Yantwaia, or, as he was more commonly called, Cornplanter, was
originally a Seneca chief, but when the five war tribes
consolidated, forming the historical "Five Nations," he became their
leader. An old historian said of this renowned chieftain: "Tradition
says that the blood of a famous white man coursed through the veins
of Cornplanter. The tribe he led was originally ruled by an Indian
queen of singular power and beauty. She was born to govern her
people by the force of her character. Many a great chief importuned
her to become his wife, but she preferred to cling to her power and
dignity. When this white man, then a very young man, came to the
Ohio valley the queen fell in love with him, and Cornplanter was
their son."
Cornplanter lived to a great age. He was a wise counsellor, a great
leader, and he died when he was one hundred years old, having had
more conceded to him by the white men than any other chieftain.
General Washington wrote of him: "The merits of Cornplanter and his
friendship for the United States are well known and shall not be
forgotten."
But Cornplanter had not always been a friend to the palefaces.
During Dunmore's war and for years after, he was one of the most
vindictive of the savage leaders against the invading pioneers.
It was during this period of Cornplanter's activity against the
whites that Isaac Zane had the misfortune to fall into the great
chief's power.
We remember Isaac last when, lost in the woods, weak from hunger and
exposure, he had crawled into a thicket and had gone to sleep. He
was awakened by a dog licking his face. He heard Indian voices. He
got up and ran as fast as he could, but exhausted as he was he
proved no match for his pursuers. They came up with him and seeing
that he was unable to defend himself they grasped him by the arms
and led him down a well-worn bridle-path.
"D--n poor run. No good legs," said one of his captors, and at this
the other two Indians laughed. Then they whooped and yelled, at
which signal other Indians joined them. Isaac saw that they were
leading him into a large encampment. He asked the big savage who led
him what camp it was, and learned that he had fallen into the hands
of Cornplanter.
While being marched through the large Indian village Isaac saw
unmistakable indications of war. There was a busy hum on all sides;
the squaws were preparing large quantities of buffalo meat, cutting
it in long, thin strips, and were parching corn in stone vessels.
The braves were cleaning rifles, sharpening tomahawks, and mixing
war paints. All these things Isaac knew to be preparations for long
marches and for battle. That night he heard speech after speech in
the lodge next to the one in which he lay, but they were in an
unknown tongue. Later he heard the yelling of the Indians and the
dull thud of their feet as they stamped on the ground. He heard the
ring of the tomahawks as they were struck into hard wood. The
Indians were dancing the war-dance round the war-post. This
continued with some little intermission all the four days that Isaac
lay in the lodge rapidly recovering his strength. The fifth day a
man came into the lodge. He was tall and powerful, his hair fell
over his shoulders and he wore the scanty buckskin dress of the
Indian. But Isaac knew at once he was a white man, perhaps one of
the many French traders who passed through the Indian village.
"Your name is Zane," said the man in English, looking sharply at
Isaac.
"That is my name. Who are you?" asked Isaac in great surprise.
"I am Girty. I've never seen you, but I knew Col. Zane and Jonathan
well. I've seen your sister; you all favor one another."
"Are you Simon Girty?"
"Yes."
"I have heard of your influence with the Indians. Can you do
anything to get me out of this?"
"How did you happen to git over here? You are not many miles from
Wingenund's Camp," said Girty, giving Isaac another sharp look from
his small black eyes.
"Girty, I assure you I am not a spy. I escaped from the Wyandot
village on Mad River and after traveling three days I lost my way. I
went to sleep in a thicket and when I awoke an Indian dog had found
me. I heard voices and saw three Indians. I got up and ran, but they
easily caught me."
"I know about you. Old Tarhe has a daughter who kept you from bein'
ransomed."
"Yes, and I wish I were back there. I don't like the look of
things."
"You are right, Zane. You got ketched at a bad time. The Indians are
mad. I suppose you don't know that Col. Crawford massacred a lot of
Indians a few days ago. It'll go hard with any white man that gits
captured. I'm afraid I can't do nothin' for you."
A few words concerning Simon Girty, the White Savage. He had two
brothers, James and George, who had been desperadoes before they
were adopted by the Delawares, and who eventually became fierce and
relentless savages. Simon had been captured at the same time as his
brothers, but he did not at once fall under the influence of the
unsettled, free-and-easy life of the Indians. It is probable that
while in captivity he acquired the power of commanding the Indians'
interest and learned the secret of ruling them--two capabilities few
white men ever possessed. It is certain that he, like the noted
French-Canadian Joucaire, delighted to sit round the camp fires and
to go into the council-lodge and talk to the assembled Indians.
At the outbreak of the revolution Girty was a commissioned officer
of militia at Ft. Pitt. He deserted from the Fort, taking with him
the Tories McKee and Elliott, and twelve soldiers, and these
traitors spread as much terror among the Delaware Indians as they
did among the whites. The Delawares had been one of the few
peacefully disposed tribes. In order to get them to join their
forces with Governor Hamilton, the British commander, Girty declared
that Gen. Washington had been killed, that Congress had been
dispersed, and that the British were winning all the battles.
Girty spoke most of the Indian languages, and Hamilton employed him
to go among the different Indian tribes and incite them to greater
hatred of the pioneers. This proved to be just the life that suited
him. He soon rose to have a great and bad influence on all the
tribes. He became noted for his assisting the Indians in marauds,
for his midnight forays, for his scalpings, and his efforts to
capture white women, and for his devilish cunning and cruelty.
For many years Girty was the Deathshead of the frontier. The mention
of his name alone created terror in any household; in every
pioneer's cabin it made the children cry out in fear and paled the
cheeks of the stoutest-hearted wife.
It is difficult to conceive of a white man's being such a fiend in
human guise. The only explanation that can be given is that
renegades rage against the cause of their own blood with the fury of
insanity rather than with the malignity of a naturally ferocious
temper. In justice to Simon Girty it must be said that facts not
known until his death showed he was not so cruel and base as
believed; that some deeds of kindness were attributed to him; that
he risked his life to save Kenton from the stake, and that many of
the terrible crimes laid at his door were really committed by his
savage brothers.
Isaac Zane suffered no annoyance at the hands of Cornplanter's
braves until the seventh day of his imprisonment. He saw no one
except the squaw who brought him corn and meat. On that day two
savages came for him and led him into the immense council-lodge of
the Five Nations. Cornplanter sat between his right-hand chiefs, Big
Tree and Half Town, and surrounded by the other chiefs of the
tribes. An aged Indian stood in the center of the lodge and
addressed the others. The listening savages sat immovable, their
faces as cold and stern as stone masks. Apparently they did not heed
the entrance of the prisoner.
"Zane, they're havin' a council," whispered a voice in Isaac's ear.
Isaac turned and recognized Girty. "I want to prepare you for the
worst."
"Is there, then, no hope for me?" asked Isaac.
"I'm afraid not," continued the renegade, speaking in a low whisper.
"They wouldn't let me speak at the council. I told Cornplanter that
killin' you might bring the Hurons down on him, but he wouldn't
listen. Yesterday, in the camp of the Delawares, I saw Col. Crawford
burnt at the stake. He was a friend of mine at Pitt, and I didn't
dare to say one word to the frenzied Indians. I had to watch the
torture. Pipe and Wingenund, both old friends of Crawford, stood by
and watched him walk round the stake on the red-hot coals five
hours."
Isaac shuddered at the words of the renegade, but did not answer. He
had felt from the first that his case was hopeless, and that no
opportunity for escape could possibly present itself in such a large
encampment. He set his teeth hard and resolved to show the red
devils how a white man could die.
Several speeches were made by different chiefs and then an
impressive oration by Big Tree. At the conclusion of the speeches,
which were in an unknown tongue to Isaac, Cornplanter handed a
war-club to Half Town. This chief got up, walked to the end of the
circle, and there brought the club down on the ground with a
resounding thud. Then he passed the club to Big Tree. In a solemn
and dignified manner every chief duplicated Half Town's performance
with the club.
Isaac watched the ceremony as if fascinated. He had seen a war-club
used in the councils of the Hurons and knew that striking it on the
ground signified war and death.
"White man, you are a killer of Indians," said Cornplanter in good
English. "When the sun shines again you die."
A brave came forward and painted Isaac's face black. This Isaac knew
to indicate that death awaited him on the morrow. On his way back to
his prison-lodge he saw that a war-dance was in progress.
A hundred braves with tomahawks, knives, and mallets in their hands
were circling round a post and keeping time to the low music of a
muffled drum. Close together, with heads bowed, they marched. At
certain moments, which they led up to with a dancing on rigid legs
and a stamping with their feet, they wheeled, and uttering hideous
yells, started to march in the other direction. When this had been
repeated three times a brave stepped from the line, advanced, and
struck his knife or tomahawk into the post. Then with a loud voice
he proclaimed his past exploits and great deeds in war. The other
Indians greeted this with loud yells of applause and a flourishing
of weapons. Then the whole ceremony was gone through again.
That afternoon many of the Indians visited Isaac in his lodge and
shook their fists at him and pointed their knives at him. They
hissed and groaned at him. Their vindictive faces expressed the
malignant joy they felt at the expectation of putting him to the
torture.
When night came Isaac's guards laced up the lodge-door and shut him
from the sight of the maddened Indians. The darkness that gradually
enveloped him was a relief. By and by all was silent except for the
occasional yell of a drunken savage. To Isaac it sounded like a
long, rolling death-cry echoing throughout the encampment and
murdering his sleep. Its horrible meaning made him shiver and his
flesh creep. At length even that yell ceased. The watch-dogs quieted
down and the perfect stillness which ensued could almost be felt.
Through Isaac's mind ran over and over again the same words. His
last night to live! His last night to live! He forced himself to
think of other things. He lay there in the darkness of his tent, but
he was far away in thought, far away in the past with his mother and
brothers before they had come to this bloodthirsty country. His
thoughts wandered to the days of his boyhood when he used to drive
the sows to the pasture on the hillside, and in his dreamy,
disordered fancy he was once more letting down the bars of the gate.
Then he was wading in the brook and whacking the green frogs with
his stick. Old playmates' faces, forgotten for years, were there
looking at him from the dark wall of his wigwam. There was Andrew's
face; the faces of his other brothers; the laughing face of his
sister; the serene face of his mother. As he lay there with the
shadow of death over him sweet was the thought that soon he would be
reunited with that mother. The images faded slowly away, swallowed
up in the gloom. Suddenly a vision appeared to him. A radiant white
light illumined the lodge and shone full on the beautiful face of
the Indian maiden who had loved him so well. Myeerah's dark eyes
were bright with an undying love and her lips smiled hope.
A rude kick dispelled Isaac's dreams. A brawny savage pulled him to
his feet and pushed him outside of the lodge.
It was early morning. The sun had just cleared the low hills in the
east and its red beams crimsoned the edges of the clouds of fog
which hung over the river like a great white curtain. Though the air
was warm, Isaac shivered a little as the breeze blew softly against
his cheek. He took one long look toward the rising sun, toward that
east he had hoped to see, and then resolutely turned his face away
forever.
Early though it was the Indians were astir and their whooping rang
throughout the valley. Down the main street of the village the
guards led the prisoner, followed by a screaming mob of squaws and
young braves and children who threw sticks and stones at the hated
Long Knife.
Soon the inhabitants of the camp congregated on the green oval in
the midst of the lodges. When the prisoner appeared they formed in
two long lines facing each other, and several feet apart. Isaac was
to run the gauntlet--one of the severest of Indian tortures. With
the exception of Cornplanter and several of his chiefs, every Indian
in the village was in line. Little Indian boys hardly large enough
to sling a stone; maidens and squaws with switches or spears;
athletic young braves with flashing tomahawks; grim, matured
warriors swinging knotted war clubs,--all were there in line,
yelling and brandishing their weapons in a manner frightful to
behold.
The word was given, and stripped to the waist, Isaac bounded forward
fleet as a deer. He knew the Indian way of running the gauntlet. The
head of that long lane contained the warriors and older braves and
it was here that the great danger lay. Between these lines he sped
like a flash, dodging this way and that, running close in under the
raised weapons, taking what blows he could on his uplifted arms,
knocking this warrior over and doubling that one up with a lightning
blow in the stomach, never slacking his speed for one stride, so
that it was extremely difficult for the Indians to strike him
effectually. Once past that formidable array, Isaac's gauntlet was
run, for the squaws and children scattered screaming before the
sweep of his powerful arms.
The old chiefs grunted their approval. There was a bruise on Isaac's
forehead and a few drops of blood mingled with the beads of
perspiration. Several lumps and scratches showed on his bare
shoulders and arms, but he had escaped any serious injury. This was
a feat almost without a parallel in gauntlet running.
When he had been tied with wet buckskin thongs to the post in the
center of the oval, the youths, the younger braves, and the squaws
began circling round him, yelling like so many demons. The old
squaws thrust sharpened sticks, which had been soaked in salt water,
into his flesh. The maidens struck him with willows which left red
welts on his white shoulders. The braves buried the blades of their
tomahawks in the post as near as possible to his head without
actually hitting him.
Isaac knew the Indian nature well. To command the respect of the
savages was the only way to lessen his torture. He knew that a cry
for mercy would only increase his sufferings and not hasten his
death,--indeed it would prolong both. He had resolved to die without
a moan. He had determined to show absolute indifference to his
torture, which was the only way to appeal to the savage nature, and
if anything could, make the Indians show mercy. Or, if he could
taunt them into killing him at once he would be spared all the
terrible agony which they were in the habit of inflicting on their
victims.
One handsome young brave twirled a glittering tomahawk which he
threw from a distance of ten, fifteen, and twenty feet and every
time the sharp blade of the hatchet sank deep into the stake within
an inch of Isaac's head. With a proud and disdainful look Isaac
gazed straight before him and paid no heed to his tormentor.
"Does the Indian boy think he can frighten a white warrior?" said
Isaac scornfully at length. "Let him go and earn his eagle plumes.
The pale face laughs at him."
The young brave understood the Huron language, for he gave a
frightful yell and cast his tomahawk again, this time shaving a lock
of hair from Isaac's head.
This was what Isaac had prayed for. He hoped that one of these
glittering hatchets would be propelled less skillfully than its
predecessors and would kill him instantly. But the enraged brave had
no other opportunity to cast his weapon, for the Indians jeered at
him and pushed him from the line.
Other braves tried their proficiency in the art of throwing knives
and tomahawks, but their efforts called forth only words of derision
from Isaac. They left the weapons sticking in the post until round
Isaac's head and shoulders there was scarcely room for another.
"The White Eagle is tired of boys," cried Isaac to a chief dancing
near. "What has he done that he be made the plaything of children?
Let him die the death of a chief."
The maidens had long since desisted in their efforts to torment the
prisoner. Even the hardened old squaws had withdrawn. The prisoner's
proud, handsome face, his upright bearing, his scorn for his
enemies, his indifference to the cuts and bruises, and red welts
upon his clear white skin had won their hearts.
Not so with the braves. Seeing that the pale face scorned all
efforts to make him flinch, the young brave turned to Big Tree. At a
command from this chief the Indians stopped their maneuvering round
the post and formed a large circle. In another moment a tall warrior
appeared carrying an armful of fagots.
In spite of his iron nerve Isaac shuddered with horror. He had
anticipated running the gauntlet, having his nails pulled out,
powder and salt shot into his flesh, being scalped alive and a host
of other Indian tortures, but as he had killed no members of this
tribe he had not thought of being burned alive. God, it was too
horrible!
The Indians were now quiet. Their songs and dances would break out
soon enough. They piled fagot after fagot round Isaac's feet. The
Indian warrior knelt on the ground the steel clicked on the flint; a
little shower of sparks dropped on the pieces of punk and then--a
tiny flame shot up, and slender little column of blue smoke floated
on the air.
Isaac shut his teeth hard and prayed with all his soul for a speedy
death.
Simon Girty came hurriedly through the lines of waiting, watching
Indians. He had obtained permission to speak to the man of his own
color.
"Zane, you made a brave stand. Any other time but this it might have
saved you. If you want I'll get word to your people." And then
bending and placing his mouth close to Isaac's ear, he whispered, "I
did all I could for you, but it must have been too late."
"Try and tell them at Ft. Henry," Isaac said simply.
There was a little cracking of dried wood and then a narrow tongue
of red flame darted up from the pile of fagots and licked at the
buckskin fringe on the prisoner's legging. At this supreme moment
when the attention of all centered on that motionless figure lashed
to the stake, and when only the low chanting of the death-song broke
the stillness, a long, piercing yell rang out on the quiet morning
air. So strong, so sudden, so startling was the break in that almost
perfect calm that for a moment afterward there was a silence as of
death. All eyes turned to the ridge of rising ground whence that
sound had come. Now came the unmistakable thunder of horses' hoofs
pounding furiously on the rocky ground. A moment of paralyzed
inaction ensued. The Indians stood bewildered, petrified. Then on
that ridge of rising ground stood, silhouetted against the blue sky,
a great black horse with arching neck and flying mane. Astride him
sat a plumed warrior, who waved his rifle high in the air. Again
that shrill screeching yell came floating to the ears of the
astonished Indians.
The prisoner had seen that horse and rider before; he had heard that
long yell; his heart bounded with hope. The Indians knew that yell;
it was the terrible war-cry of the Hurons.
A horse followed closely after the leader, and then another appeared
on the crest of the hill. Then came two abreast, and then four
abreast, and now the hill was black with plunging horses. They
galloped swiftly down the slope and into the narrow street of the
village. When the black horse entered the oval the train of racing
horses extended to the top of the ridge. The plumes of the riders
streamed gracefully on the breeze; their feathers shone; their
weapons glittered in the bright sunlight.
Never was there more complete surprise. In the earlier morning the
Hurons had crept up to within a rifle shot of the encampment, and at
an opportune moment when all the scouts and runners were round the
torture-stake, they had reached the hillside from which they rode
into the village before the inhabitants knew what had happened. Not
an Indian raised a weapon. There were screams from the women and
children, a shouted command from Big Tree, and then all stood still
and waited.
Thundercloud, the war chief of the Wyandots, pulled his black
stallion back on his haunches not twenty feet from the prisoner at
the stake. His band of painted devils closed in behind him. Full two
hundred strong were they and all picked warriors tried and true.
They were naked to the waist. Across their brawny chests ran a broad
bar of flaming red paint; hideous designs in black and white covered
their faces. Every head had been clean-shaven except where the scalp
lock bristled like a porcupine's quills. Each warrior carried a
plumed spear, a tomahawk, and a rifle. The shining heads, with the
little tufts of hair tied tightly close to the scalp, were enough to
show that these Indians were on the war-path.
From the back of one of the foremost horses a slender figure dropped
and darted toward the prisoner at the stake. Surely that wildly
flying hair proved this was not a warrior. Swift as a flash of light
this figure reached the stake, the blazing fagots scattered right
and left; a naked blade gleamed; the thongs fell from the prisoner's
wrists; and the front ranks of the Hurons opened and closed on the
freed man. The deliverer turned to the gaping Indians, disclosing to
their gaze the pale and beautiful face of Myeerah, the Wyandot
Princes.
"Summon your chief," she commanded.
The tall form of the Seneca chief moved from among the warriors and
with slow and measured tread approached the maiden. His bearing
fitted the leader of five nations of Indians. It was of one who knew
that he was the wisest of chiefs, the hero of a hundred battles. Who
dared beard him in his den? Who dared defy the greatest power in all
Indian tribes? When he stood before the maiden he folded his arms
and waited for her to speak.
"Myeerah claims the White Eagle," she said.
Cornplanter did not answer at once. He had never seen Myeerah,
though he had heard many stories of her loveliness. Now he was face
to face with the Indian Princess whose fame had been the theme of
many an Indian romance, and whose beauty had been sung of in many an
Indian song. The beautiful girl stood erect and fearless. Her
disordered garments, torn and bedraggled and stained from the long
ride, ill-concealed the grace of her form. Her hair rippled from the
uncovered head and fell in dusky splendor over her shoulders; her
dark eyes shone with a stern and steady fire: her bosom swelled with
each deep breath. She was the daughter of great chiefs; she looked
the embodiment of savage love.
"The Huron squaw is brave," said Cornplanter. "By what right does
she come to free my captive?"
"He is an adopted Wyandot."
"Why does the paleface hide like a fox near the camp of
Cornplanter?"
"He ran away. He lost the trail to the Fort on the river."
"Cornplanter takes prisoners to kill; not to free."
"If you will not give him up Myeerah will take him," she answered,
pointing to the long line of mounted warriors. "And should harm
befall Tarhe's daughter it will be avenged."
Cornplanter looked at Thundercloud. Well he knew that chief's
prowess in the field. He ran his eyes over the silent, watching
Hurons, and then back to the sombre face of their leader.
Thundercloud sat rigid upon his stallion; his head held high; every
muscle tense and strong for instant action. He was ready and eager
for the fray. He, and every one of his warriors, would fight like a
thousand tigers for their Princess--the pride of the proud race of
Wyandots. Cornplanter saw this and he felt that on the eve of
important marches he dared not sacrifice one of his braves for any
reason, much less a worthless pale face; and yet to let the prisoner
go galled the haughty spirit of the Seneca chief.
"The Long Knife is not worth the life of one of my dogs," he said,
with scorn in his deep voice. "If Cornplanter willed he could drive
the Hurons before him like leaves before the storm. Let Myeerah take
the pale face back to her wigwam and there feed him and make a squaw
of him. When he stings like a snake in the grass remember the
chief's words. Cornplanter turns on his heel from the Huron maiden
who forgets her blood."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When the sun reached its zenith it shone down upon a long line of
mounted Indians riding single file along the narrow trail and like a
huge serpent winding through the forest and over the plain.
They were Wyandot Indians, and Isaac Zane rode among them. Freed
from the terrible fate which had menaced him, and knowing that he
was once more on his way to the Huron encampment, he had accepted
his destiny and quarreled no more with fate. He was thankful beyond
all words for his rescue from the stake.
Coming to a clear, rapid stream, the warriors dismounted and rested
while their horses drank thirstily of the cool water. An Indian
touched Isaac on the arm and silently pointed toward the huge maple
tree under which Thundercloud and Myeerah were sitting. Isaac turned
his horse and rode the short distance intervening. When he got near
he saw that Myeerah stood with one arm over her pony's neck. She
raised eyes that were weary and sad, which yet held a lofty and
noble resolve.
"White Eagle, this stream leads straight to the Fort on the river,"
she said briefly, almost coldly. "Follow it, and when the sun
reaches the top of yonder hill you will be with your people. Go, you
are free."
She turned her face away. Isaac's head whirled in his amazement. He
could not believe his ears. He looked closely at her and saw that
though her face was calm her throat swelled, and the hand which lay
over the neck of her pony clenched the bridle in a fierce grasp.
Isaac glanced at Thundercloud and the other Indians near by. They
sat unconcerned with the invariable unreadable expression.
"Myeerah, what do you mean?" asked Isaac.
"The words of Cornplanter cut deep into the heart of Myeerah," she
answered bitterly. "They were true. The Eagle does not care for
Myeerah. She shall no longer keep him in a cage. He is free to fly
away."
"The Eagle does not want his freedom. I love you, Myeerah. You have
saved me and I am yours. If you will go home with me and marry me
there as my people are married I will go back to the Wyandot
village."
Myeerah's eyes softened with unutterable love. With a quick cry she
was in his arms. After a few moments of forgetfulness Myeerah spoke
to Thundercloud and waved her hand toward the west. The chief swung
himself over his horse, shouted a single command, and rode down the
bank into the water. His warriors followed him, wading their horses
into the shallow creek, with never backward look. When the last
rider had disappeared in the willows the lovers turned their horses
eastward.