ON THE WAR-PATH.
It was a beautiful spring day; the sun lay golden and warm on Seneca
lake; the forest that draped its picturesque shore wore its freshest and
most vivid green; the light breeze that rippled the waters was fragrant
with the odor of the wild flowers and luxuriant grasses across which it
had swept in its path through the blooming wilderness. The Indian
village was in an unusual state of bustle and excitement; the women and
children were watching a party of warriors who performed a war-dance
about the smoldering council-fire; Indians were hurrying to and fro, and
every thing betokened the approach of some important departure.
Before the entrance of queen Mahaska’s palace stood a horse richly
caparisoned, and her body-guard, now swelled to two hundred in number,
had reined up their horses upon the bank of the lake. The Senecas,
together with one or two other tribes belonging to the Six Nations, were
going out upon the war-path, and Mahaska had signified her intention of
accompanying them. Gi-en-gwa-tah had by no means yielded the point in
his own mind, but had been defiantly put to silence, though his
opposition had never arisen from the unworthy feeling to which Mahaska
ascribed it. Her wild ambition and restless spirit yearned for new
triumphs, for she had exhausted all the ordinary successes of her life,
and she determined to win for herself new glory, by bearing a prominent
part in the wars in which the Indians were so frequently engaged.
The hour set for their starting had arrived; a portion of the band had
gone on in advance; the rest only waited the appearance of her guard to
commence their journey. She was bidding farewell to her child. In that
moment of departure upon her bloody errand, the one human feeling which
made her soul akin to her sex had its influence.
The winter had been spent in no luxurious idleness which would unfit her
for the arduous undertaking now before her.
No matter what the extreme of cold—no matter how deep the snow lay upon
the ground, Mahaska had every day allotted to herself several hours’
exercise in the open air; her aims with the rifle had grown still more
deadly, and all her habits had grown more completely Amazonian than
ever.
The savages became impatient for the appearance of the queen.
Gi-en-gwa-tah had accompanied the advance guard and the others were
eager to follow. The old Indians had come up from the village and
stationed themselves near the guard; the women and children crowded in
their wake, and all eyes were turned toward the doorway through which
the queen must issue from her dwelling. At last there was a slight
bustle within; several of the old chiefs appeared upon the threshold,
and then Mahaska came out, walking alone with a prouder hearing than of
old. She wore a dress of some subdued but rich color, made short to
exhibit the leggins of dressed deerskin, and the elaborately wrought
moccasins. Over her left shoulder was flung a finely woven blanket,
fastened somewhat after the fashion of the togas of the Roman women. The
sleeves of her dress fell loosely from her arms, exposing the
symmetrical limb and slender hand which gave no sign of their sinewy
strength any more than a first glance at the smiling face betrayed the
murderous will beneath. A rich coronet of feathers circled her head,
fastened in the center by a single diamond star, which flashed ominously
with every haughty movement of her person. A pair of costly bracelets
glittered on her wrists; the tomahawk thrust in her girdle was veined
and dotted with coral, as if she had found special pleasure in the
ornaments of her terrible weapon.
She stood upon the threshold and addressed a few terse, eloquent words
to the people, then sprung upon her horse, and, giving her rifle to the
warrior who was to ride nearest her, took her station at the head of her
band. At a signal from her hand they galloped off through the windings
of the forest, leaving the crowd behind watching their progress as long
as the gleam of a tomahawk, or the sound of a horse’s tread, came back
through the morning air.
It was several hours before this band came up with the main body which
had halted by Gi-en-gwa-tah’s orders to await Mahaska’s approach. He
drew toward Mahaska and saluted her with grave courtesy—the presence of
the warriors restraining the slightest expression of affectionate
solicitude.
“If Mahaska deems it good,” he said, “the warriors will wait here for
the return of the scouts which were sent out before the day broke.”
She bowed her head carelessly, her eyes wandering over the assembled
savages as if she took pleasure in their warlike appearance.
“When does the chief expect them back?” she asked.
“Before the sun is an hour higher.”
“It is well; Mahaska will wait,” she replied, haughtily.
She turned away from him but refused to dismount from her horse,
controlling his spirited movements with a single touch of her hand.
Gi-en-gwa-tah left his station near her side, for a signal then sounded
from the distance and the scouts were near at hand. In a short time the
chief returned to Mahaska’s side.
“What news?” she asked.
“A party of our foes are encamped within a few hours’ march,” he
answered; “they will remain there until to-morrow as they have heard
that warriors from several of the Six Nations have joined our braves.”
“Are they waiting for more men?” she asked.
“They have sent back for them.”
“And when they arrive they mean to march on to our village?”
“So the scouts have learned.”
Her face lighted up; she smiled and appeared gratified.
“They shall be spared the trouble,” she said.
“What does the queen desire?” asked Gi-en-gwa-tah. “It is her first
trial upon the war-path; let her tell the chief her pleasure.”
“Let the warriors rest here till the dark comes,” she replied; “then we
will march upon the encampment. Not a man must escape. When the
reinforcements arrive Mahaska and her braves will be ready to receive
them.”
The other chiefs who had approached near enough to hear her answer
received it with favor.
“How many men are encamped there?” she asked.
The answer was, two or three hundred—a small force compared to their
own.
“And how many hours’ march?” she questioned.
“If the braves start an hour before sunset they will reach the spot by
the time the enemy lie down to rest,” replied Gi-en-gwa-tah.
“So be it,” she returned.
She glanced at the little watch which she always carried; there were
still several hours to wait.
“Let the queen’s tent be pitched,” she said; “she has need to commune
with the great prophet.”
Her orders were obeyed with the alacrity which followed her slightest
wish. The tent had been one of the last gifts of the English, and was
made very comfortable by furs and blankets. She alighted from her horse
when the work of spreading it was completed, and retired to its privacy,
not even glancing toward the chief.
She remained alone there during the whole afternoon, busy with her own
thoughts—her face at times looking as dark and terrible as if she were
indeed holding communion with some invisible presence that filled her
soul with gloom.
When the sound of preparation for departure struck her ear she pushed
back the curtains and stood in the entrance of her tent ready for
action. Gi-en-gwa-tah, approaching the tent, informed her that the time
indicated had arrived.
“Is the queen ready?” he asked.
“At all times ready,” she answered, in a voice intended to be audible to
those near, “to serve her people and lead them on to victory. Mahaska’s
plan is this: Gi-en-gwa-tah will march on with his braves and surprise
the sleeping camp—he must come upon it from the front. Mahaska and her
guard will advance from the other side to surprise them when they rush
out in the confusion of a sudden attack.”
The plan was arranged entirely to suit her wishes.
The little camp of the advancing foe lay quiet in the midnight; the
sentinels seemed to have fallen into broken sleep by the waning fires.
Suddenly a terrible war-cry aroused the doomed band. It was too late to
do more than rush wildly to and fro and meet death in its most horrible
form before they actually realized that the enemy were upon them.
Terrible yells and awful war-whoops went up in the still air; the report
of rifles, the whiz of tomahawks, and the clash of knives, made the
night one scene of horror. The brave enemy, endeavoring to collect their
weakened force and make a last stand, saw by the moonlight a woman ride
furiously into the camp followed by a mounted guard which dealt death as
they went. She rode her horse desperately down upon them; her band
followed, trampling the savages right and left, crushing life out under
their horses’ hoofs, and, as she dealt fierce blows on each side, her
clear woman’s voice joined in that appalling battle-cry with a force and
shrillness that made itself heard above all the terrible sounds that
filled the air. When day broke the dying and dead lay piled thickly upon
the forest sward. Mahaska’s command had been obeyed—not one of the
number had escaped to warn their approaching brethren of the fate which
awaited them!
When the fight was over Mahaska sprung from her horse, still grasping
the bloodstained tomahawk. A dozen scalps hung from her saddle-bow; her
face was ablaze with her fierce passions.
“And now for breakfast,” she exclaimed, with a laugh; “the morning’s
work is well done.”
The braves crowded about her with congratulations upon her courage, and
she listened with a smile soft and sweet as ever woman wore at homage
offered to some feminine charm. While the Indians were removing the dead
bodies and restoring an appearance of quiet to the camp, Mahaska sat at
breakfast hidden from the terrible scene by a clump of undergrowth, and
arranging her plans for meeting the arrival of the enemy’s expected
reinforcements. Scouts came in and reported them on the advance; before
an hour elapsed they would reach the camp.
The horses were concealed in the forest—the band divided in different
portions who secreted themselves near the camp. The bodies of the
murdered sentinels were propped upright against trees, their blankets
fluttering in the wind, mocking death with a horrible appearance of
vitality.
In half an hour there was no appearance of any thing unusual having
occurred in the camp. The savages were all hidden—the bodies had been so
artfully arranged that those approaching the camp could not perceive the
terrible cheat until they were in the midst of the ambush.
Mahaska, panting like a wild animal, crouched in her covert eager for
the coming massacre—her whole senses were absorbed in the desire for
carnage which possessed her like a demon. Peering out from her
hiding-place she watched the enemy approach. They marched on without a
suspicion of danger and soon reached the outskirts of the camp. Suddenly
before and behind sprung up the ambushed Senecas, and the war-whoop that
had drowned the death-cries of their brethren again smote the air.
The enemy, taken by surprise, fell back in confusion, while the Senecas
rushed upon them with the resistless force of a tornado. The attacked
savages however rallied and the struggle commenced in all its horror.
Everywhere in the thickest of the strife Mahaska was to be seen, and her
appearance urged on her men to renewed exertion. Her hair had broken
loose from its confinement and streamed wildly over her shoulders; her
voice rung out clear and strong as a trumpet’s challenge; she looked, in
her fierce beauty, like some heathen goddess inspiring the savages to
unheard of massacre and horror. Her presence filled the enemy with
superstitious terror; they could not believe that it was a woman thus
rushing into the blackness of the fray. Always at her appearance they
fell back, paralyzed by the fear that they were contending against the
power of a supernatural being. The battle raged fiercely till near noon,
then the enemy fell back, their force dwindled to but a small band.
“After them!” Mahaska shrieked, springing upon her horse. “Guards,
follow your queen!”
She dashed on, followed by her murderous host. The enemy broke in wild
confusion before the fierce onslaught. It was the most complete victory
which the tribe had had for a long time. Mahaska rode back toward her
village at the head of her men, victorious and triumphant. The entire
population came out to welcome their white queen with new adoration.
“Mahaska told you that the prophet would fight by her side,” she
exclaimed. “Now what do the chiefs say to those who doubted her power
and would have kept her shut up in her palace while the battle went on?”
“The braves will follow their queen on the war-path!” was the general
cry; “now and forever.”
Gi-en-gwa-tah stood silent; he was proud of the success she had won, and
it would have been impossible for him to explain the mingled feelings
which disturbed his breast. His proud heart ached at the distance which
separated him from the woman he loved with such profound worship. He
began to comprehend that any fresh triumph, any accession of power,
forced them still wider apart, and left her more alone in the path she
had marked out to follow.