A curious and motley assembly was present that night in the halls of
Sir William Johnson. There were several ladies and gentlemen from
Albany: several young military men, and two or three persons of a
class now extinct, but who then drove a very thriving commerce, and
whose peculiar business it was to trade with the Indians. Some of the
latter were exceedingly well-educated men; and one or two of them were
persons, not only of enlightened minds, but of enlarged views and
heart. The others were mere brutal speculators, whose whole end and
object in life was to wring as much from the savage, and give as
little in return, as possible.
Besides these, an Indian chief would, from time to time, appear in the
rooms, often marching through in perfect silence, observing all that
was going on with dignified gravity, and then going back to his
companions at the castle. Amongst the rest was Otaitsa, still in her
Indian costume, but evidently in gala dress, of the finest cloth and
the most elaborate embroidery. Not only was she perfectly at her ease,
talking to every one, laughing with many; but the sort of shrinking,
timid tenderness which gave her so great a charm in the society of the
few whom she loved, had given place to a wild spirit of gaiety, little
in accordance with the character of her nation.
She glided hither and thither through the room; she rested in one
place hardly for a moment; her jests were as light, and sometimes as
sharp, as those of almost any Parisian dame; and, when one of the
young officers ventured to speak to her somewhat lightly as the mere
Indian girl, she piled upon him a mass of ridicule that wrung tears of
laughter from the eyes of one or two elder men standing near.
"I know not what has come to the child to-night," said Mr. Gore, who
was seated near Edith in one of the rooms; "a wild spirit seems to
have seized upon her, which is quite unlike her whole character and
nature--unlike the character of her people, too, or I might think that
the savage had returned notwithstanding all my care."
"Perhaps it is the novelty and excitement of the scene," observed
Edith.
"Oh, no," answered the missionary; "there is nothing new in this scene
to her; she has been at these meetings several times during the last
two or three years, but never seemed to yield to their influence as
she has done to-night."
"She has hardly spoken a word to me," said Edith; "I hope she will not
forget the friends who love her."
"No fear of that, my dear," replied Mr. Gore. "Otaitsa is all heart,
and that heart is a gentle one. Under its influence is she acting now;
it throbs with something that we do not know; and those light words,
that make us smile to hear, have sources deep within her--perhaps of
bitterness."
"I think I have heard her say," remarked Edith, "that you educated her
from her childhood."
"When first I joined the People of the Stone," replied the missionary,
"I found her there, a young child of three years old. Her mother was
just dead; and, although her father bore his grief with the stern,
gloomy stoicism of his nation, and neither suffered tear to fall nor
sigh to escape his lips, I could see plainly enough that he was struck
with grief such as the Indian seldom feels, and never shows. He
received me most kindly; made my efforts with his people easy; and
though I know not to this hour whether with himself I have been
successful in communicating blessed light, he gave his daughter
altogether up to my charge, and with her I have _not_ failed. I fear
in him the savage is too deeply rooted ever to be wrung forth, but I
have made _her_ one of Christ's flock, indeed."
It seemed, as if by a sort of instinct, that Otaitsa discovered she
was the subject of conversation between her two friends. Twice she
looked round at them from the other side of the room, and at length
glided across, and seated herself beside Edith. For a moment she sat
in silence there; and then, leaning her head gracefully on her
beautiful companion's shoulder, she said, in a low whisper--
"Do not close thine eyes this night, my sister, till thou seest me."
Having thus spoken, she started up, and mingled with the little crowd
again.
It was still early in the night when Edith retired to the chamber
assigned for her; for, even in the most fashionable society of those
times, people had not learned to drive the day into the night, and
make morning and evening meet. Her room was a large and handsome one;
and though plainly, it was sufficiently furnished. No forest, as at
her own dwelling, intercepted the beams of the rising moon; so she sat
and contemplated the ascent of the queen of night, as she soared
grandly over the distant trees.
The conduct of Otaitsa during that evening had puzzled Edith, and the
few whispered words had excited her curiosity; for it must not be
forgotten that Edith was altogether unacquainted with the fact of one
of the Oneidas having been slain by the hands of Captain Brooks,
within little more than two miles of her own abode. She proceeded to
make her toilet for the night, however, and was almost undressed when
she heard the door of her room open quietly, and Otaitsa stole in, and
cast her arms around her.
"Ah, my sister," she exclaimed, "I have longed to talk with you."
Seating herself by her side, she leaned her head again upon Edith's
shoulder, but remained silent for several minutes.
The fair English girl knew that it was better to let her take her own
time, and her own manner, to speak whatever she had to say; but
Otaitsa remained so long without uttering a word, that an indefinable
feeling of alarm spread over her young companion. She felt her bosom
heave, as if with struggling sighs; she even felt some warm drops,
like tears, fall upon her shoulder; and yet Otaitsa remained without
speaking; till at length Edith said, in a gentle and encouraging
tone,--
"What is it, my sister? There can surely be nothing you should be
afraid to utter to my ear."
"Not afraid," answered Otaitsa; and then she relapsed into silence.
"But why do you weep, my sweet Blossom?" said Edith, after pausing for
a moment or two, to give her time to recover her composure.
"Because one of your people has killed one of my people," answered the
Indian girl sorrowfully. "Is not that enough to make me weep?"
"Indeed!" exclaimed Edith. "I am much grieved to hear it, Blossom; but
when did this happen, and how?"
"It happened only yesterday," replied the girl, "and but a little
towards the morning from your own house, my sister. It was a sad
day!--it was a sad day!"
"But I trust it was none near and dear to thee, Blossom, or to the
Black Eagle," said Edith, putting her arms around her, and trying to
soothe her.
"No, no," answered Otaitsa; "he was a bad man, a treacherous man, one
whom my father loved not. But that matters little. They will have
blood for _his_ blood."
The truth flashed upon Edith's mind at once; for, although less
acquainted with the Indian habits than her brother or her father, she
knew enough of their revengeful spirit to feel sure that they would
seek the death of the murderer with untiring eagerness, and she
questioned her sweet companion earnestly as to all the particulars of
the sad tale. Otaitsa told her all she knew, which was, indeed, nearly
all that could be told. The man called the Snake, she said, had been
shot by the white man Woodchuck, in the wood to the north-east of Mr.
Prevost's house. Intimation of the fact had spread like fire in dry
grass through the whole of the Oneidas, who were flocking to the
meeting at Sir William Johnson's castle, and from them would run
through the whole tribe.
"Woodchuck has escaped," Otaitsa said, "or would have been slain ere
now; but they will have his life yet, my sister,"--and then she added
slowly and sorrowfully, "or the life of some other white man, if they
cannot catch the one."
Her words presented to Edith's mind a sad and terrible idea--one more
fearful in its vagueness and uncertainty of outline than in the
darkness of particular points. That out of a narrow and limited
population, some one was foredoomed to be slain--that out of a small
body of men, all feeling almost as brethren, one was to be marked out
for slaughter--that one family was to lose husband, or father, or
brother, and no one could tell which--made her feel like one of a herd
of wild animals, cooped up within the toils of the hunters.
Edith's first object was to learn more from her young companion; but
Otaitsa had told almost all she knew.
"What they will do I know not," she said; "they do not tell us women.
But I fear, Edith, I fear very much; for they say our brother Walter
was with Woodchuck when the deed was done."
"Not so, not so," cried Edith; "had he been so, I should have heard of
it. He has gone to Albany, and had he been present I am sure he would
have stopped it if he could. If your people tell truth, they will
acknowledge that he was not there."
Otaitsa raised her head suddenly, with a look of joy, exclaiming,--
"I will make her tell the truth, were she as cunning a snake as he
was; but yet, my sister Edith, some one else will have to die if they
find not the man they seek."
The last words were spoken in a melancholy tone again; but then she
started up, repeating,--
"I will make her tell the truth."
"Can you do so?" asked Edith; "snakes are always very crafty."
"I will try at least," answered the girl; "but oh, my sister, it were
better for you, and Walter, and your father too, to be away. When a
storm is coming, we try to save what is most precious. There is yet
ample time to go; for the red people are not rash, and do not act
hastily, as you white people do."
"But is there no means," asked Edith, "of learning what the intention
of the tribe really is?"
"I know of none," replied the girl, "that can be depended upon with
certainty. The people of the Stone change no more than the stone from
which they sprang. The storm beats upon them, the sun shines upon
them, and there is little difference on the face of the rock. Yet let
your father watch well when he is at the great talk, to-morrow. Then,
if the priest is very smooth and soft-spoken, and if the Black Eagle
is stern and silent, and wraps his blanket over his left breast, be
sure that something sad is meditated. That is all that I can tell
you--but I will make this woman speak the truth if there be truth in
her, and that, too, before the chiefs of the nation. Now, sister, lie
down to rest. Otaitsa is going at once to her people."
"But are you not afraid?" asked Edith. "It is a dark night, dear
Blossom. Lie down with me, and wait till the morning sunshine."
"I have no fear," answered the Indian girl; "nothing will hurt me.
There are times, sister, when a spirit possesses us, that defies all
and fears nothing. So has it been with me this night. The only thing I
dreaded to face was my own thought, and I would not suffer it to rest
upon anything till I had spoken with you. Now, however, I have better
hopes. I will go forth, and I will make her tell the truth."
Thus saying, she left Edith's chamber, and, in about an hour and a
half, she stood beside her father, who was seated near a fire kindled
in one corner of the court attached to a large house, or rather fort,
built by Sir William Johnson on the banks of the Mohawk, and called by
him his Castle. Round the Sachem, forming a complete circle, sat a
number of the head men of the Oneidas, each in that peculiar crouching
position which has been rendered familiar to our eyes by numerous
paintings. The court and the castle itself were well nigh filled with
Indians of other tribes of the Five Nations; but none took any part in
the proceedings of the Oneidas but themselves.
The only stranger who was present in the circle was Sir William
Johnson. He was still fully dressed in his British uniform, and seated
on a chair in an attitude of much dignity, with his left hand resting
on the hilt of his sword. With the exception of that weapon, he had no
arms whatever, and indeed it was his custom to sleep frequently in the
midst of his red friends utterly unarmed and defenceless. The occasion
seemed a solemn one, for all faces were very grave, and a complete
silence prevailed for several minutes.
"Bring in the woman," said Black Eagle, at length; "bring her in, and
let her speak the truth."
"Of what do you accuse her, Otaitsa?" asked Sir William Johnson,
fixing his eyes upon his beautiful guest.
"Of uttering lies to the Sachem and to her brethren," answered
Otaitsa. "Her breath has been full of the poison of the snake."
"Thou hearest," said Black Eagle, turning to a woman of some one or
two-and-twenty years of age. "What sayest thou?"
"I lie not," answered the woman, in the Indian tongue. "I saw him lift
the rifle, and shoot my brother dead."
"Who did it?" asked Black Eagle, gravely and calmly.
"The Woodchuck," answered the woman; "he did it. I know his face too
well."
"Believe her not," rejoined Otaitsa. "The Woodchuck was ever a friend
of our nation. He is our brother. He would not slay an Oneida."
"But he was my brother's enemy," answered the woman; "there was
vengeance between them."
"Vengeance on thy brother's part," retorted the old chief; "more
likely he to slay the Woodchuck, than the Woodchuck to slay him."
"If she have a witness, let her bring him forward," said Otaitsa. "We
will believe her by the tongue of another."
"I have none," cried the woman, vehemently. "I have none; but I saw
him kill my brother with my own eyes, and I cry for his blood."
"Didst thou not say that there were two white men with him?" asked
Otaitsa, raising up her right hand. "Then in this thou hast lied to
the Sachem and thy brethren, and who shall say whether thou speakest
the truth now?"
A curious sort of drowsy hum ran round the circle of the Indians; and
one old man said--"She has spoken well."
The woman in the meanwhile stood silent and abashed, with her eyes
fixed upon the ground; and the Black Eagle said, in a grave tone,
"There was none."
"No," said the woman, lifting her look firmly, "there was none; but I
saw two others in the wood hard by, and I was sure they were his
companions."
"That is guile," said Black Eagle, sternly. "Thou didst say that there
were two men with him, one the young, pale-face Walter, and the other
a tall stranger; and thou broughtest a cloud over our eyes, and madest
us think that they were present at the death."
"Then methinks, Black Eagle," said Sir William Johnson, using their
language nearly as fluently as his own, "there is no faith to be put
in the woman's story, and we cannot tell what has happened."
"Not so, my brother," answered Black Eagle. "We know that the Snake
was slain yesterday, before the sun had reached the pine tops. We
believe, too, that the Woodchuck slew him, for there was enmity
between them, and the ball which killed him was a large ball, such as
we have never seen but in that man's pouch."
"That is doubtful evidence," said Sir William, "and I trust my brother
will let vengeance cease till he have better witnesses."
The Indians remained profoundly silent for more than a minute; and
then the old man who had spoken once before, replied--
"If our brother will give us up Woodchuck, vengeance shall cease."
"That I cannot do," answered Sir William Johnson. "First, I have no
power; secondly, he may be tried by our laws; but I will not lie to
you. If he can show he did it in self-defence, he will be set free."
Again there was a long silence; and then Black Eagle rose, saying--
"We must take counsel."
His face was very grave; and as he spoke, he drew the large blue
blanket which covered his shoulders over his left breast with the
gesture which Otaitsa had described to Edith as indicating some dark
determination. Sir William Johnson marked the signs he saw, and was
too well acquainted with the Indian character to believe that their
thirst for blood was at all allayed; but neither by expression of
countenance nor by words did he show any doubt of his red friends, and
he slept amongst them calmly that night, without a fear of the result.
At an early hour on the following morning, all the arrangements were
made for the great Council or "Talk" that was about to be held. Some
large arm-chairs were brought forth into the court. A few soldiers
were seen moving about, and some negro servants. A number of the
guests from the Hall came up about nine o'clock, most of them on
horseback; but when all were assembled, the body of white men present
were few and insignificant compared with the multitude of Indians who
surrounded them. No one showed or entertained any fear, however, and
the conference commenced and passed off with perfect peace and
harmony.
It is true that several of the Indian chiefs, and more especially King
Hendrick as he was called, the son of the chief who had been killed
near Port George a year or two before, made some complaints against
the English government for neglect of the just claims of their red
allies. All angry feeling, however, was removed by a somewhat large
distribution of presents; and, after hearing everything which the
Indians had to say, Sir William Johnson rose from the chair in which
he had been seated, with Lord H---- and Mr. Prevost on either side,
and addressed the assembly in English, his speech being translated,
sentence after sentence, by an interpreter, according to his
invariable custom when called upon to deal publicly with the heads of
the Five Nations.
The whole of his address cannot be given here; but it was skilfully
turned to suit the prejudices and conciliate the friendship of the
people to whom he spoke. He said that their English father, King
George, loved his red children with peculiar affection; but that, as
his lodge was a long way off, he could not always know their wants and
wishes. He had very lately, however, shown his great tenderness and
consideration for the Five Nations, by appointing him, Sir William
Johnson, as Indian agent, to make known, as speedily as possible, all
that his red children desired. He then drew a glowing picture of the
greatness and majesty of the English monarch, as the Attotarho, or
chief leader of a thousand different nations, sitting under a
pine-tree that reached to the sky, and receiving every minute messages
from his children in every part of the earth.
A hum of satisfaction from the Indians followed this flight of fancy;
and then the speaker went on to say that this great chief, their
father, had long ago intended to do much for them, and still intended
to do so, but that the execution of his benevolent purposes had been
delayed and impeded by the machinations of the French, _their_ enemies
and _his_, whom he represented as stealthily lying in wait for all the
ships and convoys of goods and presents which were destined for his
Indian children, and possessing themselves of them by force or fraud.
Rich as he might be, he asked how was it possible that their white
father could supply all their wants, when he had so many to provide
for, and when so many of his enemies had dug up the tomahawk at once.
If the chiefs of the Five Nations, however, he said, would vigorously
aid him in his endeavours, King George would speedily drive the French
from America; and, to show his intention of so doing, he had sent over
the great chief on his right hand, Lord H----, and many other mighty
warriors, to fight side by side with their red brethren. More, he
said, would come over in the ensuing spring; and with the first flower
that blossoms under the hemlock-trees, the English warriors would be
ready for the battle, if the Indian chiefs there present would promise
them cordial support and co-operation.
It must not be supposed that, in employing very exaggerated
language, Sir William had any intention of deceiving. He merely used
figures suited to the comprehension of his auditors; and his speech
gave the very highest satisfaction. The unusually large presents
which had been distributed--the presence and bearing of the young
nobleman who accompanied him, and a natural weariness of the state of
semi-neutrality between the French and English, which they had
maintained for some time, disposed the chiefs to grant the utmost he
could desire; and the conference broke up with the fullest assurance
of support from the heads of the Iroquois tribes--assurances which
were faithfully made good in the campaigns which succeeded.