HOW BIG BLACK BURL FIGURED ON THE PEACE-PATH.
It were long, and needless too, to tell of every thing that happened in
and around our little fort during the fortnight the young Indian
remained a captive among the Whites. Captive, however, we should hardly
call him, since he was left entirely at liberty to go whithersoever he
chose; and there was nothing to hinder him from walking back to
Chillicothe, his home, whenever the humor might seize him, except a nice
sense of honor and a crippled arm. Every morning, after he had cheered
his solitude with a pipe of tobacco, Kumshakah--for that was the young
Indian's name--accompanied by Bushie, would go and present himself at
Mrs. Reynolds's door, that, according to her express desire, he might
have his wound dressed. Though grave and reserved in his demeanor toward
every one else, Kumshakah could show himself talkative and affable
enough when alone with Shekee-thepatee ("Little Raccoon"), as he called
his little white friend Bushie. For hours together would these two
loving chums--for such they soon became--keep up a lively, confidential
interchange of thought and sentiment, each in his own language, and
evidently quite as much to the other's entertainment as to his own
satisfaction, which was rather remarkable, seeing that neither
understood a word the other was saying. The other children of the fort,
holding the red stranger in too great awe and dread to trust themselves
within his reach, would watch the two with sharp curiosity from a
distance, admiring and envying the courage and easy assurance with
which their playfellow could rub against so terrible a creature as a
skin-clad, feather-crested Indian warrior, who was always whittling with
his scalping-knife.
Every day the pair would take a long ramble into the forest, in the
course of which they never failed to go or come by the corn-field, where
Big Black Burl--his feet in the peace-path, his head in his peace-cap,
his heart in his peace-song--was tickling the fat ribs of mother earth
with a plow, to make her laugh with johnny-cakes and pumpkin-pies for
his little master. Kumshakah had given his big black friend also a new
name, Mish-mugwa ("Big Bear"); the title being suggested, no doubt, by
the Fighting Nigger's bear-skin rigging no less than by his size, color,
and strength. Always on catching his first glimpse of them, where side
by side they sat on the topmost rail of the fence, Mish-mugwa would cut
short his singing and send forward his wonted salutation, "I yi, you
dogs!" Not failing at such times to discover that old "Corny" was
sweating and would like to blow awhile, our black Cincinnatus would run
his plow into a shady corner, and, likewise taking his seat on the
fence, square himself for a little edifying conversation.
These visits were the white spots in the day to Burl. Apart from the
pretext they gave him of resting from his work, they afforded him an
opportunity of airing his achievements as a hunter, and his exploits as
a warrior--_i.e._, of hearing himself talk. As the young Indian
understood not a word of what was said to him, he had but to sit and
listen, which he would do with grave and decorous attention, composedly
smoking his pipe the while, with his bright eyes fixed on the distant
green or blue before him. Once fairly going on this strain, the Fighting
Nigger would never stop until he had made a squeezed lemon of every red
"varmint" whose "top-knot" he had to show for proof and trophy of his
prowess, winding up with a careful enumeration of all the scalps he had
ever taken, telling them slowly off on his fingers, that his Indian
guest might take a note of it, if so minded. Often, before our big black
Munchausen had blown his fill, our little white Munchausen, fired by the
illustrious example of his pattern, would come gallantly dashing in, to
give his exploits and achievements a little airing likewise. He had
caught with alarming aptitude his pattern's inventiveness and proneness
to exaggeration; so that, before letting them go, his dogs and cats were
sure to swell into wolves and panthers, his garter-snakes into
rattlesnakes, his bellowing bull-frogs into roaring buffalo-bulls, and
his white calves, seen in the dark, into "ghostises." Nor was Burl
unwilling to listen; for, though so fond of talking himself, and so good
a talker too, he was one of the best listeners in the world. This trait
will seem the more commendable in our hero when we reflect how rarely we
find the good talker and the good listener conjoined--more rarely,
indeed, than the good talker and the exemplar of every Christian virtue;
so rarely, in fact, that we marvel so few of the good talkers have made
the discovery for themselves. So to those sallies of his "little man"
Burl would listen with indulgent, condescending attention, or with a
broad grin of mingled incredulity and admiration; expressing the latter
sentiment by such exclamations as "I yi!" "Oho!" "U-gooh!" "Hoo-weep!"
[with a whistle]; the former sentiment by such interrogative phrases as,
"See here now!" "Ain't you lettin' on?" "Ain't de little man gwine
leetle too fur jes' dar?" "Hadn't my little man better rein up his
horses now?"--just by way of keeping his juvenile imitator in the beaten
track of the impossible, within the orthodox limits of the marvelous.
Thus seated side by side, on the top of the scraggy corn-field fence,
would these three worthies, so strikingly different one from the other,
while away the warm summer hours; often, too, long after old Cornwallis,
there dozing so contentedly in the shade of the overleaning wood, had
dried off and recovered the breath he had not lost. Perhaps, at such
times, instead of keeping his eyes on some invisible point in the
atmosphere, Kumshakah would be employing them and his hands in the
fashioning of two pipes--one of black stone, the other of white stone.
On the bowl of the white stone pipe he carved the figure of a little
raccoon, on the bowl of the black stone pipe the figure of a big
bear--both pipes neatly executed, and the two figures passable
likenesses. When he had finished the pipes, and fitted to them stems,
handsomely ornamented with the feathers of birds, Kumshakah presented
the black pipe to Mish-mugwa, the white pipe to Shekee-thepatee, and to
the infinite delight of both; of Bushie, chiefly because he saw in his a
token of his red friend's love; of Burl, chiefly because he saw in his
the only thing lacking to give completeness to his martial rigging--a
war-pipe.
All this time Grumbo maintained toward every one, not even excepting his
master, a grim, severe reserve--keeping much alone, seldom indulging in
cooked meat, more seldom still in raw, and never tasting his
corn-dodgers. The red barbarian, in particular, he regarded with an evil
eye--holding him in worse and worse odor, as the rest received him into
higher and higher favor. Time and again did the captain essay to explain
to his lieutenant how matters stood between them and their prisoner, but
in vain. With that consistency of mind and fixedness of purpose for
which he was remarkable, our canine hero stubbornly persisted in making
it manifest that he was not a dog to be whistled, rubbed, and patted
into winking at a measure so lax as that of allowing a red "varmint" to
run at large in their midst, without even so much as a block and chain
to hamper the freedom of his movements, or some sign to bespeak his
inferiority to men and dogs. Perhaps, like some perverse people we have
known, Grumbo took particular delight in being unsatisfactory to every
one but himself. Or, perhaps by the observance of this policy he meant
to reproach his renegade leader for suffering himself to be so easily
led away from the orthodox faith in which they had lived so long and
happily together, and had acted in such harmonious concert. Perhaps,
too, it was meant as a warning that unless he should be given some
assurance that business should hereafter be done up in the regular,
scientific way, he would break with the captain altogether, and attach
himself to the fortunes of some other leader, more consistent and better
fitted to command, and who should have a more just appreciation of what
was due a brave and faithful follower.
But our four-footed hero, like many a two-footed hero we have read of,
was doomed in his day and generation to be misunderstood, unappreciated,
maligned, neglected. As usual in such cases, the result was a total
upsetting in the mind of the injured one of all orthodox notions of
human nature and the eternal fitness of things. I should hardly express
myself so boldly were I not backed by the testimony of some of Grumbo's
own contemporaries, by whom I have been informed that, a few weeks after
the events I am relating, his dogship renounced human society and a
mixed diet altogether, and withdrawing himself from the pale of the
civilized world to the solitudes of the forest, there, for the rest of
his days, lived the life of a misanthropic hermit. According to other
contemporaneous testimony, however, no less deserving our serious
consideration, an ebony monster, with a woolly head and flat nose, but
walking erect on two legs, and in other respects bearing a striking
resemblance to man, had something to do with the mysterious
disappearance of our canine hero from the theater of human action.
Moved with envy and spite at beholding the Fighting Nigger's renown and
at hearing his praises in the popular mouth, and itching to inflict upon
the object thereof the greatest possible injury he could, with the least
possible risk to himself, this ebony monster secretly, and in the most
dastardly manner, poisoned the heroic Grumbo--thus cutting short his
career of glory in the very prime and flower of his doghood. Be all this
as it may, of one thing we are sure, that after that ever-to-be-remembered
first of June, 1789, never was the war-dog seen again on the war-path with
Captain Reynolds, the Fighting Nigger, the Big Black Brave with a Bushy
Head, Mish-mugwa.
It was a beautiful Sabbath morning "in the leafy month of June." Blue
and sunny and loving hung the sky above the dark, green, perilous
wilderness, where our pioneer fathers, in daily jeopardy of their lives,
were struggling to secure for themselves and their children after them a
home in the land so highly favored by Heaven. That morning, on
presenting himself at Mrs. Reynolds's door, Kumshakah was pronounced by
the good woman to be healed of his wound, and told that he might now
depart in peace to his own land and people.
With a sorrowful face Burl took down the young Indian's rifle from where
it had lain with the others in the rifle-hooks against his cabin wall,
and having cleaned and loaded it with care, returned it to its owner,
along with his powder-horn and ammunition-pouch, liberally reenforced
with ammunition from his own store. Then he arrayed himself from top to
toe in his martial rigging, proposing, as it was Sunday, to escort his
captive guest some miles into the wilderness, till he had seen him safe
across the border. Having, through Burl's influence, gained his mother's
permission to accompany them, Bushie, likewise in honor of the occasion,
had put on a clean homespun cotton shirt and a pair of buckskin
moccasins, which, with the eagle feathers in his coon-skin cap and his
white stone pipe worn tomahawk-wise in his girdle, lent him quite a
holiday appearance. All being ready, the three then went to Mrs.
Reynolds's door, that Kumshakah might bid farewell to his kind hostess.
"Farewell, Kumshakah," said the good woman, extending her hand. "May the
Great Father of us all, whom you call the Great Spirit, have you now and
have you ever in his holy keeping, and reward you according to your
wondrous kindness to my poor helpless boy in his hour of need."
With deep respect the young brave approached and took the proffered
hand, which, with delicate emphasis, he shook just once, and there was a
shining in his bright, wild eyes, as eloquent of gratitude as had it
been the glistening of a tear. In further answer to her words, the
purport whereof he had read in her face and voice, he made a brief
speech in his own language, which, spoken in tones deep, melodious, and
earnest, and delivered with singular grace and dignity, ever after lived
in the white mother's remembrance like a strain of music, which, though
unintelligible to the ear, is understood and echoed by the heart. Then
the young Indian turned and, followed by Burl and Bushie, walked slowly
and thoughtfully away.
As side by side they pursued their tramp through the green entanglements
of the forest, the black hunter was far less talkative than usual, and
the red hunter scarcely spoke at all, though, Indian-like, listening
with respectful attention whenever his companion seemed to be addressing
him in particular. But, as if reserving all his regrets for the parting
moment, Bushie--now mounted on Burl's shoulder, now walking hand in hand
with Kumshakah--kept up a lively prattle which never ceased, and to
which the others listened with pleased ears. Sometimes, while riding
aloft, he would amuse himself by catching at the slender, pliant
branches of the trees brought within his reach, which he would draw
after him as far as he could bend them, then letting them fly back,
leave them swinging to and fro. At length, as if this amusement had
suggested it to his mind, the boy struck up a cadence from one of Burl's
songs, singing in a clear, piping voice:
An' de jay-bird flew away--
De jay-bird flew away--
An' lef' de lim' a-swingin'--
A-swingin'.
"Mus'n't sing sich songs on Sunday, Bushie--sing hymns on Sunday. So,
j'ine in wid me an' help me sing Caneyan's Happy Sho' for Kumshy, pore
Kumshy, who's gwine to leabe us, neber to come no mo'. It'll do him
good."
So, joining their voices, they sung a simple hymn which, with a
_plaintive melody_ expressive of yearning, had for its burden the
following words:
O dat will be joyful, joyful, joyful,
O dat will be joyful, to meet to part no more;
To meet to part no more,
On Caneyan's happy shore;
An' dar we'll meet at Jesus' feet,
An' meet to part no more.
At noon they reached the spot where, a fortnight before, Kumshakah
brought down the eagle, which, stripped of its plumage and still
bleeding, Burl had found on the trail a few hours after. Here a spring
of clear, cool, sparkling water gurgled out from underneath a moss-grown
rock in the hill-side, and here they halted. They quenched their thirst
from the spring, then seating themselves on the moss-grown trunk of a
fallen tree that lay near by, Burl and Kumshakah lighted their pipes and
sat for many minutes smoking in thoughtful, even melancholy, silence.
For, strange as it may seem, though neither had spoken a word
intelligible to the other since the beginning of their acquaintance, a
decided and cordial friendship had sprung up between the Fighting Nigger
and his Indian captive, insomuch that they were now very loath to part.
But the feeling which had arisen between the young Indian and the little
white boy was of a far more tender nature, each beholding in the other
the preserver of his life, and with a mutual gratitude heightened by
mutual admiration. Such is the power of instinct, which can discover
what words might try to reveal and fail. Their pipes smoked out, they
broke their fast on some jerked venison and buttered johnny-cakes, which
Burl, hospitable to the last, had brought along in his hunting-pouch. By
the time they had finished their simple repast and smoked another pipe,
the forest shadows had slowly shifted round from west to east, and were
now beginning perceptibly to lengthen, admonishing them that the hour
was come when they must part and go their separate ways.
But something more remained yet to be done. Taking the white stone pipe
which he had carved for Shekee-thepatee and filling its virgin bowl with
tobacco, Kumshakah lighted it, and slowly, with great solemnity, drew a
few whiffs therefrom, then offered it to Mish-mugwa. This the young
Indian did in token of his earnest wish that the peace and friendship
now existing between them should endure from that day forth, let come
what might, and that the sentiment, thus consecrated, should be
cherished as in some sort a solemn and religious duty. Poor Burl did not
know that Indians had any ceremonies at all; nor, until his acquaintance
with Kumshakah, that they had any thing in common with the human race,
excepting the art of fighting, and, to a limited degree, as it seemed to
him, the power of speech. So, till he had gone home that night and told
the white hunters of the circumstance, he could but vaguely guess at
the sentiment to which this simple ceremony of smoking the peace-pipe
gave expression. Nevertheless, with that facility at entering, for the
time being, into the feelings, thoughts, and ways of others peculiar to
his race, and which is due to self-unconscious imitation rather than to
self-determined adaptability, Mish-mugwa took the proffered symbol of
peace and friendship, and with a solemnity that would have seemed
ludicrous to any one but a black man or a red man, gave just as many
whiffs as he had seen Kumshakah give, then, with the air of one who knew
as well as anybody what he was doing, returned the pipe to Kumshakah.
The peace-pipe emptied of its ashes and returned to its owner, the young
brave rose at once and silently extended his hand. Burl seized it with a
huge, devouring grip that would have made any one but an Indian wince,
and with a big, round, stag-like tear in either big, round, ox-like eye,
thus bid farewell: "Good-by, Kumshy. De good Lord go wid you all yo'
days. Come an' see us ag'in--Miss Jemimy an' Mishy-muggy an'
Sheky-depatty; Mishy-muggy's me, you know, an' Sheky-depatty's Bushie.
Come an' see us all ag'in. Good-by."
Then going up to Bushie, Kumshakah shook him, likewise, by the hand; the
dear little fellow, without saying a word, gazing up wistfully into the
young Indian's face, his blue eyes brimming over with tears. But when he
saw his red friend going at last, then did the affectionate
Shekee-thepatee lift up his voice and weep aloud.
"Come back, Kumshakah!" he cried; "come back, and live with us, and
never leave us, Kumshakah!"
The young Indian wheeled about and returned, took the chubby hand again
in his, and with tender gravity shook it gently, very gently. As he did
so, a mistiness came over his bright, wild eyes, which, when he had
turned again to go, must--if ever Indian warrior weeps--have gathered
into a tear. With wistful eyes, Burl and Bushie followed the swiftly
receding form of their red friend, who never turned to look at them till
he had gained the crest of a distant hill to the north. Here he faced
about and remained for many moments gazing back at them; his graceful
figure, his wild dress, and his rifle in sharp relief against a patch of
blue sky, gleaming through an opening in the forest beyond. In final
farewell Burl waved his cap. Kumshakah answered with a wide wave of the
hand; then, turning, quickly vanished behind the hill, to be seen no
more. With sorrowful hearts, Burl and Bushie turned likewise, and
retraced their steps to Fort Reynolds.
From that day forward, never again did Captain Reynolds, the Fighting
Nigger, the Big Black Brave with a Bushy Head, Mish-mugwa, lay the
bloody hand on the scalp-lock of a fallen foe.