THE WIFE’S STRUGGLE
Many months had elapsed since Walter Butler’s capture, and no tidings of
him had reached his young Indian wife, left mourning in her home on the
borders of Seneca Lake.
Catharine Montour believed that he had deserted her child, for she knew
him to be a man capable of any deed, however despicable, and though her
heart was wrung with anguish by the sight of Tahmeroo’s suffering, she
could not regret his absence, feeling that the misery of desertion was
nothing compared to that which the poor girl might have been forced to
endure from his indifference and cruelty.
Queen Esther had exhibited no astonishment at Butler’s absence, but in
truth her lion-like heart was stirred by many conflicting emotions, all
overpowered by a strong desire to avenge the slight which he had dared
to put upon her grandchild. So, amid them all, Tahmeroo found little
comfort, and wore away the time as best she might, concealing her sorrow
with all the fortitude of her savage nature, though her altered face and
wasted form betrayed the grief preying within.
At length her father returned from the warpath, and, after much
persuasion, consented to go forth and seek for tidings of the absent
husband. Even his stern nature was moved by his daughter’s suffering,
and, collecting a band of his warriors, he set forth, promising ere long
to return with tidings which should relieve the girl’s wretchedness.
On the fourth day of his absence Tahmeroo went up to the great stone
house where Queen Esther dwelt in almost regal state. The old woman was
absent, and Tahmeroo sat down in a deserted apartment, to await her
return. She crouched upon a low stool in a darkened corner, not weeping,
but hiding her face in her hands, and bearing her suffering with the
silent endurance natural to her Indian blood. She could not believe that
Butler had deserted her, and, still confident of his love, could she but
discover his residence, would gladly have crept to him with the
affection which nothing could shake, and besought him to return. That
strong love had completely subdued the passionate pride of her nature,
and, rather than be parted from him, she would have sold herself a slave
in his behalf, asking only the sunshine of his presence and the glory of
his love. That wild devotion had so mingled itself with the religious
creed her mother had taught the girl that it became a part of her
religion, and only death could have torn it from her heart.
There she sat in the gloomy chamber, motionless as a figure carved from
stone, her garments falling over her bosom in stirless folds, as if no
pulse beat beneath. A touch roused her, she sprang to her feet and
glared around with her feverish eyes, thinking it might be her father
who had returned, but when she met her granddame’s steely glance she
fell back to her seat in the apathy of deeper despair.
Queen Esther had entered the room with her usual panther-like movement
and approached her unheeded. She stood for a moment regarding her in
silence, her withered hand still resting upon the girl’s shoulder. If
any feeling of sympathy stirred in that stony bosom her hardened
features were incapable of expressing it, and her cold eyes looked down
upon the unhappy girl in unmoved sternness.
“Arise, Tahmeroo,” she said at length, in her clear, metallic voice; “a
chief’s daughter should not crouch down and weep like a puny pale face.
Wrestle with your sorrow, and if you cannot cure it, tear the heart from
your bosom.”
“I am not weeping,” replied the girl, sullenly; “Tahmeroo has no tears,
and she is not afraid to meet her grief—is not Queen Esther’s blood in
her veins?”
“Brave girl! Wait—wait—we will lie in ambush for our prey, and when we
catch him, Esther’s knife shall avenge her grandchild’s wrongs.”
“No, no!” shrieked the affrighted creature, grasping the old woman’s
uplifted arm; “you will not harm him, promise me that you will not—have
mercy!”
“Did Esther ever fail to avenge a wrong? Does Tahmeroo think the old
queen in her dotage that she talks to her of mercy? To an insult there
is but one answer—a bullet, flames, or the knife!”
“Then I swear by the Great Spirit that you shall kill me, too; the knife
that drinks his blood shall be sheathed in mine; then let Queen Esther
carry it next her bosom, if she will.”
Her form was thrown back in wild energy, all the fire and beauty
returned to her face, before so pale and spiritless. The woman looked at
her with exultation which she seldom exhibited.
“The blood of the Shawnee chief is hot in his daughter’s bosom,” she
said, proudly. “Let Tahmeroo have patience, the white brave may yet
return; he is no traitor, and he loves our wandering life; he hates the
rebels, too, and in his cabin hang many war-scalps, with pale hair
streaming from them.” Tahmeroo heard only a portion of these words and
her heart clung to that cold assurance as if it had been a prophecy.
“He will return!” she exclaimed; “I know he will return—perhaps he may
come back with the chief; he has been delayed by sickness, or——”
“Death!” said Esther.
The word fell like a blow on the heart of her listener.
“No, he is not dead,” she sobbed. “Tahmeroo would have known it; the
dream-spirit would have revealed it to her—say that he is not dead.”
A wild animal would have been softened by the anguish of her tone, but
Esther only waved her off, saying, coldly:
“We shall know; let Tahmeroo be patient.”
The tramp of horses sounded from without, and through the casement
Tahmeroo saw her father dismounting before the door, in the midst of his
warriors.
She rushed into the broad hall, but Queen Esther drew her back with a
fierce grasp.
“Shame!” she hissed; “will the chief’s daughter expose herself to her
father’s braves, like the burden-women of her tribe?”
She flung Tahmeroo aside, as she might have thrown down one of the young
panther cubs, which she fed daily from her own hands.
The chief Gi-en-gwa-tah entered the room with his usual stately tread,
and in spite of her grandmother’s warning frown Tahmeroo sprang towards
him, extending her hands in mute supplication.
“What news does the chief bring to his daughter?” Queen Esther asked in
the Shawnee dialect, for she seldom spoke her own language, carrying her
hatred of the race even to an aversion of their tongue.
“The white brave is alive,” Gi-en-gwa-tah replied.
“Then, why does he not come?” asked Esther, sternly.
“Speak, father,” pleaded Tahmeroo; “is he sick? where is he? let me go
to him!”
“Tahmeroo questions like a foolish maiden,” he said, reprovingly, “and
gives the chief no time to answer.”
“The girl is anxious,” Esther said, sternly, with a woman’s true spirit
of contradiction, rebuking the chief for severity which she herself
would have shown had he remained silent. “Where is the young pale face?
speak.”
“A prisoner among the rebels,” returned Gi-en-gwa-tah.
Tahmeroo fell forward with a low moan, and lay upon the floor writhing
in silent anguish. Even the chief’s dark face softened, and though
nothing enraged Queen Esther so violently as any display of weakness,
she spoke no word of chiding, but raised the girl and placed her on a
seat.
“Where—where?” gasped Tahmeroo, as soon as she could speak.
“In Albany—there he has been for months, confined in jail under sentence
of death.”
“Save him, oh, save him!” pleaded Tahmeroo. “You are a great warrior, my
father; you will save him! Grand-dame—queen—bring back Tahmeroo’s
husband or let her die, now.”
“If he is killed, we will avenge him!” hissed Esther, clutching the hilt
of the hunting-knife which she wore in her girdle. “Look up, Tahmeroo,
we will have blood for blood!”
“That will not give him back to me,” said Tahmeroo, shuddering; “blood,
always blood—I am sick of vengeance—I want my husband.”
“We can do nothing,” Esther replied; “nothing yet—Tahmeroo must be
patient; she knows that the young chief is true to her.”
“Who dared think otherwise?” exclaimed Tahmeroo, with passionate
defiance. “Let all beware—Tahmeroo can revenge also, not herself, but
her husband. I must find him,” she continued, shrinking again into her
womanly weakness; “he shall be set at liberty. Father, father, is there
no way?”
“Let Tahmeroo leave us for a while,” said Esther; “the chief cannot
counsel with children.”
“But you will free him—you are very powerful?”
“We can do nothing yet, but we can revenge his death!”
Tahmeroo hurried away, horror-stricken by the oft-repeated word, and
flew down the road towards the lake. Her mother’s house was upon the
border of the water, and full three miles distant; but Tahmeroo never
paused for breath, speeding along with the grace and swiftness of a
young doe. There was a terrible pressure at her heart, but hope had once
more begun to revive in it; she knew where her husband was, and could
not believe that those so-all-powerful as she deemed her own family,
could be without ability to save him.
Catharine Montour was seated in her lonely house, brooding over the sad
thoughts which for months had returned to torture her with greater force
from the few vague words which Butler had dropped that night, half in
wantonness, half in revenge. Her conversation with the missionary had
opened her long-silent heart, and amid the solitude of her life she was
forced to listen to its troubled beatings. She had lost much of the
indomitable will which had so long supported her, and the barbarous
cruelty by which she was surrounded became every day more painful and
revolting; as her own noble nature resumed its sway, she grew kind and
gentle as a child but very sad.
Those cruel words which Butler had flung like a dagger at her heart were
harder to bear than all beside. Murray was still alive—the evil chances
of their destiny might bring them once more together, and that meeting
would be as painful as if all the long weary past had been obliterated
and the early vitality of their suffering brought back upon them.
Catherine was worn out with struggles; her former pride and courage had
forsaken her, and she longed to creep away to some quiet haunt where she
might die alone.
The hard spirit of infidelity which she had forced upon her soul was
shaken off; she could no longer delude herself with the false belief
with which she had long endeavored to silence the pleadings of her
conscience, and the familiar truths taught her in childhood, which were
coming back to her soul, like a flock of doves to their desolated nests,
had not yet acquired strength enough to afford her comfort.
When the door opened, and Tahmeroo rushed into the room, pale and
agitated, she looked dreamily up, like one whose thoughts come back,
with an effort, from afar, unfolded her hands from the loose sleeves of
her robe, and smiled a sad welcome.
“Mother—oh, mother!” exclaimed the girl, “the chief has news—my brave is
a prisoner among the rebels.”
Catharine Montour felt almost a pang of disappointment; she knew that
his desertion or death would be nothing to what must come. Tahmeroo’s
pride would, in a measure, have aided her to bear the former; but there
was no refuge from his coldness or neglect. His safety seemed to her a
misfortune.
“Speak, mother—comfort Tahmeroo, she is very wretched! Will you not help
her—will you not save her husband? The granddame talks of vengeance, but
your child pines for her mate—you are merciful and good—oh, help me!”
“Alas, my poor bird!” Catharine said, folding her to her heart, “I am
powerless; the rebels are our enemies, and I cannot go into their
camps.”
“But he is in their city—in Albany.”
“There, least of all—they would only imprison me also.”
“What is imprisonment or death!” cried Tahmeroo.
“I would dare everything to be near him! Go with me, mother—go with me!”
“It is impossible—the chief would never consent; besides, we should
rather do harm than good. I will write to Sir John Johnson, who is in
Canada; he may have captives that he can exchange for your—for Butler.”
“But weeks and months will be wasted, and I must find him at once.”
“But there is no way; be calm, child—you cannot.”
“Mother, I will! The blood of great warriors beats in Tahmeroo’s heart;
she will dare everything—danger, death—to free her husband!”
“Listen to me, Tahmeroo, and try to understand; don’t tremble and look
so wild! The means that you propose could be of no avail. You must wait
until we hear from Canada; then we shall be able to decide what is
best.”
“I cannot—oh, I cannot!” cried Tahmeroo, with a sudden burst of grief.
“Nobody has any pity on me—none of you ever loved, or you would not
treat Tahmeroo so coldly.”
Catharine’s arms released their hold and fell to her side; a sickly
pallor gathered about her mouth, and her sad eyes grew dim.
“Everywhere the same!” she murmured, “everywhere! Life, life, if we
could only escape it—cast it forth!”
“What do you say, mother? How white your lips are. Oh, you do pity
Tahmeroo—hold me to your heart again, and tell me that you pity me!”
Catharine took the unhappy girl to her bosom in a long embrace, and
Tahmeroo wept for a time in silence. But soon her impatience came back,
and again she began pleading for aid to send after her husband.
“Let a band of warriors go to their city,” she said; “we will burn it to
ashes, if they refuse to give him up!”
“Oh, Tahmeroo!” shuddered Catharine; “do not become a fiend like the
rest—let not my own child be an added curse to me! Think of the
bloodshed, the innocent lives that would suffer; the loving
hearts—hearts like your own—that would be tortured!”
“Forgive me, mother; but ah, I suffer so! I seem going mad! Then the
whole tribe will pity me, for when the Great Spirit tortures a brain
with fire, they can pity.”
She fell at her mother’s feet, with renewed prayers and supplications;
but Catharine was powerless, and though she pitied her child, she was so
worn out by the struggles of the past months that she had no energy
left. She arose at length, and pushing Tahmeroo gently away, walked
slowly out of the room.
The girl stood for some moments in despairing silence; then a gleam of
hope brightened over her face.
“I will go,” she exclaimed aloud, “I will go myself to Albany—at least,
I shall be near him. And the young pale face of Wyoming—the Great Spirit
has given her strange power—I will go to her, she will help me.”
Before her mother returned to the apartment, Tahmeroo had
disappeared—whither, no one knew. Half a dozen of her father’s warriors
quitted the settlement with her; but they left no trail in the forest by
which her route could be traced.