Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die!
Thou wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in that glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in that clustering hair.
Willis.
Cursed be my tribe
If I forgive him.
Shylock.
We must now use an author’s privilege and transport the reader to a
lofty room in a spacious mansion attached to a fortress. It was far more
commodious and gorgeously furnished than might have been looked for in
such an isolated spot, though it was now silent and imperfectly lighted
by a single wax-taper. The air was fraught with the fine exotics
adorning the flower-stands, and the light, dim as it was, fell upon a
hundred objects of splendid luxury.
The solitary occupant of this apartment had the air of one accustomed to
action, and yet not a stranger to habits of thought. He was of no more
than middle height, but in his air and gesture there was a tone of
decision and command which no advantage of stature could bestow. The
features were graceful, the color, that which exposure to the air
increases in a skin originally soft and fresh. There was altogether a
military appearance in the full and fiery eye which plainly showed the
character of his adventurous life.
General Lincoln had been sent by the government of England to occupy a
fortress on the borders of Canada. Whatever might be the stern
peculiarities of his disposition, he was a man well calculated for the
important trust reposed in him--for, combining experience with judgment
in all matters relating to diplomacy, and being fully conversant with
the character and habits of both Indians and settlers, he possessed
singular aptitude to seize whatever advantages might present themselves.
His policy was to conciliate the adjacent tribes of savages, and through
them to destroy the few colonial settlements yet formed. His first
object was now in the full tide of successful accomplishment, and when
it should be fully ripe, the last would naturally follow.
It was midnight, and General Lincoln was pacing the floor of his
luxurious apartment, seemingly insensible of the downy softness of the
rich carpets under his feet, or the glitter of the splendid lustres over
his head. At length, as he turned at the extreme end of the room, his
eyes fell on the frame of a large painting, and for some minutes they
were riveted to the picture it contained as by a master-spell. It was a
portrait--a full-length portrait representing a female at the climax of
youthful loveliness, with a charming infant boy resting upon her knees.
Well did the gazer remember how fondly he had assisted in keeping the
child quiet during the tedious task of sitting, by holding before his
little laughing eyes the very toy now figuring in the hands of the
mother in the picture before him.
The power of association brought back with life-like force to the
father’s mind the soft, warm grasp of those dimpled, baby hands. Alas!
they were now cold in death. The past arose before him--his early
ambition--his happy marriage--his rapid and flattering success--his hope
for higher honors--his wish for a son to transmit the pride of his
name--his gratified desire. Before its fulfillment, the strongest
principle of his mind was the longing for a son. Afterward, he had
coveted worldly honors--he had garnered wealth that he might transmit to
him the one and the other. Often, after the duties of the day, had he
repaired to that child’s chamber and watched his slumber. How often for
hours had he nursed it in his arms with all a woman’s tenderness and
gushing joy. All his softer feelings--all his holier and better
ones--such as even in the proudest bosom find root, turned toward this
child.
From the soft and sinuous outline of the half-naked babe in the picture,
his eye wandered to the face of the angel-like mother. Those clustering
curls, those sparkling eyes, those blooming cheeks--for a moment they
appeared before him, joyous, brilliant, beautiful and beloved. He
pressed his hand hard with the clinch of suppressed emotion over his
eyes, as the heavy tears fell upon the rich carpet, evidencing that
under the crust of worldly intrigues was a heart that beat strongly. The
grave had claimed both the dear ones whose likeness he looked upon--and
now only a daughter was left to him. This daughter he loved, it is true,
but she could not inherit his name, and every new acquisition of fortune
or fame rendered him only the more anxious to perpetuate those empty
distinctions to his race.
“My son, my son!” murmured the worldly man, “would to God that I could
have died for thee.”
At that instant the great hall bell sounded, and an attendant shortly
afterward entered the apartment, saying, “The Indian chief Tuscalameetah
is below, and would speak with Gen. Lincoln on business of private
import.”
“Let him come up,” was the reply.
In a few moments, a man entered in the wild accoutrements of a native of
the woods. His closely-shaven head was without ornament of any kind,
with the exception of a solitary plume that crossed his crown and hung
over his shoulders. A tomahawk and scalping-knife were in his belt. He
wore a hunting suit of forest green, with moccasons gayly ornamented,
and his buckskin leggings laced at the side were gartered above the
knee. His eye was quick and restless, roaming on every side of him, as
from the habit of mistrusting the sudden approach of an enemy.
Notwithstanding these symptoms of suspicion at the moment of his
entrance, his countenance was not only without guile, but wore an
expression of honesty. He passed from the door, and approached Gen.
Lincoln with the dignified tread of his race.
“What bringeth thee here?” asked the proud man of the savage. “Hast thou
accomplished the errand I entrusted thee with?”
“Tuscalameetah hath done thy bidding, and with the same arrow he has
made sure his own revenge,” answered the other.
“I trust thou hast not committed butchery in this work,” said his
employer. “The moment of extermination has not yet come, and I pray God
it never may be our last resource. I but desired you to find me an
orphan boy among the settlements whom I could make the heir of my name
and wealth.”
“The red man acteth as he will, and cometh back as he sees fit,” replied
the chief, haughtily. “But the son of the clearings shall bless thy
hearth; yet the tomahawk and scalping-knife have not left their
resting-place.”
“It is well,” responded Lincoln, “that thou hast shed no blood. And the
child, is he fair? and wherefore doth he linger?”
“He shall be in thy wigwam ere the sun setteth again,” said
Tuscalameetah. “The lily of the valley cannot compare with him in
whiteness.”
“See that thou bringest him hither by the time thou hast specified,”
rejoined the general, as opening an escritoir which stood on one side of
the room, he handed the Indian a purse of gold. In a few moments he was
again alone.