COMPLETE.
NUMBER 1.
BEADLE'S
DIME NOVELS
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
ONE DIME
THE CHOICEST WORKS OF THE MOST POPULAR AUTHORS.
MALAESKA: the INDIAN WIFE
of
[Illustration]
THE WHITE HUNTER
BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
BEADLE AND COMPANY.
NEW YORK: 118 WILLIAM ST. LONDON: 44 PATERNOSTER ROW.
American News Company, 121 Nassau St.
READY TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 29th.
THE
MARKED BULLET;
OR,
THE SQUAW'S REPRIEVE.
A TALE OF THE EARLY OHIO SETTLEMENTS.
BY GEORGE HENRY PRENTISS.
MALAESKA
THE
INDIAN WIFE
OF THE
WHITE HUNTER.
BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
BEADLE AND COMPANY
NEW YORK: 118 WILLIAM STREET.
LONDON: 44 PATERNOSTER ROW.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by
IRWIN P. BEADLE & CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
(No. 1.)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
MALAESKA.
CHAPTER I.
The brake hung low on the rifted rock
With sweet and holy dread,
The wild-flowers trembled to the shock
Of the red man's stealthy tread;
And all around fell a fitful gleam
Through the light and quivering spray.
While the noise of a restless mountain-stream
Rush'd out on the stilly day.
The traveler who has stopped at Catskill, on his way up the Hudson,
will remember that a creek of no insignificant breadth washes one side
of the village, and that a heavy stone dwelling stands a little up from
the water on a point of verdant meadow-land, which forms a lip of the
stream, where it empties into the more majestic river. This farm-house
is the only object that breaks the green and luxuriant beauty of the
point, on that side, and its quiet and entire loneliness contrasts
pleasantly with the bustling and crowded little village on the opposite
body of land. There is much to attract attention to that dwelling.
Besides occupying one of the most lovely sites on the river, it is
remarkable for an appearance of old-fashioned comfort at variance with
the pillared houses and rustic cottages which meet the eye everywhere
on the banks of the Hudson. There are no flowers to fling fragrance
about it, and but little of embellishment is manifest in its grounds;
but it is surrounded by an abundance of thrifty fruit-trees; an
extensive orchard sheds its rich foliage to the sunshine on the bank,
and the sward is thick and heavy which slopes greenly from the front
door down to the river's brink.
The interior of the house retains an air of substantial comfort which
answers well to the promise conveyed without. The heavy furniture has
grown old with its occupants; rich it has been in its time, and now it
possesses the rare quality of fitness, and of being in harmony with
surrounding things. Every thing about that house is in perfect keeping
with the character and appearance of its owner. The occupant himself,
is a fine stately farmer of the old class--shrewd, penetrating, and
intelligent--one of those men who contrive to keep the heart green
when the frost of age is chilling the blood and whitening upon the
brow. He has already numbered more than the threescore years and ten
allotted to man. His habits and the fashion of his attire are those of
fifty years ago. He still clings to huge wood-fires, apples, and cider
in the winter season, and allows a bevy of fine cows to pasture on the
rich grass in front of his dwelling in the summer. All the hospitable
feeling of former years remains warm at his heart. He is indeed a fine
specimen of the staunch old republican farmer of the last century,
occupying the house which his father erected, and enjoying a fresh old
age beneath the roof tree which shadowed his infancy.
During a sojourn in this vicinity last season, it was one of our
greatest pleasures to spend an evening with the old gentleman,
listening to legends of the Indians, reminiscences of the Revolution,
and pithy remarks on the present age, with which he loved to entertain
us, while we occasionally interrupted him by comparing knitting-work
with the kind old lady, his wife, or by the praises of a sweet little
grandchild, who would cling about his knees and play with the silver
buckles on his shoes as he talked. That tall, stately old man, and the
sweet child made a beautiful picture of "age at play with infancy,"
when the fire-light flickered over them, to the ancient family
pictures, painted in Holland, hanging on the wall behind us, in the
old-fashioned oval frames, which, with the heavy Dutch Bible, which lay
on the stand, secured with hasps and brass hinges, ponderous as the
fastenings of a prison-door, were family relics precious to the old
gentleman from antiquity and association. Yes, the picture was pleasant
to look upon; but there was pleasure in listening to his legends and
stories. If the one here related is not exactly as he told it, he
will not fail to recognize the beautiful young Indian girl, whom he
described to us, in the character of Malaeska.
At the time of our story, the beautiful expanse of country which
stretches from the foot of the Catskill mountains to the Hudson was one
dense wilderness. The noble stream glided on in the solemn stillness
of nature, shadowed with trees that had battled with storms for
centuries, its surface as yet unbroken, save by the light prow of the
Indian's canoe. The lofty rampart of mountains frowned against the sky
as they do now, but rendered more gloomy by the thick growth of timber
which clothed them at the base; they loomed up from the dense sea of
foliage like the outposts of a darker world. Of all the cultivated
acres which at the present day sustain thousands with their products,
one little clearing alone smiled up from the heart of the wilderness.
A few hundred acres had been cleared by a hardy band of settlers, and
a cluster of log-houses was erected in the heart of the little valley
which now contains Catskill village. Although in the neighborhood of a
savage Indian tribe, the little band of pioneers remained unmolested
in their humble occupations, gradually clearing the land around their
settlement, and sustaining their families on the game which was found
in abundance in the mountains. They held little intercourse with the
Indians, but hitherto no act of hostility on either side had aroused
discontent between the settlers and the savages.
It was early in May, about a year after the first settlement of the
whites, when some six or eight of the stoutest men started for the
woods in search of game. A bear had been seen on the brink of the
clearing at break of day, and while the greater number struck off in
search of more humble game, three of the most resolute followed his
trail, which led to the mountains.
The foremost of the three hunters was an Englishman of about forty,
habited in a threadbare suit of blue broadcloth, with drab gaiters
buttoned up to his knees, and a hat sadly shorn of its original nap.
His hunting apparatus bespoke the peculiar care which all of his
country so abundantly bestow on their implements of sport. The other
two were much younger, and dressed in home-made cloth, over which
were loose frocks manufactured from the refuse flax or swingled tow.
Both were handsome, but different in the cast of their features. The
character of the first might be read in his gay air and springy step,
as he followed close to the Englishman, dashing away the brushwood with
the muzzle of his gun, and detecting with a quick eye the broken twigs
or disturbed leaves which betrayed the course of the hunted bear. There
was also something characteristic in the wearing of his dress, in the
fox-skin cap thrown carelessly on one side of his superb head, exposing
a mass of short brown curls around the left ear and temple, and in the
bosom of his coarse frock thrown open so as to give free motion to a
neck Apollo might have coveted. He was a hunter, who had occasionally
visited the settlement of late, but spent whole weeks in the woods,
professedly in collecting furs by his own efforts, or by purchase from
the tribe of Indians encamped at the foot of the mountains.
The last was more sedate in his looks, and less buoyant in his air.
There was an intellectual expression in his high, thoughtful brow,
embrowned though it was by exposure. A depth of thought in his serious
eye and a graceful dignity in his carriage, bespoke him as one of those
who hide deep feeling under an appearance of coldness and apathy. He
had been a schoolmaster in the Bay State, from whence he had been drawn
by the bright eyes and merry laugh of one Martha Fellows, a maiden
of seventeen, whose father had moved to the settlement at Catskill
the preceding summer, and to whom, report said, he was to be married
whenever a minister, authorized to perform the ceremony, should find
his way to the settlement.
The three hunters bent their way in a southwestern direction from
the settlement, till the forest suddenly opened into a beautiful and
secluded piece of meadow-land, known to this day by its Dutch title of
"the Straka," which means, our aged friends informed us, a strip of
land. The Straka lay before them of an oblong form, some eight or ten
acres in expanse, with all its luxuriance of trees, grass and flowers,
bathed in the dew and sunshine of a summer's morning. It presented
a lovely contrast to the dense wilderness from which the hunters
emerged, and they halted for a moment beneath the boughs of a tall
hickory to enjoy its delicious freshness. The surface of the inclosure
was not exactly level, but down the whole length it curved gently up
from the middle, on either side, to the magnificent trees that hedged
it in with a beautiful and leafy rampart. The margin was irregular;
here and there a clump of trees shot down into the inclosure, and the
clearing occasionally ran up into the forest in tiny glades and little
grassy nooks, in which the sunlight slumbered like smiles on the face
of a dreaming infant. On every side the trunks of huge trees shot up
along the margin beneath their magnificent canopy of leaves, like the
ivied columns of a ruin, or fell back in the misty perspective of the
forest, scarcely discernible in its gloom of shadow. The heavy piles of
foliage, which fell amid the boughs like a wealth of drapery flung in
masses to the summer wind, was thrifty and ripe with the warm breath
of August. No spirit of decay had as yet shed a gorgeous breath over
its deep, rich green, but all was wet with dew, and kindled up by the
sunlight to a thousand varying tints of the same color. A bright spring
gushed from a swell of ground in the upper part of the inclosure, and
the whole surface of the beautiful spot was covered with a vigorous
growth of tall meadow-grass, which rose thicker and brighter and of a
more delicate green down the middle, where the spring curved onward
in a graceful rivulet, musical as the laugh of a child. As if called
to life by the chime of a little brook, a host of white wild flowers
unfolded their starry blossoms along the margin, and clumps of swamp
lilies shed an azure hue along the grass.
Until that day, our hunters had ever found "the Straka" silent and
untenanted, save by singing-birds, and wild deer which came down from
the mountains to feed on its rich verdure; but now a dozen wreaths of
smoke curled up from the trees at the northern extremity, and a camp of
newly-erected wigwams might be seen through a vista in the wood. One
or two were built even on the edge of the clearing; the grass was much
trampled around them, and three or four half-naked Indian children lay
rolling upon it, laughing, shouting, and flinging up their limbs in the
pleasant morning air. One young Indian woman was also frolicking among
them, tossing an infant in her arms, caroling and playing with it. Her
laugh was musical as a bird song, and as she darted to and fro, now
into the forest and then out into the sunshine, her long hair glowed
like the wing of a raven, and her motion was graceful as an untamed
gazelle. They could see that the child, too, was very beautiful, even
from the distance at which they stood, and occasionally, as the wind
swept toward them, his shout came ringing upon it like the gush of
waters leaping from their fount.
"This is a little _too_ bad," muttered the Englishman, fingering his
gun-lock. "Can they find no spot to burrow in but 'the Straka?' St.
George! but I have a mind to shoot the squaw and wring the neck of
every red imp among them."
"Do it!" exclaimed Danforth, turning furiously upon him; "touch but a
hair of her head, and by the Lord that made me, I will bespatter that
tree with your brains!"
The Englishman dropped the stock of his musket hard to the ground,
and a spot of fiery red flashed into his cheek at this savage burst
of anger so uncalled for and so insolent. He gazed a moment on the
frowning face of the young hunter, and then lifting his gun, turned
carelessly away.
"Tut, man, have done with this," he said; "I did but jest. Come, we
have lost the trail, and shall miss the game, too, it we tarry longer;
come."
The Englishman shouldered his musket, as he spoke, and turned into the
woods. Jones followed, but Danforth lingered behind.
"I must see what this means," he muttered, glancing after his
companions, and then at the group of young Indians; "what can have
brought them so near the settlement?"
He gave another quick glance toward the hunters, and then hurried
across "the Straka" toward the wigwams. Jones and the Englishman had
reached the little lake or pond, which was about a mile south of
"the Straka," when they were again joined by Danforth. His brow was
unclouded, and he seemed anxious to do away the effect of his late
violence by more than ordinary cheerfulness. Harmony was restored, and
they again struck into the trail of the bear, and pursued toward the
mountains.
Noon found our hunters deep in the ravines which cut into the ridge
of the Catskill on which the Mountain House now stands. Occupied by
the wild scenery which surrounded him, Jones became separated from his
companions, and long before he was aware of it, they had proceeded
far beyond the reach of his voice. When he became sensible of his
situation, he found himself in a deep ravine sunk into the very
heart of the mountains. A small stream crept along the rocky bottom,
untouched by a single sun's ray, though it was now high noon. Every
thing about him was wild and fearfully sublime, but the shadows were
refreshing and cool, and the stream, rippling along its rocky bed,
sent up a pleasant murmur as he passed. Gradually a soft, flowing
sound, like the rush of a current of air through a labyrinth of leaves
and blossoms came gently to his ear. As he proceeded, it became more
musical and liquid swelled upon the ear gradually and with a richer
burden of sound, till he knew that it was the rush and leap of waters
at no great distance. The ravine had sunk deeper and deeper, and
fragments of rock lay thickly in the bed of the stream. Arthur Jones
paused, and looked about him bewildered, and yet with a lofty, poetical
feeling at his heart, aroused by a sense of the glorious handiwork
of the Almighty encompassing him. He stood within the heart of the
mountain, and it seemed to heave and tremble beneath his feet with
some unknown influence as he gazed. Precipices, and rocks piled on
rocks were heaped to the sky on either side. Large forest-trees stood
rooted in the wide clefts, and waved their heavy boughs abroad like
torn banners streaming upon the air. A strip of the blue heavens arched
gently over the whole, and that was beautiful. It smiled softly, and
like a promise of love over that sunless ravine. Another step, and
the waterfall was before him. It was sublime, but beautiful--oh, very
beautiful--that little body of water, curling and foaming downward
like a wreath of snow sifted from the clouds, breaking in a shower of
spray over the shelf of rocks which stayed its progress, then leaping
a second foaming mass, down, down, like a deluge of flowing light,
another hundred feet to the shadowy depths of the ravine. A shower of
sunlight played amid the foliage far overhead, and upon the top of
the curving precipice where the waters made their first leap. As the
hunter became more calm, he remarked how harmoniously the beautiful
and sublime were blended in the scene. The precipices were rugged
and frowning, but soft, rich mosses and patches of delicate white
wild-flowers clung about them. So profusely were those gentle flowers
lavished upon the rocks, that it seemed as if the very spray drops were
breaking into blossoms as they fell. The hunter's heart swelled with
pleasure as he drank in the extreme beauty of the scene. He rested
his gun against a fragment of rock, and sat down with his eyes fixed
on the waterfall. As he gazed, it seemed as if the precipices were
moving upward--upward to the very sky. He was pondering on this strange
optical illusion, which has puzzled many a dizzy brain since, when the
click of a gunlock struck sharply on his ear. He sprang to his feet.
A bullet whistled by his head, cutting through the dark locks which
curled in heavy masses above his temples, and as a sense of giddiness
cleared from his brain, he saw a half-naked savage crouching upon the
ledge of rocks which ran along the foot of the fall. The spray fell
upon his bronzed shoulders and sprinkled the stock of his musket as he
lifted it to discharge the other barrel. With the quickness of thought,
Jones drew his musket to his eye and fired. The savage sent forth a
fierce, wild yell of agony, and springing up with the bound of a wild
animal, fell headlong from the shelf. Trembling with excitement, yet
firm and courageous, the hunter reloaded his gun, and stood ready to
sell his life as dearly as possible, for he believed that the ravine
was full of concealed savages, who would fall upon him like a pack of
wolves. But everything remained quiet, and when he found that he was
alone, a terrible consciousness of bloodshed came upon him. His knees
trembled, his cheek burned, and, with an impulse of fierce excitement,
he leaped over the intervening rocks and stood by the slain savage.
He was lying with his face to the earth, quite dead; Jones drew forth
his knife, and lifting the long, black hair, cut it away from the
crown. With the trophy in his hand, he sprang across the ravine. The
fearless spirit of a madness seemed upon him, for he rushed up the
steep ascent, and plunged into the forest, apparently careless what
direction he took. The sound of a musket stopped his aimless career. He
listened, and bent his steps more calmly toward the eminence on which
the Mountain House now stands. Here he found the Englishman with the
carcass of a huge bear stretched at his feet, gazing on the glorious
expanse of country, spread out like a map, hundreds of fathoms beneath
him. His face was flushed, and the perspiration rolled freely from his
forehead. Danforth stood beside him, also bearing traces of recent
conflict.
"So you have come to claim a share of the meat," said the old hunter,
as Jones approached. "It is brave to leave your skulking place in the
bushes, when the danger is over. Bless me, lad! what have you there?"
he exclaimed, starting up and pointing to the scalp.
Jones related his encounter with the savage. The Englishman shook his
head forebodingly.
"We shall have hot work for this job before the week is over," he said.
"It was a foolish shot; but keep a good heart, my lad, for hang me,
if I should not have done the same thing if the red devil had sent a
bullet so near my head. Come, we will go and bury the fellow the best
way we can."
Jones led the way to the fall, but they found only a few scattered
locks of black hair, and a pool of blood half washed from the rock by
the spray. The body of the savage and his rifle had disappeared--how,
it was in vain to conjecture.
One of the largest log-houses in the settlement had been appropriated
as a kind of tavern, or place of meeting for the settlers when they
returned from their hunting excursions. Here a store of spirits was
kept, under the care of John Fellows and pretty Martha Fellows, his
daughter, the maiden before mentioned. As the sun went down, the men
who had gone to the woods in the morning began to collect with their
game. Two stags, racoons and meaner game in abundance, were lying
before the door, when the three hunters came in with the slain bear.
They were greeted with a boisterous shout, and the hunters crowded
eagerly forward to examine the prize; but when Jones cast the Indian's
scalp on the pile, they looked in each other's faces with ominous
silence, while the young hunter stood pale and collected before them.
It was the first time that Indian life had been taken by any of their
number, and they felt that in the shedding of red blood, the barriers
of their protection were broken down.
"It is a bad business," said one of the elder settlers, waving his head
and breaking the general silence. "There'll be no clear hunting in the
woods after this; but how did it all come about, Jones? Let us know how
you came by that scalp--did the varmint fire at you, or how was it?"
The hunters gathered around Jones, who was about to account for his
possession of the scalp, when the door of the house was opened, and he
happened to look into the little room thus exposed. It was scantily
furnished with a few benches and stools; a bed was in one corner,
and Martha Fellows, his promised wife, stood by a rough, deal-table,
on which were two or three drinking-cups, a couple of half-empty
bottles, with a pitcher of water, backed by a broken mug, filled to the
fractured top with maple molasses. Nothing of the kind could have been
more beautiful than pretty Martha as she bent forward, listening with
rapt attention to the animated whisper of William Danforth, who stood
by her, divested of his coarse frock, his cap lying on the table before
him, and his athletic figure displayed to the best advantage by the
roundabout buttoned closely over his bosom. A red silk handkerchief,
tied like a scarf round his waist, gave a picturesque gracefulness to
his costume, altogether in harmony with his fine proportions, and with
the bold cast of his head, which certainly was a model of muscular
beauty.
A flash of anger shot athwart Arthur Jones' forehead, and a strange
jealous feeling came to his heart. He began a confused account of his
adventure, but the Englishman interrupted him, and took it upon himself
to gratify the clamorous curiosity of the hunters, leaving Jones at
liberty to scrutinize each look and motion of his lady-love. He watched
with a jealous feeling the blush as it deepened and glowed on her
embrowned cheek; he saw the sparkling pleasure of her hazel eyes, and
the pretty dimples gathering about her red lips, like spots of sunlight
flickering through the leaves of a red rose, and his heart sickened
with distrust. But when the handsome hunter laid his hands on hers and
bent his head, till the short curls on his temples almost mingled with
her glossy ringlets, the lover could bear the sight no more. Breaking
from the little band of hunters, he stalked majestically into the
house, and approaching the object of his uneasiness, exclaimed, "Martha
Fellows," in a voice which caused the pretty culprit to snatch her hand
from under the hunter's, and to overturn two empty tin cups in her
fright.
"Sir," said Martha, recovering herself, and casting a mischievous
glance at Danforth, which was reciprocated with interest.
Mr. Arthur Jones felt that he was making himself ridiculous, and
suppressing his wrath, he finished his magnificent commencement; "Will
you give me a drink of water?" At which Martha pointed with her little
embrowned hand to the pitcher, saying:
"There it is;" then, turning her back to her lover, she cast another
arch glance at Danforth, and taking his cap from the table, began to
blow upon the yellow fur, and put it to her cheek, as if it had been
a pet kitten she was caressing, and all for the laudable purpose of
tormenting the man who loved her, and whom she loved better than any
thing in existence. Jones turned on her a bitter contemptuous look,
and raising the pitcher to his lips, left the room. In a few minutes
the other hunters entered, and Jason Fellows, father to Martha,
announced it as decided by the hunters, who had been holding a kind
of council without, that Arthur Jones and William Danforth, as the two
youngest members of the community, should be dispatched to the nearest
settlement to request aid to protect them from the Indians, whose
immediate attack they had good reason to fear.
Martha, on hearing the names of the emissaries mentioned, dropped the
cup she had been filling.
"Oh, not him--not them, I mean--they will be overtaken and tomahawked
by the way!" she exclaimed, turning to her father with a look of
affright.
"Let Mr. Danforth remain," said Jones, advancing to the table; "I will
undertake the mission alone."
Tears came into Martha's eyes, and she turned them reproachfully to
her lover; but, full of his heroic resolution to be tomahawked and
comfortably scalped on his own responsibility, he turned majestically,
without deigning to meet the tearful glance which was well calculated
to mitigate his jealous wrath.
Danforth, on being applied to, requested permission to defer his answer
till the morning, and the hunters left the house to divide the game,
which had been forgotten in the general excitement.
Danforth, who had lingered to the last, took up his cap, and whispering
good-night to Martha, left the house. The poor girl scarcely heeded his
departure. Her eyes filled with tears, and seating herself on a settee
which ran along one end of the room, she folded her arms on a board
which served as a back, and burying her face upon them, wept violently.
As she remained in this position, she heard a familiar step on the
floor. Her heart beat quick, fluttered a moment, and then settled
to its regular pulsations again, for her lover had seated himself
beside her. Martha wiped the tears from her eyes and remained quiet,
for she knew that he had returned, and with that knowledge, the
spirit of coquetry had revived; and when Jones, softened by her
apparent sorrow--for he had seen her parting with Danforth--put his
hand softly under her forehead and raised her face, the creature was
laughing--laughing at his folly, as he thought.
"Martha, you are doing wrong--wrong to yourself and to me," said the
disappointed lover, rising indignantly and taking his hat, with which
he advanced to the door.
"Don't go," said Martha, turning her head till one cheek only rested
on her arm, and casting a glance, half-repentant, half-comic, on her
retreating lover; "don't go off so; if you do, you'll be very sorry for
it."
Jones hesitated--she became very serious--the tears sprang to her eyes,
and she looked exceedingly penitent. He returned to her side. Had he
appealed to her feelings then--had he spoken of the pain she had given
him in her encouragement of another, she would have acknowledged the
fault with all proper humility; but he did no such thing--he was a
common-sense man, and he resolved to end his first love-quarrel in a
common-sense manner, as if common-sense ever had any thing to do with
lovers' quarrels. "I will reason with her," he thought. "He will say
I have made him very wretched, and I will tell him I am very sorry,"
_she_ thought.
"Martha," he said, very deliberately, "why do I find you on terms of
such familiarity with this Manhattan fellow?"
Martha was disappointed. He spoke quite too calmly, and there was a
sarcastic emphasis in the word "fellow," that roused her pride. The
lips, which had just begun to quiver with repentance, worked themselves
into a pouting fullness, till they resembled the rose-bud just as it
bursts into leaves. Her rounded shoulder was turned pettishly toward
her lover, with the air of a spoiled child, and she replied that "he
was always finding fault."
Jones took her hand, and was proceeding in his sensible manner to
convince her that she was wrong, and acted wildly, foolishly, and with
a careless disregard to her own happiness.
As might be expected, the beautiful rustic snatched her hand away,
turned her shoulder more decidedly on her lover, and bursting into
tears, declared that she would thank him if he would stop scolding, and
that she did not care if she never set eyes on him again.
He would have remonstrated; "Do listen to common sense," he said,
extending his hand to take hers.
"I hate common-sense!" she exclaimed, dashing away his hand; "I won't
hear any more of your lecturing,--leave the house, and never speak to
me again as long as you live."
Mr. Arthur Jones took up his hat, placed it deliberately on his head,
and walked out of the house. With a heavy heart Martha watched his
slender form as it disappeared in the darkness, and then stole away to
her bed in the garret.
"He will call in the morning before he starts; he won't have the heart
to go away without saying one word,--I am sure he won't," she repeated
to herself over and over again, as she lay sobbing and weeping penitent
tears on her pillow that night.
When William left the log tavern, he struck into the woods, and took
his course toward the Pond. There was a moon, but the sky was clouded,
and the little light which struggled to the earth, was too faint to
penetrate the thick foliage of the wilderness. Danforth must have
been familiar with the track, for he found his way without difficulty
through the wilderness, and never stopped till he came out on the
northern brink of the Pond. He looked anxiously over the face of the
little lake. The fitful moon had broken from a cloud, and was touching
the tiny waves with beauty, while the broken, rocky shore encompassed
it with shadow, like a frame-work of ebony. No speck was on its bosom;
no sound was abroad, but the evening breeze as it rippled on the
waters, and made a sweet whispering melody in the tree-tops.
Suddenly a light, as from a pine torch, was seen on a point of land
jutting out from the opposite shore. Another and another flashed out,
each bearing to a particular direction, and then a myriad of flames
rose high and bright, illuminating the whole point, and shooting its
fiery reflection, like a meteor, almost across the bosom of the waters.
"Yes, they are preparing for work," muttered Danforth, as he saw a
crowd of painted warriors arrange themselves around the camp-fire, each
with his firelock in his hand. There was a general movement. Dark faces
flitted in quick succession between him and the blaze as the warriors
performed the heavy march, or war-dance, which usually preceded the
going out of a hostile party.
Danforth left the shore, and striking out in an oblique direction,
arrived, after half an hour of quick walking, at the Indian encampment.
He threaded his way through the cluster of bark wigwams, till he came
to one standing on the verge of the inclosure. It was of logs, and
erected with a regard to comfort which the others wanted. The young
hunter drew aside the mat which hung over the entrance, and looked
in. A young Indian girl was sitting on a pile of furs at the opposite
extremity. She wore no paint--her cheek was round and smooth, and
large gazelle-like eyes gave a soft brilliancy to her countenance,
beautiful beyond expression. Her dress was a robe of dark chintz, open
at the throat, and confined at the waist by a narrow belt of wampum,
which, with the bead bracelets on her naked arms, and the embroidered
moccasins laced over her feet, was the only Indian ornament about her.
Even her hair, which all of her tribe wore laden with ornaments, and
hanging down the back, was braided and wreathed in raven bands over
her smooth forehead. An infant, almost naked, was lying in her lap,
throwing its unfettered limbs about, and lifting his little hands to
his mother's mouth, as she rocked back and forth on her seat of skins,
chanting, in a sweet, mellow voice, the burden of an Indian lullaby. As
the form of the hunter darkened the entrance, the Indian girl started
up with a look of affectionate joy, and lying her child on the pile of
skins, advanced to meet him.
"Why did the white man leave his woman so many nights?" she said, in
her broken English, hanging fondly about him; "the boy and his mother
have listened long for the sound of his moccasins."
Danforth passed his arm around the waist of his Indian wife, and
drawing her to him bent his cheek to hers, as if that slight caress was
sufficient answer to her gentle greeting, and so it was; her untutored
heart, rich in its natural affections, had no aim, no object, but what
centered in the love she bore her white husband. The feelings which
in civilized life are scattered over a thousand objects, were, in her
bosom, centered in one single being; he supplied the place of all the
high aspirations--of all the passions and sentiments which are fostered
into strength by society, and as her husband bowed his head to hers,
the blood darkened her cheek, and her large liquid eyes were flooded
with delight.
"And what has Malaeska been doing since the boy's father went to the
wood?" inquired Danforth, as she drew him to the couch where the child
was lying half buried in the rich fur.
"Malaeska has been alone in the wigwam, watching the shadow of the big
pine. When her heart grew sick, she looked in the boy's eyes and was
glad," replied the Indian mother, laying the infant in his father's
arms.
Danforth kissed the child, whose eyes certainly bore a striking
resemblance to his own; and parting the straight, black hair from a
forehead which scarcely bore a tinge of its mother's blood, muttered,
"It's a pity the little fellow is not quite white."
The Indian mother took the child, and with a look of proud anguish,
laid her finger on its cheek, which was rosy with English blood.
"Malaeska's father is a great chief--the boy will be a chief in her
father's tribe; but Malaeska never thinks of that when she sees the
white man's blood come into the boy's face." She turned mournfully to
her seat again.
"He will make a brave chief," said Danforth, anxious to soften the
effects of his inadvertent speech; "but tell me, Malaeska, why have the
warriors kindled the council fire? I saw it blaze by the pond as I came
by."
Malaeska could only inform that the body of a dead Indian had been
brought to the encampment about dusk, and that it was supposed he had
been shot by some of the whites from the settlement. She said that the
chief had immediately called a council to deliberate on the best means
of revenging their brother's death.
Danforth had feared this movement in the savages, and it was to
mitigate their wrath that he sought the encampment at so late an hour.
He had married the daughter of their chief, and, consequently, was
a man of considerable importance in the tribe. But he felt that his
utmost exertion might fail to draw them from their meditated vengeance,
now that one of their number had been slain by the whites. Feeling the
necessity of his immediate presence at the council, he left the wigwam
and proceeded at a brisk walk to the brink of the Pond. He came out of
the thick forest which fringed it a little above the point on which the
Indians were collected. Their dance was over, and from the few guttural
tones which reached him, Danforth knew that they were planning the
death of some particular individuals, which was probably to precede
their attack on the settlement. The council fire still streamed
high in the air, reddening the waters and lighting up the trees and
foreground with a beautiful effect, while the rocky point seemed of
emerald pebbles, so brilliant was the reflection cast over it, and so
distinctly did it display the painted forms of the savages as they sat
in a circle round the blaze, each with his weapon lying idly by his
side. The light lay full on the glittering wampum and feathery crest
of one who was addressing them with more energy than is common to the
Indian warrior.
Danforth was too far off to collect a distinct hearing of the
discourse, but with a feeling of perfect security, he left the deep
shadow in which he stood, and approached the council fire. As the light
fell upon him, the Indians leaped to their feet, and a savage yell rent
the air, as if a company of fiends had been disturbed in their orgies.
Again and again was the fierce cry reiterated, till the woods resounded
with the wild echo rudely summoned from the caves. As the young hunter
stood lost in astonishment at the strange commotion, he was seized by
the savages, and dragged before their chief, while the group around
furiously demanded vengeance, quick and terrible, for the death of
their slain brother. The truth flashed across the hunter's mind. It was
death they had been planning. It was he they supposed to be the slayer
of the Indian. He remonstrated and declared himself guiltless of the
red man's death. It was in vain. He had been seen on the mountain by
one of the tribe, not five minutes before the dead body of the Indian
was found. Almost in despair the hunter turned to the chief.
"Am I not your son--the father of a young chief--one of your own
tribe?" he said, with appealing energy.
The saturnine face of the chief never changed, as he answered in his
own language: "The red man has taken a rattlesnake to warm in his
wigwam--the warrior shall crush his head!" and with a fierce grin, he
pointed to the pile of resinous wood which the savages were heaping on
the council fire.
Danforth looked around on the group preparing for his destruction.
Every dusky face was lighted up with a demoniac thirst for blood, the
hot flames quivering into the air, their gorgeous tints amalgamating
and shooting upward like a spire of living rainbows, while a thousand
fiery tongues, hissing and darting onward like vipers eager for their
prey, licked the fresh pine-knots heaped for his death-pyre. It was a
fearful sight, and the heart of the brave hunter quailed within him as
he looked. With another wild whoop, the Indians seized their victim,
and were about to strip him for the sacrifice. In their blind fury,
they tore him from the grasp of those who held him, and were too intent
on divesting him of his clothes to remark that his limbs were free. But
he was not so forgetful. Collecting his strength for a last effort, he
struck the nearest savage a blow in the chest, which sent him reeling
among his followers, then taking advantage of the confusion, he tore
off his cap, and springing forward with the bound of an uncaged tiger,
plunged into the lake. A shout rent the air, and a score of dark heads
broke the water in pursuit.
Fortunately a cloud was over the moon and the fugitive remained under
the water till he reached the shadow thrown by the thickly-wooded bank,
when, rising for a moment, he supported himself and hurled his cap out
toward the center of the pond. The ruse succeeded, for the moon came
out just at the instant, and with renewed shouts the savages turned in
pursuit of the empty cap. Before they learned their mistake, Danforth
had made considerable headway under the friendly bank, and took the
woods just as the shoal of Indians' heads entered the shadow in eager
chase.
The fugitive stood for a moment on the brink of the forest, irresolute,
for he knew not which course to take.
"I have it; they will never think of looking for me there," he
exclaimed, dashing through the undergrowth, and taking the direction
toward "the Straka." The whoop of the pursuers smote his ear as they
made the land. On, on he bounded with the swiftness of a hunted stag,
through swamp and brushwood, and over rocks. He darted till he came in
sight of his own wigwam. The sound of pursuit had died away, and he
began to hope that the savages had taken the track which led to the
settlement.
Breathless with exertions he entered the hut. The boy was asleep, but
his mother was listening for the return of her husband.
"Malaeska," he said, catching her to his panting heart: "Malaeska, we
must part; your tribe seek my life; warriors are on my track now--now!
Do you hear their shouts?" he added.
A wild whoop came up from the woods below, and forcing back the arms
she had flung about him, he seized a war-club and stood ready for the
attack.
Malaeska sprang to the door, and looked out with the air of a
frightened doe. Darting back to the pile of furs, she laid the sleeping
child on the bare earth, and motioning her husband to lie down, heaped
the skins over his prostrate form; then taking the child in her arms,
she stretched herself on the pile, and drawing a bear-skin over her,
pretended to be asleep. She had scarcely composed herself, when three
savages entered the wigwam. One bore a blazing pine-knot, with which
he proceeded to search for the fugitive. While the others were busy
among the scanty furniture, he approached the trembling wife, and after
feeling about among the furs without effect, lifted the bear-skins
which covered her; but her sweet face in apparent slumber, and the
beautiful infant lying across her bosom, were all that rewarded his
search. As if her beauty had power to tame the savage, he carefully
replaced the covering over her person, and speaking to his companions,
left the hut without attempting to disturb her further.
Malaeska remained in her feigned slumber till she heard the Indians
take to the woods again. Then she arose and lifted the skins from off
her husband, who was nearly suffocated under them. When he had regained
his feet, she placed the war-club in his hand, and taking up the babe,
led the way to the entrance of the hut. Danforth saw by the act, that
she intended to desert her tribe and accompany him in his flight. He
had never thought of introducing her as his wife among the whites,
and now that circumstances made it necessary for him to part with her
forever, or to take her among his people for a shelter, a pang, such
as he had never felt, came to his heart. His affections struggled
powerfully with his pride. The picture of his disgrace--of the scorn
with which his parents and sisters would receive the Indian wife and
half Indian child, presented itself before him, and he had not the
moral courage to risk the degradation which her companionship would
bring upon him. These conflicting thoughts flashed through his mind
in an instant, and when his wife stopped at the door, and, looking
anxiously in his face, beckoned him to follow, he said, sharply, for
his conscience was ill at ease:
"Malaeska, I go alone; you and the boy must remain with your people."
His words had a withering effect on the poor Indian. Her form drooped,
and she raised her eyes with a look so mingled with humiliation and
reproach, that the hunter's heart thrilled painfully in his bosom.
Slowly, and as if her soul and strength were paralyzed, she crept to
her husband's feet, and sinking to her knees, held up the babe.
"Malaeska's breast will die, and the boy will have no one to feed him,"
she said.
That beautiful child--that young mother kneeling in her
humiliation--those large dark eyes, dim with the intensity of her
solicitude, and that voice so full of tender entreaty--the husband's
heart could not withstand them. His bosom heaved, tears gathered in his
eyes, and raising the Indian and her child to his bosom, he kissed them
both again and again.
"Malaeska," he said, folding her close to his heart, "Malaeska, I must
go now; but when seven suns have passed, I will come again; or, if the
tribe still seek my life, take the child and come to the settlement. I
shall be there."
The Indian woman bowed her head in humble submission.
"The white man is good. Malaeska will come," she said.
One more embrace, and the poor Indian wife was alone with her child.
Poor Martha Fellows arose early, and waited with nervous impatience for
the appearance of her lover; but the morning passed, the hour of noon
drew near, and he came not. The heart of the maiden grew heavy, and
when her father came in to dine, her eyes were red with weeping, and a
cloud of mingled sorrow and petulance darkened her handsome face. She
longed to question her father about Jones, but he had twice replenished
his brown earthern bowl with pudding and milk, before she could gather
courage to speak.
"Have you seen Arthur Jones this morning?" she at length questioned in
a low, timid voice.
The answer she received, was quite sufficient punishment for
all her coquettish folly of the previous night. Jones had left
the settlement--left it in anger with her, without a word of
explanation--without even saying farewell. It really was hard. The
little coquette had the heart-ache terribly, till he frightened it away
by telling her of the adventure which Danforth had met with among the
Indians, and of his departure with Arthur Jones in search of aid from
the nearest settlement. The old man gloomily added, that the savages
would doubtless burn the houses over their heads, and massacre every
living being within them, long before the two brave fellows would
return with men. Such indeed, were the terrible fears of almost every
one in the little neighborhood. Their apprehensions however, were
premature. Part of the Indian tribe had gone out on a hunting-party
among the hills, and were ignorant of the fatal shot with which Jones
had aroused the animosity of their brethren; while those who remained,
were dispersed in a fruitless pursuit after Danforth.
On the afternoon of the fifth day after the departure of their
emissaries, the whites began to see unequivocal symptoms of an attack;
and now their fears did not deceive them. The hunting-party had
returned to their encampment, and the detached parties were gathering
around "the Straka." About dark, an Indian appeared in the skirts
of the clearing, as if to spy out the position of the whites. Soon
after, a shot was fired at the Englishman, before mentioned as he
returned from his work, which passed through the crown of his hat.
That hostilities were commencing, was now beyond a doubt, and the
males of the settlement met in solemn conclave, to devise measures for
the defence of their wives and children. Their slender preparations
were soon made; all were gathered around one of the largest houses
in gloomy apprehension; the women and children within, and the man
standing in front, sternly resolving to die in the defence of their
loved ones. Suddenly there came up a sound from the wood, the trampling
of many feet, and the crackling of brushwood, as if some large body
of men were forcing a way through the tangled forest. The women bowed
their pallid faces, and gathering their children in their arms, waited
appalled for the attack. The men stood ready, each grasping his weapon,
their faces pallid, and their eyes kindled with stern courage, as they
heard the stifled groans of the loved objects cowering behind them
for protection. The sound became nearer and more distinct; dark forms
were seen dimly moving among the trees, and then a file of men came
out into the clearing. They were whites, led on by William Danforth
and Arthur Jones. The settlers uttered a boisterous shout, threw down
their arms, and ran in a body to meet the new-comers. The woman sprang
to their feet, some weeping, others laughing in hysterical joy, and all
embracing their children with frantic energy.
Never were there more welcome guests than the score of weary men
who refreshed themselves in the various houses of the settlement
that night. Sentinels were placed, and each settler returned to his
dwelling, accompanied by three or four guests; every heart beat high,
save one--Martha Fellows; she, poor girl, was sad among the general
rejoicing; her lover had not spoken to her though she lingered near
his side in the crowd, and had once almost touched him. Instead of
going directly to her father's house, as had been his custom, he
accepted the Englishman's invitation, and departed to sleep in his
dwelling.
Now this same Englishman had a niece residing with him, who was
considered by some to be more beautiful than Martha herself. The humble
maiden thought of Jones, and of the bright blue eyes of the English
girl, till her heart burned with the same jealous feelings she had so
ridiculed in her lover.
"I will see him! I will see them both!" she exclaimed, starting up from
the settle where she had remained, full of jealous anxiety, since the
dispersing of the crowd; and unheeded by her father, who was relating
his hunting exploits to the five strangers quartered on him, she dashed
away her tears, threw a shawl over her head, and taking a cup, as an
excuse for borrowing something, left the house.
The Englishman's dwelling stood on the outward verge of the clearing,
just within the shadow of the forest. Martha had almost reached the
entrance, when a dark form rushed from its covert in the brushwood,
and rudely seizing her, darted back into the wilderness. The terrified
girl uttered a fearful shriek; for the fierce eyes gazing down upon
her, were those of a savage. She could not repeat the cry, for the
wretch crushed her form to his naked chest with a grasp of iron, and
winding his hand in her hair, was about to dash her to the ground.
That moment a bullet whistled by her cheek. The Indian tightened his
hold with spasmodic violence, staggered back, and fell to the ground,
still girding her in his death-grasp; a moment he writhed in mortal
agony--warm blood gushed over his victim--the heart under her struggled
fiercely in its last throes; then the lifeless arms relaxed, and she
lay fainting on a corpse.