiting the
return of Tecumseh; inasmuch as it could not be expected that the
terms required were to be performed at once. The Prophet himself
wished for battle, and so did his immediate followers; yet he saw how
unwise such a course would be at this time, while his brother was
absent, and likewise, while the warriors of the vast confederacy which
had already been formed were entirely ignorant of his design. To send
messengers among them, and call them in, would be at once to throw off
the mask and prepare for open warfare. This he could not do
consistently with the pledge given Tecumseh, and he therefore resolved
to use every possible exertion to preserve peace.
The messengers of the Prophet, whom we mentioned above as having been
deputed by him, visited Vincennes late in September, 1811, and so
successful were they, that they, in some measure, lulled the
suspicions of the whites, and left the town under an impression that
all would remain satisfied, and peace be preserved, at least for a
time. But the continual assembling of warriors from a distance at
Tippecanoe, and the daily necessity which the Prophet found for
preaching his doctrines, and practising his rites, kept his followers,
who always remained with him, in such a feverish state of excitement,
that in sorrow he looked upon the vast machinery he had set in motion,
and his heart was troubled when he saw that it was about to be
deranged, before its accumulating and still increasing power could be
brought to bear upon his great design; for scarcely a week elapsed
after the return of his messengers, before aggressions were again
committed by some of his band, and General Harrison determined at once
on commencing offensive operations.
Early in October of this year, we find him encamped on the banks of
the Wabash, about sixty-five miles above Vincennes, with a chosen body
of troops, anxious to be led on against the Indians. Here he built a
fort, which at the request of the officers, was called Fort Harrison,
reconnoitred the adjacent country, and waited several days, with a
hope of receiving a deputation from the Prophet, which might be able
to explain away and satisfactorily adjust the differences which had
lately arisen, in consequence of the violation of previous promises.
Elkswatawa was aware of his approach, and with a hope of preserving
peace, sent messengers, as he afterward stated, promising to comply
with any demand which the Governor might make. The messengers,
however, never arrived, and in consequence of it, the American army
continued its march; and Elkswatawa learning this, began with great
diligence to fortify his town, and place it in the best possible state
of defence, in order to protect himself against the attack of the
whites, in case it should become impossible longer to preserve peace.
It was in November, 1811, and on the sixth of the month, that the army
under General Harrison lay within a mile and a half of Tippecanoe. It
had been regularly advancing until the present time, and yet the
Indians had shown no disposition to treat for peace; and a halt was
now called, for the purpose of allowing them farther time to do so.
The consequence of the near proximity of the whites, called forth
messengers on the part of the Prophet, who demanded in his name, why
it was that the Americans were marching upon his town. They stated
that the Prophet was anxious to avoid hostilities,—that he was ready
to comply with the demands of the Governor, and had with that view
sent messengers to him several days before, who must, unfortunately,
have gone down the opposite side of the river from that on which the
general was advancing, or he would have seen them. In answer to this,
the grounds of complaint were again stated by General Harrison, who
also added, that the messengers, although expected, had never arrived.
Some further conversation took place,—the Indians were apparently
sincere in their professions, and a suspension of hostilities was
agreed upon until the following day; when the Prophet, with the chiefs
who were with him, was to meet General Harrison and his staff, and the
terms of peace were then to be agreed upon between them.
The most eligible spot that could be selected for passing the night,
was now chosen by the American army, and this consisted of “a dry
piece of ground, which rose about ten feet above the level of a marshy
prairie in front towards the town, and about twice as high above a
similar prairie in the rear, through which, near the bank, ran a small
stream, clothed with willows and brush-wood.” Late in the evening, the
army marched to the ground selected, and encamped for the night. The
different companies were then disposed in order of battle, and in case
of a night attack, which no one feared, they were ordered to occupy
the ground upon which they were then placed; and in conformity with a
general order, both officers and soldiers were required to rest in
their clothes, with their arms by their sides. Sentries were then
placed so as to guard every possible approach of the enemy, and the
duties of the evening having been performed, groups of officers and
soldiers might be seen standing around the camp fires, expressing
their dissatisfaction that a peace which they thought would soon be
broken, was about to be concluded, and they forced to return home,
without having had a battle. This was mortifying to many, who had
joined the army for the sake alone of gaining glory, and many also,
were discontented because they were exasperated against the Indians on
account of their many acts of petty aggression.
Such was the state of feeling, and the order of things in the American
army, which now numbered more than eight hundred men, while that of
the Prophet amounted to some five or six hundred. On the one side was
a body of disciplined troops, well armed and equipped for battle; on
the other, a band of savages, armed, some with guns and rifles, the
remainder with bows, tomahawks and war-clubs. It was at this time, and
on the morning of the day that the American army arrived, when Kenah,
who had now been absent nearly two months, entered alone into
Tippecanoe. The Indians were so much excited, that his entrance was
not observed by them, and he proceeded at once into the presence of
Elkswatawa.
“Ha! Kenah,” said he, “thou art welcome.—Where rests the old woman?”
“Without the walls of the town,” answered Kenah; “she is guarded; the
two maidens rest with her. Kenah seeks the Prophet, to know his will.”
“Bring them into the camp,” replied the Prophet; “place them within a
cabin, and see that it be watched; and mark me, Kenah, it is the
Prophet who speaks,—let not the old woman nor the pale face maiden
venture out. The fresh air must not breathe upon their faces. Netnokwa
is great, and might lead astray the red men. The pale face maiden
would be torn limb from limb. Netnokwa's daughter is to be my
brother's bride:—she is free, yet leaves not our camp. Does Kenah
hear?” Kenah bowed assent, and Elkswatawa continued:—“Say to the old
woman, when within her lodge, ‘the Prophet gives her welcome to his
camp;’—it will make her heart glad. And now, Kenah, put your finger
upon your lips. Let your arrival be dark;—the Prophet wishes no talk
about a woman. The pale faces are crawling upon the lands of the red
men, and the Prophet's heart is troubled. When they are gone, the
Prophet will see to his prisoners. He says Kenah is true to his trust.
He has spoken.——Yet stay, Kenah,—say to him who guards Netnokwa's
cabin, ‘death follows his steps, if he disobeys.’ Away.”
Kenah bowed, and without replying, retired from his presence, to obey
his orders. Selecting a cabin for his prisoners, which, though at some
distance from the rest, was so situated as to render escape on their
part almost impossible, he returned to his party. Then causing
Netnokwa and the maidens to wrap themselves up so as to conceal their
faces, he led the way, and making them follow, soon safely lodged them
in the cabin designated.—The warriors were generally engaged in
another quarter, and the arrival of Netnokwa and her party was
consequently unnoticed. Kenah then, selecting one of his band, ordered
him to stand guard,—detailing to him, at the same time, the Prophet's
injunctions, with the penalty threatened in case of disobedience. He
then entered the cabin and approaching Netnokwa, said:—“The Prophet
bids Kenah tell the old woman, ‘she is welcome to his camp.’”
“The Prophet bids the old woman welcome to his camp?” replied
Netnokwa:—“When the panther springs upon the doe, he says ‘welcome;’
if the doe has two fawns, he says ‘welcome’ three times.” Kenah
replied not to her remark, but continued; “it is the Prophet's will
that Netnokwa and the pale face maiden remain within this lodge:—they
go not out, or the ground, like a thirsty dog, will drink their blood.
Netnokwa's daughter is free to range our camp,[1] but ventures no
farther, at the peril of her life. So says the Prophet.”
[Footnote 1: See note D.]
“Netnokwa's daughter will remain within your lodge,” replied Miskwa.
“To be with her mother is freedom enough for her.”
Kenah made no answer, but leaving the warrior on duty, he and the
remainder of his band were soon mingling with the crowd.
Kenah and his party, whom we have seen safely lodged in the camp of
the Prophet, arrived by the route before marked out as the one most
likely to be selected by them. Oloompa and the hunters, leaving, as
was stated, the south-western extremity of Lake Superior, were using
all exertions to reach the point where Kenah and his party had
disembarked, under a belief that thither they were bound, and with a
hope of getting there in time to intercept them before their arrival.
Yet, although the distance to be travelled by them, was much less than
that which was to be accomplished by Kenah, they arrived too late.
They reached there only in time to learn from an Indian they chanced
to meet, that a party, described to be such as the one they were
pursuing, had on the morning of the previous day, left the lake for
the Prophet's camp.
“Now,” said Earth, “this is what I call close work,—we have no time
for talk. Oloompa, find the trail and let us be off.”
“The best trail now,” answered Oloompa, “is the shortest path; Oloompa
knows the direction,” and saying so, he pointed with his finger.
“Go on then,” said Rolfe, and again they hurried away in pursuit.
Kenah entered Tippecanoe in the morning;—it was evening, and on the
same day, when Oloompa pointed out to the hunters the situation of the
town. All gazed at it in silence, when Earth said, “well, Rolfe, here
this thing winds up. It must be brought to a focus now, and I am glad
of it, for I am tired chasing people that I can't see.”
“Are you sure, Earth, that she is in the camp?” inquired Rolfe.
“Ask Oloompa,” said Earth.
Oloompa smiled at Rolfe's incredulity, and observed, “when Oloompa,
for a whole moon, follows the wrong path, the bear, when the hunter
strikes, will cease to struggle for its life.”
“Then, Earth,” said Rolfe, “now tell us what is best to be done?”
“No,” said Earth, “we will all talk it over.—Come, Oloompa, the hunter
acknowledges the red man is wiser than the white. Oloompa is young,
but he has the wisdom of gray hairs: his advice is good.”
Oloompa was evidently pleased with the compliment, but there was a
slight curl of his lip, as if in scorn, when he turned to confer with
the hunters. The subject having been discussed, with all the plans
suggested by each, it was agreed, that the whole party should lay
concealed in the forest, until night sat in; that then, approaching
nearer to the town, the hunters should conceal themselves, while
Oloompa entered it, to search for Netnokwa and her party. Should the
captive maiden be there, and an opportunity offer of rescuing her by
stratagem, Oloompa was to effect it, and deliver her over to the
hunters. In any event, he promised to return, and give them such
information as he might be able to obtain; and while for them he
promised to do this, his thoughts were chiefly engrossed by Miskwa,
and he was revolving over and over in his own mind, what plan he
should adopt in reference to her:—“If, with the white, Oloompa brings
the red maiden, will the hunters harm her?” said he.
“No,” said Earth, “although she is a red skin, by heaven, I swear to
protect and defend her as I would my sister, were she living.”
Rolfe readily promised the same, and eagerly cried, “Oh! bring her,
Oloompa! bring both! and go with me; I will give thee a wigwam and
lands, which shall be thy own, and thy days shall pass in peace and
quiet.”
“No,” answered Oloompa; “I have said the red men and white can never
dwell together. There must ever be a wall between them. Yet Oloompa is
satisfied—the hunters will protect the red maiden?”
“They will,” was the answer.
“Oloompa will visit the camp of the Prophet,” said Rolfe, “and hear
him preach; he may find the red maiden safe, and forget the white. The
hunters wait for him; will he return?”
“Oloompa's promise is not a reed to be bent or broken,” was the
answer. “If Oloompa lives, the hunters shall see him. If the maiden
can be brought without the camp, she comes with Oloompa.”
It was now getting dark, and the party concealing their horses, began
to approach the town. The hunters then selected a spot, where they
promised to remain, and Oloompa moved on. Upon going off, he
said:—“The hunters will not doubt Oloompa, for though it be deep in
the night, he will return.”
“We doubt thee not,” said Rolfe, “return as soon as may be, and our
blessings attend thee.”
Night had now advanced an hour or two, when a single warrior, armed as
if in readiness for battle, was seen to emerge from the forest, and
bend his steps towards the Indian camp. He approached with the bold
bearing of a welcome guest, and was nearing it, when the sound of the
American drum in the distance, fell harsh upon his ears. He stopped,
the sound stirred him to the inmost soul, and as each successive note
fell harsher still, his countenance changed until it writhed in agony.
The truth burst upon him, and hurriedly he entered the town. No one
stood sentinel, nor at first, did even a warrior meet his eye; the
cabins were untenanted, the doors swung open, and to all appearance
the town was deserted. But as madly he hurried on, the distant hum of
suppressed voices was heard, and then in the moonlight was seen the
bright gleam of arms, and soon after a dark mass of bodies closely
gathered, showed that all the Indians were assembled in council.
When Oloompa discovered this, he stopped, and for a moment hesitated,
not knowing the part which it was proper he should play. In the
distance lay the camp of the whites, plainly visible from the fires
which marked its situation. In it, he saw the enemies of his race,
those whom he hated, and against whom he had sworn vengeance, to be
extinguished but with his life. Gazing in another direction, yet near
at hand, he saw the large gathered crowd of his own countrymen,
attempting, no doubt, to organize some plan for destroying those who
had dared to invade their lands; and securing to themselves vengeance
for the wrongs they had suffered, as well as for those they were daily
suffering. Seeing these things, his soul glowed with fiercest hate
against the whites, and he felt that in his exertions to serve the
hunters who belonged to that grasping race, he had, perhaps, wronged
his countrymen; and he now regretted the promise he had made them.
Then, as the storm of passion subsided, he thought of Miskwa; and when
with that, came the belief that she had been brought a prisoner within
the very walls of the town in which he now was, and that she was
destined probably to become a victim to the Prophet's policy, or
rather his cruelty, he was recalled to a sense of his situation. He
recollected all he had accomplished;—he recurred to the deep
confidence the hunters had placed in him, and he determined to attend
the council, see what steps the Indians were about to adopt, and when
it had adjourned, continue his search for Netnokwa and her party, and
then, to act as, upon further consideration, he should deem advisable.
This resolution was no sooner formed, than he bent his steps towards
the excited crowd, and mingling with them, became one of the council.
He first looked round to see if he could discover the dreaded Prophet,
but he saw no one whom he could identify as such. He heard nothing but
bitter curses and denunciations against the whites; rage and fury
filled the breasts of all, and they were crying out to be led on to
battle. His own passions were kindled by the hoarse breathings of
vengeance around him, and never was there a more excited multitude.
They counted not numbers, they questioned not success; they were
burning with vengeance, and only anxious to quench it at once in the
blood of the whites.
Elkswatawa had now a difficult part to play. He had raised a storm
which he could not control; he had excited his followers until they
were lost to reason, and now, like raging beasts, were chafing against
their bounds in order to get loose. This was what he apprehended, when
he urged Tecumseh to take some decisive step before his departure for
the south. He, himself, was burning with rage; his soul writhed with
agony when he saw the fires of his enemies under the walls of his
town, and not one of the crowd was more anxious for immediate battle
than himself. But then there were many reasons why peace, if
attainable at any sacrifice, should still be preserved. He had
promised Tecumseh, who absent, was now labouring for the common cause,
that no act on the part of the whites, should force the Indians to
hostilities. His town, though strongly fortified, contained only his
own immediate followers, and they were far less numerous than the army
before them. The warriors of the confederacy he had formed, were
entirely ignorant of his situation, and to hazard a battle now, was
not to avail himself of the power he really possessed; but it was to
place his success upon a single chance, where the odds were greatly
against him. Aware of all this, he had sent messengers, with
professions of peace, to General Harrison while on his march; and
still, with the hope of obtaining it, had, on the arrival of the
American army, renewed his professions, and expressed a willingness to
meet the whites in council on the following day, when he would accede
to all their demands. This, for the reasons before stated, was now his
determination, and nerving himself for the crisis, he resolved to
oppose the calls which his followers were clamorously making to be led
on against the whites.
Rising in council, Elkswatawa urged to them the reasons why peace
should be preserved. He reminded them of his promise to Tecumseh; he
told them of the impropriety of striking without the aid of their
brothers of other tribes; he called their attention to the fact, that
the American army was greatly superior to them in numbers, and dwelt
upon the evil consequences which would result from their being beaten.
He unfolded to them his plans; he showed them the necessity there was,
that success beyond a doubt, should crown their first effort,—again
urged them to peace,—then, awaited their response.
The power of the Prophet was gone; and his arguments for
procrastination were only answered with cries for vengeance and
immediate battle. In Elkswatawa, they still had implicit confidence as
a Prophet. He had predicted, and proclaimed to them, time after time,
that success would attend them in all their exertions. He had told
them that the Great Spirit would turn the balls of the whites aside,
and render them harmless; and that he would give light to the Indians,
while their enemies should be involved in darkness. They reminded him
of this, told him that the whites were now under the walls of his
town, and that the Great Spirit would, as he had promised, deliver
them over into the hands of the Indians.
When Elkswatawa heard these things, he determined to refuse no longer,
but to yield his consent. Without it, he saw that his character was
lost, even with his own followers; and it was better to hazard a
battle, and run the chance for success, than quietly to surrender
without a struggle. Having come to this determination, after several
attempts, he obtained silence. He then requested that a communication
which he was about to make to them, should be received in silence,
lest from their noise, they should indicate their intentions to the
whites. All was hushed, and the Prophet then informed them that they
should be led to battle, at the same time stating that the reason why
he had refused at first, was that he was anxious that the red men from
distant tribes should be present, to share the victory, and to see the
predictions of the Prophet fulfilled. At this annunciation, there were
bursts of joy, and a few half suppressed war whoops were heard,
notwithstanding the positive orders which had been given to the
contrary. Elkswatawa then called some of the most influential of his
followers close around him, and together, they discussed the mode of
attack best to be adopted. Among them, it was finally agreed, that
they should meet the whites in council on the next day, lull their
suspicions by acceding to all their demands, and then, at an
unexpected moment, assassinate the General and commence the attack.
Having resolved upon this plan, the Prophet told it to the assembled
crowd, and asked if there were any persons present who would volunteer
to devote themselves to death, in effecting the assassination of the
general. Two warriors were heard to cry out in the affirmative, and
being called, they approached and stood before the Prophet. Upon
inquiry, they were both found to be members of the tribe of
Pottowatamies; and upon their again renewing the wish, that the duty
required should be assigned to them, they received the blessing of the
Prophet, and leaving him, were soon lost in the crowd. The council was
then adjourned, and the warriors ordered to disperse, in order to
prepare themselves for the coming day. But it was soon manifest that
they were dissatisfied; for as they hurried away, they would gather in
groups, and discuss over, and over again, the plan which had been
adopted. Their wishes were for a night attack; the predictions of the
Prophet had induced them to regard the American camp as already their
own, and they were anxious at once to be unloosed, that they might
revel in the carnage of the whites.
While the council lasted, Oloompa's bosom was agitated by more
contending emotions than I can describe, and when it was over he left
the crowd, resolving to take part in the struggle on the coming day,
and for the present to search the town, that he might learn the fate
of Netnokwa and the maidens. That they had preceded him, and were now
within the same walls with himself, he felt confident, and he at once
began the task. He made no inquiries, fearing that were he to do so,
he might excite suspicion; but wandering from cabin to cabin in a
careless and indifferent manner, he examined each. The Indians,
excited, were moving to and fro with hurried steps in every direction,
and on this account the conduct of Oloompa, which at another time
might have appeared singular, was entirely unnoticed by them.
He had now continued his search nearly throughout the town, and the
disappointment consequent upon his not finding Netnokwa and her party,
as he had expected, was causing him to forget the more exciting
circumstances of his situation, when, as chance directed, he bent his
steps toward the part of the town at which she had entered, and was
proceeding to examine a single cabin which stood apart from the rest,
when he was hailed by the warrior whom Kenah had left on duty. Not
thinking for a moment, that Oloompa could have any definite object in
wandering idly about, as he seemed to be, he called to him, to come
and give a detail of the proceedings which had been adopted in
council. Oloompa approached, and expressing some surprise that a
warrior should have been absent from so important a meeting, learned
the welcome intelligence, that his absence was owing to his having
been ordered by the Prophet to stand guard over some women, who had
been brought prisoners to his camp. At these tidings Oloompa's
feelings fluttered with delight, for those he sought were in the cabin
before him: there was the pale face maiden, in serving whom he had
already encountered so many hardships, and there was Miskwa, whom he
now loved more dearly than his life. These things deeply moved him,
yet he was apparently calm, and began to narrate minutely to the
sentinel that which had happened in council. It was all new to him,
and he seemed well pleased and much excited at the struggle which was
to take place on the morrow. Oloompa then elicited from him a history
of his journey, together with a description of his captives, the
orders of the Prophet in relation to them, and his views of the
probable fate which awaited them. He learned that Kenah and his party
had reached the camp without being aware that they were pursued, and
had arrived by the route along which he had traced them. He also
ascertained, that the red maiden was free to leave the lodge if she
pleased, while her mother and the white maiden were to be strictly
confined. From this circumstance he concluded, that the two latter
were to be adjudged to death, and with this he recollected, that were
it known that a pale face girl was in the camp, excited as the
warriors now were, no exertions, however great, would be sufficient to
preserve her life. Circumstances showed that there was no time to be
lost, and he determined at once to act.
In the cabin now, all was quiet. A small fire was glimmering on the
hearth, just enough to show that around it were grouped Netnokwa and
the two maidens. They sate in deep silence, brooding over their
respective situations, and despair was stamped upon the brow of each;
the bosom of Gay would sometimes heave with convulsive throbs, and a
slight shudder, as if she was cold, would pass over her frame.
Oloompa, still continuing to converse with the sentinel, carelessly
withdrew his tomahawk from his belt, and filling the bowl of it with
tobacco, entered the cabin as though it were a mere matter of course,
apparently for the purpose of lighting his pipe. As he entered, there
was a slight stir among the females, and when they discovered that his
object seemed merely to get some fire, they moved that he might
approach. The light was not sufficient at first to show his features,
and advancing, he made a signal for silence; then taking Miskwa's hand
pressed it affectionately, and whispered in her ear the word,
Oloompa;—as though she had received an electric shock, was her whole
frame agitated, and then, like the sudden bursting out of the sun,
when the heavens have been obscured by a dark cloud, was the change in
Miskwa's countenance from despair to pleasure;—her whole face sparkled
with beauty, and she returned Oloompa's recognition, yet was silent.
He then proceeded to stir the fire, and while he did this, Miskwa
whispered to Gay, who instantly started up and gazing wildly about
her, was by Oloompa hushed into silence. With agony traced in every
lineament of her face, she gazed on him, and with difficulty
articulating, she uttered in a suppressed voice the words, “Where is
he?”—
“Without the camp, and waiting for you,” replied Oloompa, at the same
time pressing his finger to his lips, and pointing to where the
sentinel stood. Gay could restrain her feelings no longer, but uttered
a cry of delight; it arrested the attention of the guard, who,
believing that Oloompa was frightening the maiden, called to him to
come away, and let her alone; that her time would come soon enough.
Oloompa whispered to Miskwa to leave the lodge and walk about in the
camp. At the sound of his words, Netnokwa waked into life. He then lit
his pipe, and fearing lest he should excite suspicion, was soon
carelessly conversing again with the guard. The coming struggle was an
exciting subject, and in it all other thoughts were apparently merged.
The warrior now on duty would be relieved about midnight, and he was
anxiously awaiting the time when, released from guarding women, he
should begin to prepare to fight against men.
Nearly an hour had elapsed since Oloompa left the cabin, when Miskwa
presented herself at the door, saying, “the daughter of Netnokwa will
venture abroad in the camp; it is the Prophet's will that she should
do so when she pleases.”
“She can do so,” replied the guard; “but death follows her steps if
she goes without it.”
Miskwa made no answer, but leaving the cabin, went, apparently,
towards the most crowded part of the town.
“Dost not our brother fear?” said Oloompa, addressing the guard, “she
goes so far, his eyes cannot follow her.”
“Her mother is here;” was the answer. “Her love for her mother is a
strong cord; it will draw her back. But if she escapes, the wrath of
the Prophet would descend on our head. She must sure return;—will our
brother watch her?” Oloompa answered that he would, and relieving
himself from his rifle and hunting accoutrements, he deposited them at
the cabin door, thinking, that in so doing, he would strengthen the
confidence which seemed already to have sprung up between himself and
the sentinel, and it would also give him an excuse for returning to
the cabin in the event of his wishing it. He then hastened away to
keep a watch upon Miskwa. Getting without sight of the guard, he
approached her, a hurried recognition took place; then withdrawing
beyond the reach of observation, they recounted to each other all that
had happened since they parted, and dwelt upon their present painful
situation. There was little time for regret, and they began to discuss
what was best to be done. Miskwa told him that she had been permitted
by the Prophet to venture abroad, under the belief on his part, that
she was to be Tecumseh's bride; but denied, positively, that she had
any such intention. For herself, being unrestrained, she now had no
care, and all her alarm was for her mother and the captive maiden.
What fate awaited them she knew not, yet her fears caused her to
anticipate the worst. What was to be the result of the coming
struggle, or what influence it might exert upon the conduct of the
Prophet towards them, it was impossible to foretell. Oloompa hearing
these things, suggested to her the possibility there was of her
escaping with the pale face maiden. The hunters were without the town,
awaiting their coming, and ready to defend both at the hazard of their
lives. But with the discussion came proofs that it was impracticable.
For, even were the sentinel despatched who guarded the cabin, the town
was filled with warriors, passing in every direction; their flight
would surely be observed, and a sudden death pay the penalty of their
attempt. Could they succeed in getting without the walls, Netnokwa was
old and decrepid, and would most certainly be overtaken. Oloompa then
persuaded her to leave her mother, and endeavoured to convince her
that a worse fate awaited her than she apprehended.
“No,” said the maiden, “when Miskwa was helpless, her mother nursed
her. Miskwa will live or die with her mother.”
Oloompa was silent; and the maiden continued: “Miskwa loves the pale
face, and her heart bleeds to see her in the Prophet's camp. Miskwa
can leave her lodge whenever she pleases. She will make the pale face
maiden look like Miskwa, then send her out. Oloompa can take her and
carry her to the white man who waits for her. Their hearts will then
be glad, and Miskwa will love Oloompa. When Oloompa serves Miskwa's
friend, he serves Miskwa. Speak,—what says Oloompa?”
Oloompa was recalled to a sense of his promise, by the suggestion, and
a feeling of pleasure lighted up his countenance when he reflected
that it was practicable. “Oloompa will do it,” he answered; “he
promised to bring the maiden to the hunters. He will serve them, and
then he is free; but what becomes of Miskwa?”
In answer to this, Miskwa again reiterated her anxious desire that the
captive maiden should be as soon as possible restored to the hunters,
and that then, should it be practicable for herself and mother to
escape, that they would seize the first opportunity to do so. She then
added,—“Oloompa, now we part;—the pale face shall seem to be a red
maiden; follow her steps when she leaves the lodge. Deliver her safe
to her friends who seek her. Then let thy return to the camp be as
swift as the flight of the eagle. Miskwa will prove to Oloompa she
loves him.” Then, before he could reply, away she darted; and happy
with what he had just heard, he followed on only close enough to see
her re-enter the lodge, where were imprisoned her mother and
friend.—Then, approaching the sentinel, he observed, “the maiden plays
about like a deer in the moonlight; she came this way; has she
entered?”
“She is safe within,” was the answer, and Oloompa, leaving for the
purpose of again mingling with the crowd, promised that he would
return, and tell if any tidings had come from the camp of the whites,
or any change of plan had been agreed upon among the warriors.
It was now late in the night, and entering that part of the town in
which the Indians were mostly crowded together, he found them still
excited and dissatisfied:—all had their arms, and none seemed at all
disposed to rest. Here he remained for some time, mingling
promiscuously with the crowd, and learned that their present
excitement was owing to an attempt on their part to have another
council called, and the mode of attack which had been agreed upon in
the early part of the evening, changed. They wished to substitute in
its place a night attack. They were anxious for immediate battle;—they
were now more clamorous than they had been before, and some even
hinted, that as the whites were under the very walls of their town,
they could not escape them, and that it would be wise to disobey the
commands of the Prophet; because, in so doing, they could satiate at
once their thirst for vengeance. Oloompa, fearing that some immediate
steps would be taken, which would tend to operate against the escape
of the captive, and, having been absent nearly long enough to allow
her to assume her disguise, returned again to the cabin, and withdrew
the attention of the sentinel from its inmates, by describing to him
the feelings and wishes of the warriors he had left, and his belief
that they would force the Prophet to change the plan which had been
adopted, and lead them against the whites before the day dawned. While
thus conversing, he walked to and fro before the door, and saw one who
seemed an Indian maiden press the hand of Netnokwa, and then throw
herself on the bosom of Miskwa. Oloompa was agitated,—he felt that the
moment of trial was come, and he renewed his effort to interest the
sentinel. As he again passed before the door, he discovered Miskwa
pressing forward the captive, in order to make her leave the lodge. He
stopped, and standing just before the warrior, directed his attention
to the heavens, and asked him the hour of the night. A moment
passed,—there was the rustling of a garment heard,—a maiden left the
lodge, and looking carelessly about her, walked farther into the town.
“The old woman's daughter is fond of moonlight,” said the sentinel, as
she passed on; “she likes not her cage.”
The remark was not heard by the maiden, and Oloompa made no reply; for
at that moment, a warrior was seen passing along, and summoning the
red men again to council. No sooner was the glad call heard, than
there was hurrying past to the place of meeting. Oloompa kept his eyes
upon the maiden, as she now stood looking upon the town, and started
forward apparently as if he designed to follow the crowd. The warrior
on duty was relieved, his time having expired, and forgetting to
mention that a prisoner was absent, he hurried away to the council.
Oloompa, passing by where the captive stood, whispered to her to
follow him, and moved slowly on in the direction in which all seemed
hurrying. When he had gotten without sight of the cabin he left, and
found that most of the crowd had passed him, he stopped, and pointing
out a small path to the maiden, told her to follow it to the walls of
the town, where he would meet her. He then passed on to the council,
and, remaining only for an instant, proceeded by a circuitous route,
to the place designated. The captive maiden awaited him, and upon his
arrival, ran forward to express her gratitude. Oloompa motioned her to
be silent, and assisting her out of the camp, they proceeded to the
spot where he had left the hunters. Upon nearing it, a hoarse voice
cried out, “who comes there?” and the barrel of a rifle was seen to
gleam in the moonlight.
“Oloompa and the captive maiden,” was the answer.
Rolfe rushed forward, but drew back when he beheld the figure before
him.
The captive maiden cried, “Richard! it is Gay!—it is Gay, though she
seems not to be;” and in an instant more she was clasped to the bosom
of Rolfe.
A few moments passed:—the first wild burst of feeling consequent upon
their meeting had scarcely subsided, when Rolfe, calling her attention
to Earth, told her that he was the friend to whom she owed so much,
and bade her thank him. “A thousand, thousand thanks!” she cried,
extending her hand to Earth. “They are a poor offering for so much
service, yet they are all that Gay now has to give.”
Earth was much affected, and replied not to her, but turning to Rolfe,
said,—“Rolfe, I wish you had not told her any thing about thanking me;
you know that to make a friend happy, is as much as Earth ever
desires.”
“Hunters,” cried Oloompa, who, since he delivered up Gay, had been
quietly looking on, “listen;—the hour has now come,—we have travelled
a long path to its end,—we part for ever.”
“Noble, noble Oloompa!” cried Rolfe, cordially grasping his hand, “oh!
say not so; come, love us, and dwell with us, and let us be friends.
All that the white man has, shall be yours.”
Oloompa replied:—“See you yon fires which burn in the distance? There
are encamped the enemies of Oloompa's race. They come to drive the red
men from their town, and force them still farther into the depths of
the forest. Oloompa saw this, yet he brought the maiden to her lover.
He served the white man; he has redeemed his promise, and is now free.
Farewell!” and saying so, he turned to depart.
“Stay! stay! Oloompa!” cried Rolfe;—“oh! name some way in which I can
pay thee for all that thou hast done for me.”
“Oloompa wants nothing of the hunters,” was the answer.
“And what becomes of the red maiden?” inquired Rolfe.
“Oloompa knows not,” he replied. “Dark clouds hang over the land. He
cannot see through them. Oloompa has no time; the white maiden will
tell all.”
“Oh!” cried Gay, “should they escape, bring her,—Oloompa! do bring
her, with her mother, and dwell with me.—I owe them gratitude and
love, and even life.”
Oloompa made no reply, and Rolfe continued:—“Oloompa! do come. You
know where our wigwam is; my home will be that of the maiden, and we
shall ever be happy to see those who have loved and served us. The
time may come, when Oloompa will not think as he now does. Then,
should it please heaven to deliver from the Prophet's hands Netnokwa
and her daughter, oh! come with them to our lodge, and we will give
you a wigwam, supply all your wants, and love you as friends.”
Oloompa was still silent, and seeing that he would not reply, Gay
continued:—“Oloompa! will you leave us in anger, after having done so
much that we can never repay? Miskwa would not do so.”
“Maiden,” replied he, “could a pale face make Oloompa change, it would
be the one before me; and had Oloompa never known other whites than
those he now sees, he would never have hated their race as he does. As
a people, they have wronged him, and he has sworn in the bitterness of
his soul to be avenged. The white man knows Oloompa will keep his
promise. Oloompa's bosom is open; he does not wrap himself up when he
talks to the white man. Go, hunters, Oloompa hates the whites, but he
has given you his hand in friendship, and he would not harm you. Bear
the maiden away with the speed of an arrow, for, ere to-morrow's sun
goes down, death will be abroad in the land.”
“Oloompa,” said Rolfe, “once more let me entreat you to give up your
schemes of vengeance, and go and dwell with me.”
“Seek not vengeance!” answered Oloompa;—“when the fires of the whites
are kindled on the lands of the red men! Sooner bid a mother not seek
for the child she has lost. The hunter loves the white maiden; he has
travelled far to find her.—Does he now ask Oloompa to leave the red
maiden a prisoner in the Prophet's camp? Far sooner would Oloompa be
torn limb from limb, and thrown in fragments as food for dogs. Oloompa
has spoken,—we must now part,”—and saying so, he extended his hand to
Gay.
“Oloompa,” she cried, “tell Netnokwa I love her as a mother, and bear
to Miskwa my fond, my sisterly regard. Tell her to remember one who
can never forget her, and whose only wish is that she may have an
opportunity of serving her. And need I tell you how pleased I shall be
to hear of their safety? And oh! should happier days await them, bring
her with her mother to my home, and again will Gay bless and thank
you.”
“May the Great Spirit watch over and protect you as though you were
his only child,” replied Oloompa, turning from her.
He then bade the hunters farewell, again cautioned them to hurry away
with the maiden, and started forward to the Indian camp. As he left,
tears flowed from the eyes of Gay, the manly bosom of Rolfe heaved
with emotion, and even Earth, the cold, the bitter enemy of the wild
race from which Oloompa sprung, felt deeply, and frankly expressed the
high admiration he entertained for his noble foe. He also added his
most earnest wishes that the storm which impended might pass away, and
peace and happiness crown the evening hours of Oloompa.