THE SPEECH OF TIMMENDIQUAS
A score of Indian chiefs sat in the center of a little, almost circular,
prairie, about a half mile across. All these chiefs were men of
distinction in their wild forest way, tall, lean, deep-chested, and with
black eyes full of courage and pride. They wore deerskin dress,
supplemented with blankets of bright blue or red, but deerskin and
blankets alike were of finer quality than those worn by the warriors,
many hundreds in number, who surrounded the chiefs, but at a respectful
distance.
However commanding the chiefs were in presence, all yielded in this
particular to one, a young man of great height, magnificent figure, and
a singularly bold and open countenance. He was painted much less than
the others, and the natural nobility of his features showed.
Unconsciously the rest had gathered about him until he was the center of
the group, and the eyes of every man, Red Eagle, Yellow Panther, Captain
Pipe, and all, were upon him. It was the spontaneous tribute to valor
and worth.
Near the group of chiefs, but just a little apart, sat four white men
and one white boy, although the boy was as large as the men. They, too,
looked over the heads of the others at the young chief in the center,
and around both, grouped in a mighty curve, more than fifteen hundred
warriors waited, with eyes fixed on the same target to see what the
young chief might do or to hear what he might say.
There was an extraordinary quality in this scene, something that the
wilderness alone can witness. It was shown in the fierce, eager glance
of every brown face, the rapt attention, and the utter silence, save for
the multiplied breathing of so many. A crow, wheeling on black wings in
the blue overhead, uttered a loud croak, astonished perhaps at the
spectacle below, but no one paid any attention to him, and, uttering
another croak, he flew away. A rash bear at the edge of the wood was
almost overpowered by the human odor that reached his nostrils, but,
recovering his senses, he lurched away in the other direction.
It was Yellow Panther, the veteran chief, who at last broke the silence.
"What does the great Timmendiquas, head chief of the Wyandots, think of
the things that we have done?" he asked.
Timmendiquas remained silent at least two minutes more, although all
eyes were still centered upon him, and then he rose, slowly and with the
utmost dignity, to his feet. A deep breath like the sighing of the wind
came from the crowd, and then it was still again.
Timmendiquas did not yet speak, nor did he look at any one. His gaze was
that of the seer. He looked over and beyond them, and they felt awe. He
walked slowly to a little mound, ascended it, and turned his gaze all
around the eager and waiting circle. The look out of his eyes had
changed abruptly. It was now that of the warrior and chief who would
destroy his enemies. Another minute of waiting, and he began to speak in
a deep, resonant voice.
"You are here," he cried, "warriors and men of many tribes, Shawnee,
Miami, Delaware, Illinois, Ottawa, and Wyandot. All who live in the
valley north of the Ohio and east of the Mississippi are here. You are
brave men. Sometimes you have fought with one another. In this strife
all have won victory and all have suffered defeat. But you lived the
life that Manitou made you to live, and you were happy, in your own way,
in a great and fair land that is filled with game.
"But a new enemy has come, and, like the buffalo on the far western
plains, his numbers are past counting. When one is slain five grow in
his place. When Manitou made the white man he planted in his soul the
wish to possess all the earth, and he strives night and day to achieve
his wish. While he lives he does not turn back, and dead, his bones
claim the ground in which they lie. He may be afraid of the forest and
the warrior. The growl of the bear and the scream of the panther may
make him tremble, but, trembling, he yet comes."
He paused and looked once more around the whole length of the circle. A
deep murmur of approval broke forth, but the forest orator quieted it
with a single lift of his hand.
"The white man," he resumed, "respects no land but his own. If it does
not belong to himself he thinks that it belongs to nobody, and that
Manitou merely keeps it in waiting for him. He is here now with his
women and children in the land that we and our fathers have owned since
the beginning of time. Many of the white men have fallen beneath our
bullets and tomahawks. We have burned their new houses and uprooted
their corn, but they are more than they were last year, and next year
they will be more than they are now."
He paused again and looked over the circle of his auditors. His eyes
were flashing, and his great figure seemed to swell and grow. Like so
many men of the woods he was a born orator, and practice had increased
his eloquence. A deep, angry murmur came from the crowd. The passion in
their hearts responded to the passion in his voice. Even the white men,
the renegades, black with treason and crime, were moved.
"They will be more next year than they are now," resumed Timmendiquas,
"if we do not drive them back. Our best hunting grounds are there beyond
the Beautiful River, in the land that we call Kain-tuck-ee, and it is
there that the smoke from their cabins lies like a threat across the
sky. It is there that they continually come in their wagons across the
mountains or in the boats down the river.
"The men of our race are brave, they are warriors, they have not yielded
humbly to the coming of the white man. We have fought him many times.
Many of the white scalps are in our wigwams. Sometimes Manitou has given
to us the victory, and again he has given it to this foe of ours who
would eat up our whole country. We were beaten in the attack on the
place they call Wareville, we were beaten again in the attack on the
great wagon train, and we have failed now in our efforts against the
fort and the fleet. Warriors of the allied tribes, is it not so?"
He paused once more, and a deep groan burst from the great circle. He
was playing with the utmost skill upon their emotions, and now every
face clouded as he recalled their failures and losses to them, failures
and losses that they could not afford.
"He is a genius," said Simon Girty to Braxton Wyatt. "I do not like him,
but I will say that he is the greatest man in the west."
"Sometimes I'm afraid of him," said Braxton Wyatt.
The face of Timmendiquas was most expressive. When he spoke of their
defeats his eyes were sad, his features drooped, and his voice took on a
wailing tone. But now he changed suddenly. The head was thrown back, the
chin was thrust out fiercely and aggressively, the black eyes became
coals of fire, and the voice, challenging and powerful, made every heart
in the circle leap up.
"But a true warrior," he said, "never yields. Manitou does not love the
coward. He has given the world, its rivers, its lakes, its forests, and
its game, to the brave man. Warriors of the allied tribes, are you ready
to yield Kain-tuck-ee, over which your fathers have hunted from the
beginning of time, to the white man who has just come?"
A roar burst from the crowd, and with a single impulse fifteen hundred
voices answered, "No!" Many snatched their tomahawks from their belts
and waved them threateningly as if the hated white man already stood
within reach of the blade. Even the old veterans, Yellow Panther and Red
Eagle, were stirred in every fiber, and shouted "No!" with the others.
"I knew that you would say 'No,'" continued Timmendiquas, "although
there are some among you who lost courage, though only for the moment,
and wanted to go home, saying that the white man was too strong. When
the fleet reached the fort they believed that we had failed, but we have
not failed. We are just beginning to tread our greatest war path. The
forces of the white men are united; then we will destroy them all at
once. Warriors, will you go home like women or stay with your chiefs and
fight?"
A tremendous shout burst from the crowd, and the air was filled with the
gleam of metal as they waved their tomahawks. Excited men began to beat
the war drums, and others began to dance the war dance. But Timmendiquas
said no more. He knew when to stop.
He descended slowly and with dignity from the mound, and with the other
chiefs and the renegades he walked to a fire, around which they sat,
resuming their council. But it was not now a question of fighting, it
was merely a question of the best way in which to fight.
"Besides the fleet, Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton, and thirty or forty men
like them have come to the relief of the fort," said Girty.
"It is so," said Timmendiquas.
"It would be a great stroke," continued the renegade, "to destroy Boone
and Kenton along with the fort and the fleet"--he was as anxious as
Timmendiquas to continue the attack.
"That, too, is so," said Timmendiquas gravely. "While it makes our task
the greater, it will make our triumph the greater, also. We will watch
the fleet, which I do not think will move yet, and when our warriors are
rested and restored we will attack again."
"Beyond a doubt you're right," said Girty. "We could never retreat now
and leave them to enjoy a victory. It would encourage them too much and
discourage our own people too much."
Timmendiquas gave him a lightning glance when he used the phrase "our
own people," and Girty for the moment quailed. He knew that the great
White Lightning did not like him, and he knew why. Timmendiquas believed
that a man should be loyal to his own race, and in his heart he must
regard the renegade as what he was--a traitor. But Girty, with all his
crimes, was not a coward, and he was cunning, too, with the cunning of
both the white man and the red. He recovered his courage and continued:
"The taking of this fleet in particular would be the greatest triumph
that we could achieve, and it would be a triumph in a double way. It has
vast quantities of powder, lead, cannon, pistols, bayonets, medicines,
clothing, and other supplies for the people in the east, who are
fighting our friends, the British. If we should take it we'd not only
weaken the Americans, but also secure for ourselves the greatest prize
ever offered in the west."
The eyes of all the chiefs glistened, and Girty, shrewd and watchful,
noticed it. He sought continually to build up his influence among them,
and he never neglected any detail. Now he reached under his buckskin
hunting shirt and drew forth a soiled piece of paper.
"Braxton Wyatt here, a loyal and devoted friend of ours, has been in the
south," he said. "He was at New Orleans and he knows all about this
fleet. He knows how it was formed and he knows what it carries. Listen,
Timmendiquas, to what awaits us if we are shrewd enough and brave enough
to take it:
"One thousand rifles.
"Six hundred muskets.
"Six hundred best French bayonets.
"Four hundred cavalry sabers.
"Two hundred horse pistols, single-barreled.
"Two hundred horse pistols, double-barreled.
"Three hundred dirks.
"Six brass eighteen-pounder field pieces.
"Four brass twelve-pounder field pieces.
"Two brass six-pounder field pieces.
"Four bronze twelve-pounder field guns.
"Ten thousand rounds of ammunition for the cannon.
"Two hundred barrels of best rifle powder.
"Thirty thousand pounds of bar lead and more than two hundred thousand
dollars worth of clothing, provisions, and medicines.
"Wouldn't that make your mouth water? Did any of us ever before have a
chance to help at the taking of such a treasure?"
"It is not wonderful that the white men fight so well to keep what they
carry," said Timmendiquas.
Then the chief questioned Braxton Wyatt closely about the fleet and the
men who were with it. His questions were uncommonly shrewd, and the
young leader saw that he was trying to get at the character of the boy.
Wyatt was compelled to give minute descriptions of Adam Colfax,
Drouillard and the five, Henry Ware, Paul, Shif'less Sol, Tom Ross, and
Long Jim.
"We know him whom you call the Ware," said Timmendiquas with a sort of
grim humor, "and we have seen his strength and speed. Although but a boy
in years, he is already a great warrior. He is the one whom you hate the
most, is he not?"
He looked straight into Braxton Wyatt's eyes, and the young renegade had
an uncomfortable feeling that the chief was having fun at his expense.
"It is so," he admitted reluctantly. "I have every cause to hate him. He
has done me much harm, and I would do the same to him."
"The youth called the Ware fights for his own people," said Timmendiquas
gravely.
There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute, but the flexible Girty
made the best of it.
"And Braxton, who is a most promising boy, fights for his, too," he
said. "He has adopted the red race, he belongs to it, and it is his, as
much as if he was born to it."
Timmendiquas shrugged his shoulders, and, rising, walked away. Girty
followed him with a bitter and malevolent glance.
"I wish I was strong enough to fight against you, my haughty red
friend," was his thought, "but I'm not, and so I suppose it's policy for
me to fight for you."
The Indians devoted the rest of that day to recuperation. Despite their
losses, perfect concord still existed among the tribes, and, inflamed by
their own natural passions and the oratory of Timmendiquas, they were
eager to attack again. They had entire confidence in the young Wyandot
chief, and when he walked among them old and young alike followed him
with looks of admiration.
Hunters were sent northward after game, buffalo, deer, and wild turkeys
being plentiful, and the others, after cleaning their rifles, slept on
the ground. The renegades still kept to themselves in a large buffalo
skin tepee, although they intended to mingle with the warriors later on.
They knew, despite the dislike of Timmendiquas, that their influence was
great, and that it might increase.
Twilight came over the Indian camp. Many of the warriors, exhausted from
the battle and their emotions, still slept, lying like logs upon the
ground. Others sat before the fires that rose here and there, and ate
greedily of the food that the hunters had brought in. On the outskirts
near the woods the sentinels watched, walking up and down on silent
feet.
Simon Girty, prince of renegades, sat at the door of the great buffalo
skin tepee and calmly smoked a pipe, the bowl of which contained some
very good tobacco. His eyes were quiet and contemplative, and his dark
features were at rest. In the softening twilight he might have seemed a
good man resting at his door step, with the day's work well done.
Nor was Simon Girty unhappy. The fallen, whether white or red, were
nothing to him. He need not grieve over a single one of them. Despite
the distrust of Timmendiquas, he saw a steady growth of his power and
influence among the Indians, and it was already great. He watched the
smoke from his pipe curl up above his face, and then he closed his eyes.
But the picture that his fancy had drawn filled his vision. He was no
obscure woods prowler. He was a great man in the way in which he wished
to be great. His name was already a terror over a quarter of a million
square miles. Who in the west, white or red, that had not heard of Simon
Girty? When he spoke the tribes listened to him, and they listened with
respect. He was no beggar among them, seeking their bounty. He brought
them knowledge, wisdom, and victory. They were in his debt, not he in
theirs. But this was only the beginning. He would organize them and lead
them to other and greater victories. He would use this fierce chief,
Timmendiquas, for his own purposes, and rise also on his achievements.
The soul of Simon Girty was full of guile and cunning and great plans.
He opened his eyes, but the vision did not depart. He meant to make it
real. Braxton Wyatt came to the door, also, and stood there looking at
the Indian horde. Girty regarded him critically, and noted once more
that he was tall and strong. He knew, too, that he was bold and
skillful.
"Braxton," he said, and his tone was mild and persuasive, "why are you
so bitter against this boy Ware and his comrades?"
The young renegade frowned, but after a little hesitation he replied:
"We came over the mountains together and we were at Wareville together,
but I never liked him. I don't know why it was in the beginning, but I
suppose it was because we were different. Since then, in all the
contests between us, he and his friends have succeeded and I have
failed. I have been humiliated by him, too, more than once. Are not
these causes enough for hatred?"
Girty drew his pipe from his mouth, and blew a ring of smoke that
floated slowly above his head.
"They are good enough causes," he replied, "but I've learned this,
Braxton: it doesn't pay to have special hatreds, to be trying always to
get revenge upon some particular person. It interferes too much with
business. I don't like Timmendiquas, because he doesn't like me, doesn't
approve of me, and gives me little stabs now and then. But I don't waste
any time trying to injure him. I'm going to make use of him."
"I can't make use of Henry Ware and the others," said Braxton Wyatt
impatiently.
Girty blew another ring of smoke and laughed.
"No, you can't, and that's the truth," he said, "but what I wanted to
tell you was not to be in too great a hurry. You've got talents,
Braxton. I've been watching you, and I see that you're worth having with
us. Just you stick to me, and I'll make a great man of you. I'm going to
consolidate all these tribes and sweep the west clean of every white.
I'm going to be a king, I tell you, a woods king, and I'll make you a
prince, if you stick to me."
A glow appeared in the eyes of Braxton Wyatt.
"I'll stick to you fast enough," he said.
"Do it," said Girty in a tone of confidence, "and you can have all the
revenge you want upon the boy, Ware, his comrades, and all the rest of
them. Maybe you won't have to wait long, either."
"That is, if we take the fort," said Wyatt.
"Yes, if we take the fort, and I'm specially anxious to take it now,
because Dan'l Boone is in it. I don't hate Boone more than I do others,
but he's a mighty good man to have out of our way."
McKee, Eliot, Quarles, and Blackstaffe joined them, and long after the
twilight had gone and the night had come they talked of their wicked
plans.