to my mother—do let me go home!’
“‘Thy mother!’ repeated the woman, ‘thy own mother is gone across the
wide waters, far to the rising sun—and thy father,’ she pointed up to
heaven, ‘it is twice five summers since thy father went to the hunting
grounds of the paleface—he died—he was murdered; and so was my own
little blossom—my own babe!’ Her voice was choked—she could not speak
any more—her eyes grew burning and wild—her features quivered, and she
shook so fearfully that Mary was frightened, and tried to get from her
arms.
“‘Namoina,’ said the old man, ‘the daughter of Anawon must not be a
coward.’
“This appeal had the desired effect—she dashed the few burning tears
from her eyelids, and bending a moment before her father, she rose up
again with a calm brow, that told not of the struggle in her heart; and,
taking Mary again in her arms, she kissed her, and said a great many
tender and affectionate things to her.
“‘Shall I never see my mother?’ asked the child, mournfully; ‘has she
forgotten me?’
“‘Forget thee, my flower! Does the mother ever forget the child that has
fed from her bosom!’ Again she was terribly distressed. After a few
minutes she held the child up toward heaven and said, ‘The Great Spirit
of thy fathers keep thee—and bless thee!’ then setting her down again,
she resumed her former seat on the rock and began picking up the pebbles
around her and counting them; but no entreaty or endearment could draw a
single word or look from her.
“Mary saw Anawon partake of some of the food she had brought him, and,
leaving the remainder, she took her basket and returned home for the
first time in her life really unhappy; and for the first time in her
life she did not open her whole heart to her mother. Mrs. Gray, however,
observed that her cheek was flushed, and thought she must have taken
cold; and when it was about sunset she persuaded her to go to bed. Mary
was glad to be where no one could notice or disturb her feelings; so,
kissing her good mother, she went to her room, and knelt down by her
little bed and said her evening prayers. Very soon she heard voices; and
then she knew that her father and brother had come; and just as she was
going to rise from her bed and dress, for the purpose of seeing them,
she heard William say that they had got on the track of old Anawon,[8]
and that he believed he was not far hence, probably out toward Seekonk;
and that they had better take whatever nourishment could be had and be
after him directly. Mrs. Gray said nothing of the wounded Indian in the
woods; and when William said he must go in and give his sister one kiss,
she said, ‘Do not go to-night, my son, for the child has a bad cold and
I am really afraid she will take the fever; and if she knows you are
come she will not sleep another wink to-night for joy.’
“At any other time, indeed, Mary would have been overjoyed to see
them—but now she was thinking only of the poor Indian, and that he might
be killed; and, in her distress, she could not help thinking that men
were very cruel and very wicked to wish to murder each other. After
bearing her anxiety of mind as long as she could, she resolved to go
herself, if she could steal from the house unperceived, and warn the
Indian of his danger.
“‘That was right!’ exclaimed both the boys at once.
“That was right!” echoed Ann.
“I wish I could have seen that girl!” said George Gray.
“I think we have some good girls among us,” said Henry Jackson, with a
kind look at his cousin Ann.
“True,” said the grandmother, who noticed and applauded that look, “very
true; though few persons may be so situated as to perform _brilliant_
actions, yet _all_ may have opportunity to do many _good_ ones. We
cannot tell what _might be done_ by what _is done_; but we must believe
that a truly generous and virtuous heart will act nobly in _all_
situations.
“But to return to Mary. She rose and dressed herself very quickly; and
wrapping a little blanket about her, she fell on her knees a moment, and
prayed God to keep her from all harm, and to forgive her for leaving the
house without her parents’ knowledge; for Mary was a very obedient and
faithful child; and this was the first time she had ever done any
important thing without the consent and approbation of her parents. She
opened a door which led from her little room into a narrow entry, and
passed, without observation, into the open air. The moon was nearly at
the full. Heavy and rich masses of clouds were continually floating over
its surface, and, sometimes, almost obscuring its light; but then they
would pass away, and the moon would shine out brighter than before; and
the waters of the river flashed like diamonds; and all the leaves of the
wilderness, as they waved in the stirring wind, shone as if they had
been dipped in molten silver. Mary clapped her little hands and forgot
to be afraid, for her spirit was worshipping that God who maketh night
so very glorious.
“And now let me tell you, my children, a good child never need be afraid
in the darkness more than in the open day; for, as the Scriptures say,
‘He knoweth all the lambs of his fold;’ and again, ‘A sparrow falleth
not to the ground without his knowledge.’
“The way was familiar to Mary, and soon she came to the rock where she
had left Anawon. When her steps were heard, the old chief started to his
feet and uttered a low cry, and, directly, several Indians stood by his
side. Mary was not afraid, even then; for though the Indians were the
enemies of her nation and her kindred, they were not her enemies—they
were her friends: for there was hardly one among them who had not, at
some time or other, felt the kindness of the sweet child. So she walked
directly into the midst, fearless of the tomahawks that were lifted at
her approach, and holding up her little hand to Anawon, said, in her
low, sweet voice, ‘Father—fly—thy enemy is at hand!’
“The old Indian seemed, at first, almost choked with emotion; for he
well knew that his enemies were the friends of Mary; and laying his hand
on the child’s head as she bent before him, he only said, ‘The God of
the white man and the Great Spirit of the Indian be with thee!’ and his
followers, who, from the moment she was known, had fallen back from the
centre of the rock, as they leaned upon their bows and looked upon the
child, repeated, at once, a word in the Indian tongue, which was as much
as to say, ‘Amen.’
“Then Anawon unbound a wampum bracelet from his arm, and giving it to
Mary, said, ‘Daughter! in the hour of sorrow bring this to Anawon; and
ask what thou wilt, and it shall not be denied thee!’
“Then Namoina (whom we will henceforth call Rachel) took the child in
her arms and kissed her, and wrapped her little blanket about her; and
Mary ran swiftly toward home. She reached her room in safety, and soon
she fell asleep, for she was very tired. Soon after this Mrs. Gray came
into the room, and saw that Mary was asleep, and that her pillow was wet
with tears; she could not think what had caused them, for she had never
known Mary to be very unhappy. Just at this moment William came in on
tiptoe; and, as he bent down to kiss his sister’s cheek, he saw the
bracelet, which had fallen to the floor, and examining it by the light
of the moon, he thought he had seen it before; and taking it to his
father, Mr. Gray said that he remembered it very well, for he had seen
it on the arm of Anawon.
“‘I will wake Mary instantly,’ said William, ‘and perhaps she can tell
us where he is; and we will have the cunning old savage before morning!’
“‘Thou art much too hasty,’ said Mr. Gray, laying a hand on his son’s
arm; ‘this token was given to thy sister in peace and love. Thou knowest
boy,’ he continued, with difficulty restraining his son, ‘thou knowest
the child’s heart would be broken, if she were obliged, in any way, to
be made an instrument of evil. Alas!’ he added, giving way to the
natural tenderness of his heart, ‘alas! that we are compelled, by cruel
necessity, to slay, ay, murder each other!’ and Simon Gray folded his
dark, bony hands upon his breast and was silent.
“Observing the boy still unsatisfied, he said, ‘Go to thy rest, my son;
the Lord in his own good time will do the work. At all events, if I can
prevent it, blood shall never fall upon the head of Mary.’
“The next morning by dawn of day, father and son departed. Mary was not
awake, for she had been so tired that she slept very soundly; and
William was just allowed to kiss her cheek _very_ softly, and deposite
by her side some little baskets of willow; and he then embraced his
weeping mother and hastened to join his father, who already stood by
the gate waiting for him.
“When Mary awoke, she was so much disappointed because they were gone,
that she could hardly keep from crying; but she saw that her mother was
striving to be cheerful, so she wiped the few tears that fell upon her
cheek, and folding her arms round her neck, she whispered softly, ‘Let
us pray to God, mother, and he will comfort us.’ And they both knelt
down and prayed, and when they rose up they were quite calm; for God
never withholds a blessing from those who seek in humility of soul, and
never withdraws his countenance from those who trust in him. And now, my
children, I beg you to remember, whatever may be your trials and
distresses, always to put your trust in God, and nothing will have power
to harm you; but do not think, my children, that you must wait till
distresses _come_—seek the love of God in the day of joy—and in the hour
of sorrow he will not be far off.
“But to return to my story. Two months had passed away and Mr. Gray and
William had not returned, though Mrs. Gray had heard from them
occasionally.
“It was a bright afternoon in September, and Mary had taken her
knitting-work and was sitting beside her mother’s arm-chair at the door
of their cottage; but she could not work, for her eyes were continually
wandering off in the direction of the Seekonk road; and, at every waving
of the trees, or the least unusual sound, she would start from her seat,
and say, ‘They are coming!’ and then run to make some addition, or
alteration, to the furniture of a small round table, white as snow which
was spread with bowls and spoons, brown bread and baked apples, and a
pan of new milk; and then, returning to the door, she would expect to
find them near; but when she looked in every direction, she saw only the
few quiet looking houses of the Plantation—the wide and almost unbroken
forest, and the broad road before her—but no father or brother. She had
repeated this act several times, and at each successive one she was more
sure that they were coming; until, at last, the continued disappointment
was more than she could bear; and, clinging round her mother’s neck, she
burst into tears.
“Mr. Gray and William had sent word, by some men belonging to the town,
that they should be at home the night before, and they had not come.
Might not some terrible accident have happened?
“Mrs. Gray had been sitting silently, with her arms folded upon her
breast, struggling within herself to bear the approaching trial as
became a Christian; for she knew better than Mary did how full of
disappointment life is, and she knew also that the times were peculiarly
uncertain and hazardous. She had appeared calm, notwithstanding, for she
did not wish to check the fond anticipations of Mary; but when she saw
that even she could not hope any longer—when she felt the sweet child
weeping upon her breast, for an instant her calmness forsook her, and
she wept with Mary.
“‘Do _you_ believe, mother, they will not come?’ sobbed the child; ‘do
_you_ believe they will not come to-night?’ And shaking away the curls
from her face, and a flood of tears with them, she looked upon her
mother as if she would read her thoughts before she spoke.
“‘They will come, my child,’ said Mrs. Gray, speaking with much
difficulty; ‘they will come when it is God’s pleasure;’ and putting the
child from her arms, she went to her room and shut herself in, for her
distress was so great that she could not bear to have Mary see it.
“The child, being left to herself, wept without restraint; but still she
did not actually believe that her father and brother would not come very
soon, and she dried her tears and thought she would run out a little way
on the Seekonk road, and perhaps she might meet them. When she had got a
little way from the house she saw a person approaching, and she hastened
along, hoping to hear something of her father and brother; and when she
got near she saw it was Rachel. Mary was very glad, for she had not seen
Rachel for a long time, and she knew the Indian woman was a good friend
to her, so she ran toward her and put her little arms around her; but
her heart was so full she could not speak. Rachel did not know her at
first; but when she saw that it was Mary, she held her in her arms,
repeating, all the while, some words in the Indian tongue, which Mary
knew were a kind of thanksgiving to the Great Spirit.
“‘Child, I was seeking thee!’ she said, at last, in imperfect English;
‘I have bad news—thy brother is fallen among his enemies!’
“‘Will not my brother come home?’ said the child, bursting into tears;
‘will he never come home? Is he dead?’
“‘He is yet alive,’ replied Rachel, ‘but his hours are counted. This
night he is to die!’’
“‘Where is he? Let me go to him!’ said the child.
“‘It was for that very purpose I came to thee. For thy sake he may yet
live—he is in the hands of Anawon.’
“‘O, let us go this instant! Let us run! Let us fly!’ said Mary, seizing
the hand of Rachel; and she ran forward a few steps—then, stopping
short, she said, ‘I must run back and tell mother; I cannot go without
telling her!’
“‘Thou must not go back,’ said Rachel; ‘let her not know his danger till
it is over—if thy brother lives, we will return with the earliest light;
if he dies, it will be soon enough to break her heart—as mine is
broken,’ she added, beating her breast, while her eyes shone like fire.
“‘I cannot go,’ sobbed Mary, ‘I cannot go without telling mother.’
“‘Then thy brother will die!’ said Rachel; ‘then he will die—they are
singing the death-song! The fire is kindling now!’
“‘O let us go then!’ said the child, with a piercing cry, ‘let us hurry!
let us go!’
“‘The pledge of Anawon, is it about thee, child?’ asked Rachel; and Mary
drew from her pocket the bracelet of the chief; and they went on.
“Their way lay directly through the woods. Mary’s poor, little, bare
feet, were dreadfully scratched with the briers; and she was so tired
with running, and hurrying, and crying, that sometimes Rachel was
obliged to take her up and carry her. At length it grew very dark; and,
at first, Mary could hardly tell where to step; but when she got used to
it she did not mind it at all—for she was not thinking of herself, but
of her father, and mother, and brother.
“After they had gone several miles they saw a light at a great distance:
and, when they came near, they saw it was a large fire—and when they got
still nearer, they saw a great many Indians, with painted faces and
tomahawks in their hands, dancing about it, singing, and shouting, and
uttering terrible cries.
“One of the Indians, who was stationed to keep watch, saw little Mary
and her guide; and as soon as he knew Rachel he shouted ‘Namoina!’ And
all immediately rested their tomahawks on the ground, and, ceasing to
sing and dance, they awaited her approach with all the respect due to
the daughter of so mighty a chief as Anawon.
“Mary Wallace saw but one thing. As the ring opened she beheld her
brother standing in the midst, beside a large pile of light fuel, which
was all ready to be kindled; his hands were bound behind him and his
head was bent down. Mary gave one spring, and, fearing not the terrible
looking men around her, she bounded to the side of William; and clinging
round his neck, she sobbed as if her little heart was breaking. William
was pale as death when he saw Mary. A few hot tears fell on his cheek;
but he spoke not; he bowed his head upon her neck awhile—and then his
heart was melted—and he sobbed aloud. This relieved him, and he
whispered, ‘Sister, wipe my tears away and leave me—thou must not see me
die.’
‘Thou wilt not die! Thou shalt not!’ said Mary, wringing her hands; and,
losing all fear, but that of her brother’s death, she ran wildly from
one to another crying out, ‘Will my brother die? must William die?’
“Anawon, who sat apart on a rock higher than those around, saw and heard
the tumult; but he knew not its cause; and, in a deep and somewhat angry
tone of voice, he gave orders for the noise to be hushed, and the awful
ceremonies of death to be resumed. In an instant the place was still—and
then a low murmur ran among the crowd, ‘The Child of Sunrise!’—‘The Bird
of Peace!’—‘The Red Man’s Friend!’ and such was the strong love Mary had
excited among the Indians, that, for a moment, not a hand was lifted,
even at the command of their chief—then slowly they prepared to obey.
“As Mary’s almost distracted features were turned to the glaring light
of the death-fire, Anawon saw her; and the long, deep, agonizing groan
he did not try to suppress, told that she was recognized. The next
moment she was at his feet. The bracelet was clasped about his arm.
‘Father, will he die!’ was all that she could speak; and poor little
Mary fainted away.
“Anawon took the child in his own arms, and administered something which
revived her; and when he saw her beautiful blue eyes again, he wiped the
heavy drops of sweat from his brow, and gave orders for the release of
the prisoner. Mary was then almost wild with joy—and she laughed and
wept—and sang and danced—and ran from one to another—and they feared she
would go into fits; but in a few minutes she was completely exhausted;
and Rachel took her in her arms and held her.
“William wanted to go home immediately, because he knew his parents
would be very much distressed about their children. One of the Indians
said he would carry little Mary in his arms, and, accompanied by Rachel,
they set out.
“It was about sunrise when they came in sight of Providence; and just
then they met Simon Gray, at the head of a small band of men, going out
in pursuit of his children. He was very much overcome at meeting them so
unexpectedly; and he forgot not to fall on his knees and bless God for
their restoration. Then he embraced them affectionately, and learned the
particulars of their escape.
“During this time the men ran on before to the settlement and told the
news; and as they entered the town the people came running out of their
houses, all uttering expressions of joy, and blessing God for their
happy deliverance. But the mother’s heart was most severely tried. She
had given them up, and had become almost calm; but when the news of
their safe return reached her, her agitation was so great that she fell
into fits; and from their effect she never recovered. She lingered,
however, in a weak state nearly a year; and then she took an epidemic
fever and died; and Mary Wallace was once more—an orphan!
“During this time the poor Indians were mostly subdued. King Philip was
killed; Anawon was taken by Captain Church, and, during the absence of
that good man, was shamefully put to death. Mary was much distressed,
and refused to be comforted, when she heard of the cruel death of her
good old friend, (though William often told her that the white people
never could be safe while he lived,) and when she was alone she would
weep at thinking of it.
“One day, a short time after her mother’s death, she went to visit a
friend about five or six miles from the Plantation; and in the afternoon
she walked out alone, thinking she would go and see the rock where
Philip and his men had once concealed themselves. She soon found the
place; for the main rock, which the Indians called Quinsniket, or
Rock-house, was larger than, and different from, all others around. This
rock projects over to the southwest, and under that side of it the
Indians had found a home. Mary went there and examined the place, and
she found a great many arrow-spikes made of flint, and some pieces of
wampum; and the ashes of their fires were still visible. She then
climbed to the top of the rock, and sat down under the shade of a tall
sugar-maple; and there she could not help thinking how cruel it was for
the poor Indians to be killed or driven from their lands, and their
houses, and their fathers’ graves.
“As she was returning, a little way from Quinsniket, she saw a woman
sitting on a flat stone, in the midst of a square where the earth seemed
to have been blackened with fire, and where the grass had never since
grown. When Mary came nearer, she saw that it was Rachel. Overjoyed, she
was just going to spring to her arms, for she had not seen her friend
since the morning of her brother’s release, when she saw the poor
creature was weeping. As soon as Rachel saw Mary, she hid her head in
her blanket. The child looked at her a moment sorrowfully, then
springing to her lap she folded her little arms round her neck, and
putting her soft cheek close to hers, wept with her. This act of
tenderness softened Rachel; and wiping away her own tears with a corner
of her blanket, she held up the child and gazed mournfully upon her
face; then she said, ‘Weep on, my daughter! weep on!—for thy tears are
cool and pleasant; but mine—O! they are drops of fire!’ Then she spoke
of her father’s death and the downfall of her race, till her voice was
choked—and she wept like a heart-broken child. Again she was silent, and
began to pluck the blades of grass and weave them into basket-work,
keeping her face all the while turned from Mary.
“Suddenly she looked upon the child, and exclaimed, with much energy,
‘Here—here! on this very spot ’twas done!’
“‘What, mother? what was done’? asked Mary, with a trembling voice.
“‘My babe—my babe!’ Rachel could say no more for an instant; and then
she added, ‘I will tell thee: Namoina was the daughter of a mighty
chief; many chiefs sought her in marriage—but she said, “No!” for her
heart beat quick only at the step of Mohaton the brave. Anawon, the
great chief, said, “Go!” and Namoina took the hand of Mohaton, and went
from her father. We had one babe—it was beautiful and dear—and it went
as quick from my arms as the blossom from the corn-leaf. The white man
came—Mohaton fell by our own door! and my babe—they trod upon it! It saw
me—it tried to lift its little arms—it tried to open its little eyes—it
could not. I took it in my arms—it was cold—still—dead. I saw not that
all my brethren had gone—I saw not that I was alone. I held my little
one till night came and made everything as dark and cold as my own
bosom, and then I laid it in the ground—here!’ As she spoke she
stretched out her hand, and rested it an instant on a little mound
beside her; then she stretched out her arms and fell upon it, and wept
and groaned fearfully.
“After a short time she arose, and dashing the tears away from her
cheek, she became terribly calm, and continued: [9]‘At last the hope of
vengeance possessed me. I rose from this grave and vowed to kill the
first white child I could find. I found thee, my child—I brought thee
here—to the very spot where my own darling bled; but thy smile was so
sweet—thy voice was so soft and pitiful—thy little arms clung around my
neck so tenderly, I could not kill thee; and the spirit of my little one
whispered to me constantly, “Let Mary lie in thy bosom and warm it
again!” So I kept thee, and when three moons[10] were gone, it was cold,
and thy little limbs trembled, and thy cheek was blue. I saw that the
child of the Pale-face should not dwell in the wilderness. I gave thee
meal and corn; but the food of the red babe was not for thee. I was
afraid that thou too wouldst die. I sought thy mother to give thee up.
She had gone, with her broken heart, over the great waters.[11] Namoina
knew how to pity her. Thy father was slain in battle. She was a
motherless widow. On my way back Simon Gray found me; and when I saw
thee among thy own people, I could not take thee away. Thy smile was as
the sunlight to me—thou wert the only thing that made life pleasant, and
yet I left thee.’ She paused, and Mary hid her face in the faithful
creature’s bosom and wept without restraint.
“Again she resumed—‘The mother I found thee is gone, and now I will give
thee back the other—thy own!’
“‘Where? where?’ asked Mary, lifting her hands quickly. ‘Where is my
mother?’