And was this, then, the end of those sweet dreams
Of home, and happiness, and quiet years?
Miss Landon.
Darkness was about to throw her veil over the earth, when a lofty tent
might have been seen pitched on the extreme summit of a ridge beyond
which lay the horizon in golden beauty. Buffalo skins formed a floor to
the inclosure, and upon these reposed the forms of three human beings.
One was an Indian, evidently of the rank of a chief. He lay on one of
the skins at his lazy length, his feet reaching beyond the opening of
the tent, and his head reposing on a rude pillow, formed of the furry
hides of other wild animals. He smoked a pipe, while his roving eye
often rested upon the farthest of his companions.
At a little distance from the savage we have described sat a female,
whose hair, complexion, and whole looks bespoke her Indian birth. Her
dress, likewise, was that of her tribe, and was of the quality and
texture to mark her as the probable wife of the chief whose company she
bore. A wooden bowl was at her side, and from this she was now in the
act of feeding herself with a spoon of the same material, but with a
slovenly negligence indicative of her origin.
The farthest extremity of the tent revealed another woman, whose
appearance denoted her to be of European extraction. She was blue-eyed,
and of surpassing fairness of skin. Her attitude indicated a mind too
powerfully absorbed in grief to be heedful of appearances, for she sat
with her limbs contracted, and rocking her body to and fro with a motion
that seemed to have its origin in no efforts of her own. Her long,
golden hair hung negligently over a neck of dazzling whiteness; and a
blanket drawn over the top of her head like a veil, and extending partly
around her person, disclosed here and there portions of an apparel which
was strictly American, though much torn. A bowl similar to that of the
Indian female, and filled with the same food, was at her side, but this
was untasted.
“Why does the pale-face refuse to eat?” asked the warrior of her next to
him, as he rolled a volume of smoke from his lips. “Make her eat, for I
would speak to her afterward.”
“Why does she refuse to eat?” echoed the woman, dropping her spoon as
she spoke, and turning to the object of remark, “It is good,” she
continued, as she touched the arm of the heedless sufferer. “Daughter of
the pale-faces, eat.”
A cry of distress burst from the lips of the unhappy girl, as apparently
roused from her abstraction, she suffered the blanket to fall from her
head, and stared wildly at her questioner.
“Is the air of the tent not pleasant to the blossom of the clearings?”
asked the warrior, evidently touched by her seeming misery.
Seeing that she made no answer, he continued, “What is written is
written. The Red-man cannot lie. We must bear thee to the great white
father at a distance. But perchance the door may one day be left open,
and the bird can escape from its nest.”
“Ah! whither can I fly?” exclaimed Grace Bartlett, at length bursting
into tears. “My native village is destroyed, my home is burned, and my
parents and neighbors have fallen victims to the general ruin.” She wept
for some moments bitter tears, which seemed to relieve her overcharged
heart--the chief and his squaw looking on her with more of pity than is
usual in their race.
The next morning their march commenced again through the interminable
forest. The Indian traveled on foot, while the two females were mounted
on mules. The wretchedness of the unfortunate prisoner seemed to
increase throughout the whole route, her companions wearing the stolid
indifference of the North American tribes, except when momently touched
by her situation: For the most part, during the slow ride, Grace
Bartlett was left to her own miserable reflections, receiving only at
rare intervals some rude attentions from the female, who accompanied
her.
The slow pace of the travelers, with various other causes of delay which
it is needless to mention, detained them three nights upon their road.
As soon as darkness approached the tent was again spread, and a halt was
made until the morning. On the fourth evening, instead of encamping as
before, they continued their journey until a late hour, when the eyes of
the captive maiden, wearied with a succession of wild wood scenery,
gazed with something like pleasure upon the scene that now opened before
her.
The object that thus met the gaze of Grace Bartlett as they emerged from
the forest, was one of those stern fortresses of which so many, in our
early history, seemed to accuse England of designs against the Indians.
It had external pretensions to the name by which we call it, for it
looked strong enough to bid defiance to any attempts against it by siege
or storm. A deep moat surrounded the lofty stone turrets on all sides,
and a drawbridge was the only means of crossing to the entrance of the
fort. To Grace, the sight of the fortification, though she gazed on it
at first with pleasure, immediately after brought feelings of pain and
apprehension; and however confident she might be in the good providence
and protection of God, it cannot be denied that she felt deeply and with
an anxious and sickening heart her entrance in a place which might prove
to her a final prison.
After assisting his companions to dismount, the Indian blew a loud,
shrill whistle. He was answered by a sentinel, who carried on a brief
conversation with him, and withdrew to an inner lodge for the key of the
great gate. He soon returned, it creaked upon its hinges, and the heavy
drawbridge swung slowly up with a jarring sound of chains and huge
iron-work--sadly harmonious with the uses of the building which they
shut out. The bell, communicating with the mansion connected with the
fortress, rung, and the chief, with his prisoner, passed slowly in to an
inner court, leaving the squaw standing without.
The glare of light, the sound of music, mingled with the tones of the
human voice in merry laughter and light conversation reached her ear,
and startled the wretched girl with wonder. The Indian, with the utmost
tranquillity and with slow and important steps, led the way toward this
portion of the large and heavy mass of gloomy masonry, which, with its
tall chimneys, loomed up before them. An immense doorway opened upon a
broad staircase that seemed formed to make the head dizzy with its many
windings. Up this the savage proceeded with his prisoner, whom he held
by the arm, half-supporting her weight as she moved passively and like a
piece of mechanism in his fingers. On the first landing they passed a
drawing-room, splendidly illuminated and filled with revelers, from
whence the noise that had reached the court-yard proceeded. Continuing
up the various turnings until they had accomplished another flight, the
savage paused, and opened a door communicating with a single chamber
handsomely furnished.
Its solitary occupant was a man past the prime of life. He seemed
immersed in business, examining documents and reading letters which were
strewn on a table before him. He arose as our party entered, held out
his hand to the Indian, and asked, “Any prisoners?”
“We have taken a daughter of the pale-faces, a blossom of the
clearings,” was the reply of the savage as he pointed to his captive.
“But the air of the woods is not pleasant to her: she pines after the
wigwam of her fathers.”
Grace Bartlett had no sooner entered the apartment than her whole frame
trembled violently, and the color leaving her cheeks, she sank down on
the floor, resting her elbows on her knees and pressing her hands to her
forehead.
The appearance and attitude, indicative at once of extreme fatigue and
the abandonment of despair, did not fail to move the compassionate
feelings of General Lincoln, who raised her gently and seated her in a
large arm-chair.
“Alas!” said he to the warrior, when he had performed this act, “why did
you bring so frail a creature? It were a pity to have made her a
sacrifice to my courtly intrigues and ambitious plans: she is only fit
to be the darling of her parents.”
“My parents!” exclaimed the unhappy girl at this mention of them, “would
to God that I knew their fate!”
“You shall be treated kindly,” said the general to her with much
considerateness of manner, and in a gentle tone. “Every thing shall be
done to make your residence here pleasant. You are fatigued,” he
continued, “sweet maiden,” as he turned to a bell that was suspended
near.
A servant in livery appeared, and after a few brief words from his
master again vanished. He returned presently, followed by a neat
maid-servant.
“Go now,” said Lincoln to Grace, in tones of encouragement, as he gently
assisted her from the chair whereon he had placed her, “to the chamber
provided for you. Susette will perform the offices of your toilet for
you, and furnish you with nourishment suited to your weak condition.”
When left alone with the Indian he paced the room with a disturbed air
and gigantic strides. Suddenly he paused short, and glanced his eye
toward his dusky companion. He beheld the savage regarding him with the
calm but sullen attention which marks the expression of this subtle
people. Instantly recollecting himself, he asked in a friendly tone--
“Tuscalameetah, is the settlement wholly exterminated?”
“It is,” replied the chief. “The pale-faced daughter of her people is
left to mourn over the ashes of her wigwam. In the morning the sun rose
upon the white men as they trod the grass happy and strong, and when the
night came, only their bones were left among the ashes. Tuscalameetah
has done thy bidding.”
“And the youth, called Charles Lincoln, what of him?” inquired the
other. “It is some months since he went to scour the settlements as a
spy. Have any of the tribes met with him?”
“Before the moon go her course,” answered Tuscalameetah, “the stolen
bird will tread the halls of the great white man who is to him as a
father. He is now left with no kindred and no people. The man that drove
back the tribe of Tuscalameetah’s brethren,” continued the Indian, and
his eyes flashed with successful revenge, “is brought to have his tent
destroyed, and his own dust scattered by the whirlwinds.”
Again General Lincoln paced the room, and there was a silence. “You can
depart,” he said at length to the savage.
“It is hard,” muttered he, as he was left alone, “to be stretched on the
rack of a responsibility such as this. But things prosper, and my royal
master is gliding through life enjoying the fruits of my joyless days,
and sleepless nights, and periled salvation, while I am wearing myself
down to the grave. He has none of the remorse which haunts me, making
the dying looks of these massacred people pursue me to my fireside, and
molest the joys of my home.”
“And the poor boy’s parents are dead,” he continued, after a pause.
“Since blood had to be shed, better theirs than that of others, for
there is now naught to come between him and his heirship to my titles
and estates. God be thanked for this, for I love him as if he were the
son whose place I have given him and whose name he bears.”