THE
INDIAN QUEEN.
BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS,
AUTHOR OF “AHMO’S PLOT,” “THE INDIAN PRINCESS,” ETC.
[Illustration: [Logo]]
LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.
THE INDIAN QUEEN.
CHAPTER I.
THE STROKE FOR A THRONE.
An Indian council-fire was lighted on the banks of Seneca lake; the
flames streamed up cold and white in the radiance of the setting sun,
and the heavy clouds of smoke, tinged like rainbows by its beams, rolled
away over the forest and floated in transparent mist over the Iroquois
village built on a picturesque curve of the shore. The glory of
midsummer lighted up the woods and lay warm and bright on the beautiful
lake. It was the season when all that was poetical and picturesque in
savage life wore its richest charms—when those rude natives forgot all
the hardships of the cold, stern winter, and yielded themselves to the
indolent enjoyment of the long, sunny days.
A great stillness lay over the Seneca village; the people had come out
of their wigwams and were gathered as near the council-fire as they
dared approach, their picturesque dresses lighting up the background
until they looked like a flock of strange tropical birds hovering around
the flames which they dared not approach. About the council-fire were
grouped the leading chiefs of the Six Nations’ tribes, who, for several
weeks past, had been participants in the unusual feasting and merriment
which had made the old forest joyous.
It was a band of noble, stately-looking men, sitting in a circle in the
red firelight, grave and dignified as Roman Senators gathered in their
forum, listening calmly to the various speeches, weighing carefully each
word and bringing all the vivid power of acute minds to bear upon the
matters in question.
In their midst stood a woman in the fairest bloom of youth, with her
crimson robes falling so royally about her, and her every gesture so
full of intellect and refinement that any stranger unacquainted with her
history and her designs, might have almost believed with the poor
savages, that she was a direct messenger from heaven to work their good.
This was Mahaska, the white queen, or Mahaska the Avenger, as she loved
to call herself. She was Katharine, daughter of Frontenac, the French
Governor-General of Canada, by an Indian woman who was daughter of the
Seneca chief Nemono. When, in accordance with the will of their dying
prophet, they brought the half-white girl Mahaska to be their principal
ruler, most of the chiefs among the nations were so deeply impressed by
the last revelations of their beloved prophet that they accepted her
presence and the state which she took upon herself with the blind
fidelity of humbler members of the several tribes; but there were a few
who, either from personal ambition or the contempt for women which made
a part of their savage education, opposed her will in every way that
they dared, and were trying their utmost to raise up a party which would
enable them to counteract her rapidly-increasing influence. Mahaska,
perfectly acquainted with their plans, and confident of her power to
thwart them, only waited for the best moment to crush their schemes
forever by some daring act or some craftily-woven plot, whichever should
best suit her purposes and be likely to produce the greatest effect on
the tribe.
Mahaska’s present ambition was a desire to wage war against the
Delawares—a powerful tribe residing south of the Iroquois territory—who
had been known to speak slightingly of her claims. This she deemed a
favorable opportunity to prove her warlike powers to the Indians, and
stronger still was her desire to avenge the slightest affront offered
her by that powerful tribe and to crush any daring spirit among her own
people that had the audacity to dispute her power.
As the council-fire flamed up and the chiefs grew more and more
attentive, she spoke in her bold, imaginative way, carrying the hearts
of the people along with her by her resistless eloquence, and noting the
effect she produced by the occasional murmurs which broke from the
multitude stationed in the background, in spite of the utter silence and
decorum it was their habit to preserve on such solemn occasions.
She ended her thrilling appeal and turned toward the chiefs, folding her
statuesque arms over her bosom and with the flame-tinted light quivering
like a glory around her.
“Mahaska has spoken,” she said; “let the chiefs weigh well her words.”
“Mahaska’s voice is like the wind sent by the Great Spirit,” returned
the oldest chief in the assembly; “it goes straight to the hearts of her
brethren.”
“Mahaska speaks only as the Great Spirit commands her,” she said, “from
the wisdom of the visions which he sends to her in the night time.”
The little knot of chiefs who were opposed to her whispered ominously
among themselves—the woman’s quick eye noticed this.
“Do the braves meet at the council-fire to hold secret consultations?”
she demanded, turning toward the old chief Upepah.
“They meet to speak their thoughts and wishes,” he answered; “why is
Mahaska troubled?”
She pointed toward the little group and said in a low, silky tone,
which, after the savages learned to know her better, they knew covered
the fiercest and bitterest anger:
“Because, the Fox whispers among his friends and sneers at Mahaska’s
words.”
The chiefs turned toward the little party with frowning brows, and
murmurs of disapprobation broke from the people in the background, over
whom Mahaska’s influence already was almost boundless.
The braves with whom the Fox had been whispering dropped slowly from his
side, not daring to support his cause however strongly their wishes
might go with his. He was a middle-aged man, with a peculiar depth of
firmness and sullen obstinacy in his face. Though he looked slightly
discomposed by this unexpected address, he bore the dissatisfied glances
with cold dignity.
“Mahaska came among her people because the Great Spirit sent her, and
because the Senecas asked her to come,” continued the woman. “It is not
well that, in the very outset of her work among you, designing chiefs
should whisper among you like bad spirits to counteract her great
purposes.”
A murmur went up from the crowd in echo to her words:
“It is not well, it is not well!”
“Mahaska has obeyed her people’s wishes; she has chosen a husband from
among their chiefs; if the Iroquois will listen to her she will lead
them on to new glory.”
“They listen and cherish her words,” returned Upepah, the old chief.
“Mahaska has seen them rejoice over her coming—she knows that the hearts
of our braves and our young maidens have been gladdened by her presence;
let her have faith in her people. She is a great chief.”
She turned slowly toward him and lifted her face full upon him and
smiled with a power of fascination which lighted up her features into
wonderful beauty.
“It has been the dream of Mahaska’s life to be with her people,” she
answered; “every wish in her heart has turned toward them as a young
bird pines for its nest in the green leaves.”
“They have watched for her coming,” he said; “the young maidens and
children have been taught to speak her name with reverence; they will
come like children to hear the wisdom which she has learned among the
whites.”
“Let the chiefs listen too,” she exclaimed, with the arrogance natural
to her; “Mahaska has visions such as never were unfolded to their
greatest prophets; she will teach them arts which will make them able to
combat the cruel whites who are seeking to tread out the red-man’s
footsteps from the broad lands their fathers owned.”
“The Iroquois have not had babes and cowards for their chiefs,” said the
Fox, unable to keep silent, however unfit the moment to dispute her
wishes, or however dangerous to himself might be the result of bringing
the angry feelings between them to an issue before the council.
Mahaska scanned his lofty figure from head to foot; the smile did not
leave her features, but it looked on the hardness of her face like
sunlight playing over ice, and the light in her eyes deepened and grew
vicious like those of a serpent just ready to spring.
“The chief is not content with the woman chief his people have chosen,”
she said, in her lowest, softest tone.
“Mahaska mistakes,” he answered; “the Fox welcome her willingly as his
brothers, but he never heard that she was to sit at the council-fire and
be treated as a chief.”
“When Mahaska is not a chief she leaves the tribe forever,” she replied
calmly.
“Mahaska is married; why does not Gi-en-gwa-tah her husband speak for
her?”
The young chief to whom he alluded rose on the instant and answered with
stately pride:
“Gi-en-gwa-tah is chief of the Senecas, but he can not know the visions
which Mahaska sees; the Great Spirit converses with her as he did with
our prophet, but her husband is like his brethren, only a warrior; he
can not understand words from the Great Spirit.”
Mahaska gave him an approving glance and moved nearer the council-fire.
“Let the Fox speak,” she said; “what are his thoughts?”
Thus unexpectedly confronted by the woman armed with the double spell of
her gorgeous beauty and the spiritual influence which she had over the
minds of a superstitious people, the chief was at loss to reply. For a
few seconds he sat silent while Mahaska watched him with a look of grave
expectation.
“Why is the Fox silent?” she cried.
“He is not a woman that his words should fall easily and are lost, like
the rain,” he answered.
“No!” she exclaimed, “he is silent because he is true to his
name—because he is crafty and wants to work under ground; he wishes to
carry on his plans in the dark and uproot the love of the people for
Mahaska, but when he looks in her face he has no courage to speak.”
“Is the chief a child that he should fear to look a woman in the face?”
the chief returned, contemptuously.
A deadly sweetness deepened the smile that still played over Mahaska’s
lips. She evinced no other sign of the fierce passion which raged in her
soul and which made her determine that the struggle between them should
not be prolonged until the weight of his influence and years should be
able to tell against her claims. The strife between them should end then
and there—either disgrace or death should be his portion; she would risk
all her power in one daring act.
As yet, though her influence was great, she could not count fully upon
the savages. A few years later and the slavish submission to which she
had reduced them was so entire that if she ever looked back upon that
scene she smiled with contempt at the hesitation and caution which she
had been constrained to use. Her passion and desire for revenge now
overswept all bounds, making her alike insensible to the future,
personal safety, every thing that stood between her and the
gratification of her unwomanly hate.
The words of the Fox were received with new signs of disapproval by the
people; the elder chiefs looked puzzled and surprised; those who had
promised to support him kept aloof; but all these things only excited
the obstinacy of the Indian—he would not yield then. Gi-en-gwa-tah,
Mahaska’s newly-made husband, had started forward at those contemptuous
words, but a glance from his wife restrained him and he fell back among
the leading chiefs, panting with rage.
Mahaska drew her figure to its full hight. She pointed her finger at the
Fox with a look of withering scorn, and her voice rung out over the
crowd clear and distinct as the tones of a trumpet:
“The chiefs hear!” she exclaimed; “the people hear; will they be silent?
Years ago the Senecas were warned by their prophet that the
granddaughter of the great Nemono would one day come among them; he bade
them listen and obey her implicitly, and promised that she would make
them the greatest tribe among all the Six Nations. Mahaska came—she had
been reared by the Great Spirit for that purpose—even in her childhood
she had visions such as never came to the wisest of your old men; she
obeyed the voice of the prophet—she came among her people to lead them
on to power and glory.”
Subdued acclamations went up, but she checked the sound by a gesture.
“Upon the very entrance to her career she is checked by this crafty Fox;
he seeks to undermine her power; the Great Spirit has warned Mahaska how
he plots against her, but she does not fear his snares. Mahaska must be
respected and obeyed; her power is that of a prophet and a chief; she is
led by the voice of the Manitou and she can never err. She will not
argue with this base dog; she will not stand at the council-fire where
he is permitted to stand; she will reveal no wishes of the Great
Spirit—hold no communion with her people, until they promise to heed her
will in all things.”
Even the presence of the chiefs could not restrain the cry of dismay
which went up from the tribe at her words. The Fox heard the ominous
sound and knew that his scheme of resistance had failed—the wily woman
had forced on the struggle before he was prepared, and was crushing him
under the suddenness of the blow; but to yield was not in his nature.
“The Fox was a great brave,” he said, “before Mahaska’s feet had learned
to walk alone; her voice is only the voice of a woman; she has still
many things to learn.”
There was a murmur from the crowd growing more and more excited;
reverence to the girl had been taught them as a part of their religion,
and they clung to the faith with all the blindness and intensity of
their untutored natures.
Again Mahaska’s voice rung out with something so ominous and deep in its
tone that even the obstinate savage quailed:
“Be silent while Mineto speaks through my voice,” she cried. Even her
enemy started back and gazed on her with bated breath. “Mahaska came
here at the request of her people,” she said, in that deep, persuasive
voice that rolled like rich music through the throng. “She has been sent
by the Great Spirit to give counsel to her people, to teach them new
power and glory. Had she found already disobedience and insult? She will
go away—will return to her white brethren. Let a boat be made ready—she
will leave her people. Mineto commands it. When a chief of the tribes
disputes her power she will not stay.”
There was a universal exclamation of terror at her words, and they
crowded about her as if to prevent the fulfillment of her threat.
“The maiden speaks with too much fire,” still persisted the Fox; “her
words leap out like a mountain torrent; those who rule should talk
slowly and weigh well their words.”
At that instant a black cloud swept up the horizon and hovered directly
over their heads; Mahaska was not slow to notice and to work upon their
superstitious fears by pointing it out as an omen.
“Behold!” she exclaimed, pointing on high. “The Great Spirit sends a
sign; he is angry with his people! Is this the welcome they give his
messenger? Let them beware! Famine and pestilence shall weaken their
strength; the white men shall take them as slaves; the glory of the Six
Nations shall go out forever.”
They fairly trembled at her words, delivered with all the fire of an
inspired prophetess. Angry murmurs rose around the chief who had
incurred her anger; but with true savage obstinacy he would not yield.
“The Senecas have been a nation of warriors since the Great Spirit sent
the red-men upon the earth,” said he; “it is not at the voice of a
maiden that he will weaken their braves and destroy their women.”
The half-breed’s fury was now aroused to its deadliest heat.
“Either the lying-tongued warrior is given up to my vengeance,” she
cried, “or I quit the tribe forever! Do not think to detain me—the Great
Spirit would send down a chariot of fire from yonder cloud and bear me
from your sight, did I not execute my wishes.”
“Let Mahaska decide!” exclaimed numberless voices; but the chiefs about
the council-fire were silent, scarcely knowing how to act in this
strange turn of affairs.
“Mahaska will not wait,” she cried, in a strong voice; “the chiefs hear
the voice of the people; let them give up the lying dog or Mahaska
leaves them forever. Behold the black cloud—how it spreads and
deepens—coming nearer and nearer to snatch Mahaska from her tribe. So
Mineto speaks; his voice breaks from the cloud.”
A low roll of thunder preceded her words by a single moment.
“No, no!” shouted the crowd. “Mahaska shall not go—give up the Fox to
her—give him up! give him up!”
The doomed man sat motionless in his place; not a muscle quivered; not a
line in his face betrayed the terrible suspense which he endured.
“Will the chiefs speak?” cried Mahaska; “are they dumb or do they dare
to hesitate?”
She flung up both arms toward the black cloud and muttered words in a
language unknown to them. The heavy cloud settled lower and lower as if
approaching slowly at some mandate of her own. A quiver of flame ran
through it, and the thunder that had but muttered before boomed out
fearfully. Chiefs and people were alike terrified at the idea of her
being suddenly snatched from among them by supernatural means, and they
cried out like the voice of one man:
“Let Mahaska’s will be obeyed. She is our prophet and Gi-en-gwa-tah is
our chief.”
Rendered desperate by his situation, the doomed savage exclaimed:
“The Senecas are dogs to be led by a woman. The Delawares were
right—they are dogs and cowards.”
A sudden rush was made toward the spot where he stood, but the woman
sprung between the savages and her victim.
“Back!” she shouted. “Who dares to come between Mahaska and her prey!”
Her hair had broken loose from its coronet of feathers and streamed
heavily over her shoulders; her rich dress flashed out in the firelight
as the dusk increased; her face was like that of some beautiful fiend.
Before any one could move again she snatched a tomahawk from the belt of
the nearest chief and flung it with unerring aim. A low, dull, horrible
_swash_ followed. The Indian gave one terrible cry—a fierce leap into
the air, and fell dead upon the ashes of the council-fire.
“Mahaska has obeyed the great Mineto!” she exclaimed; “so perish all her
enemies.”
She saw the savages standing stupefied, and pointed again to the cloud,
which began to drift slowly away, sending back fiery threads of
lightning.
“Behold!” she cried. “The cloud-chariot is floating off—Mahaska will
stay with her people, but they must obey her, worship her, for she and
Mineto are one!”
She rushed toward the prostrate body—tore off the eagle plume that
decorated his head, fastened it in her hair, still crying wildly:
“Mahaska is sister to the Great Spirit; who dares doubt her now? She has
killed a warrior and wears his plume. Mineto made her a prophet. She has
made herself a chief.”
The warriors gathered in a circle around the council-fire. Mahaska stood
in the center with one foot on the breast of her prostrate foe.
“Speak!” she said; “is Mahaska your prophet and your chief?”
“Mahaska is our prophet and our white queen. Gi-en-gwa-tah is her
husband and our chief,” was the steadfast reply.
For one moment Mahaska’s face was as the thunder-cloud, but with acute
foresight she saw that her power had been tasked to the utmost. The
tribe was not prepared to acknowledge her as the supreme head of its
warriors, and she was not yet strong enough to brave the band of chiefs
that surrounded her.
Her face cleared. She looked down at the body of her foe and spurned it
with her foot. With a fierce gesture she wrenched away the tomahawk
which the dead chief still clutched in his hand, wielding it aloft.
“Mahaska has won her right to be called a chief,” she cried out, with
fierce pride. “Do her people doubt now?”
Again that great shout went up:
“Our queen, our queen! We accept the gift of the Great Spirit. Mahaska
shall be our queen forever!”
She stepped proudly into the center of the ring, her hand still grasping
the tomahawk.
“Chiefs,” she cried, “behold Mahaska is now indeed a queen. The
lightning crowns her. The great Mineto shouted from the sky when she
clove that traitor’s skull.”
They crowded about her with subdued acclamations and lowly reverence;
and there she stood in the fading glories of the sunset, with that cruel
smile upon her lips, that deadly light in her eyes, to receive the
homage of her people; yet her bosom heaved in its rage, that they had
insisted on sharing her sovereignty with Gi-en-gwa-tah. She was queen,
but he was chief and her husband.