With the general position of the encampment of the investing Indians,
the reader has been made acquainted through the narrative of Captain de
Haldimar. It was, as has been shown, situate in a sort of oasis close
within the verge of the forest, and (girt by an intervening underwood
which Nature, in her caprice, had fashioned after the manner of a
defensive barrier) embraced a space sufficient to contain the tents of
the fighting men, together with their women and children. This,
however, included only the warriors and inferior chiefs. The tents of
the leaders were without the belt of underwood, and principally
distributed at long intervals on that side of the forest which skirted
the open country towards the river; forming, as it were, a chain of
external defences, and sweeping in a semicircular direction round the
more dense encampment of their followers. At its highest elevation the
forest shot out suddenly into a point, naturally enough rendered an
object of attraction from whatever part it was commanded.
Darkness was already beginning to spread her mantle over the
intervening space, and the night fires of the Indians were kindling
into brightness, glimmering occasionally through the wood with that
pale and lambent light peculiar to the fire-fly, of which they offered
a not inapt representation, when suddenly a lofty tent, the brilliant
whiteness of which was thrown into strong relief by the dark field on
which it reposed, was seen to rise at a few paces from the abrupt point
in the forest just described, and on the extreme summit of a ridge,
beyond which lay only the western horizon in golden perspective.
The opening of this tent looked eastward and towards the fort; and on
its extreme summit floated a dark flag, which at intervals spread
itself before the slight evening breeze, but oftener hung drooping and
heavily over the glittering canvass. One solitary pine, whose trunk
exceeded not the ordinary thickness of a man's waist, and standing out
as a landmark on the ridge, rose at the distance of a few feet from the
spot on which the tent had been erected; and to this was bound the tall
and elegant figure of one dressed in the coarse garb of a sailor. The
arms and legs of this individual were perfectly free; but a strong
rope, rendered doubly secure after the manner of what is termed
"whipping" among seamen, after having been tightly drawn several times
around his waist, and then firmly knotted behind, was again passed
round the tree, to which the back of the prisoner was closely lashed;
thus enabling, or rather compelling, him to be a spectator of every
object within the tent.
Layers of bark, over which were spread the dressed skins of the bear
and the buffalo, formed the floor and carpet of the latter; and on
these, in various parts, and in characteristic attitudes, reposed the
forms of three human beings;--one, the formidable warrior of the Fleur
de lis. Attired in the garb in which we first introduced him to our
readers, and with the same weapons reposing at his side, the haughty
savage lay at his lazy length; his feet reaching beyond the opening of
the tent, and his head reposing on a rude pillow formed of a closely
compressed pack of skins of wild animals, over which was spread a sort
of mantle or blanket. One hand was introduced between the pillow and
his head, the other grasped the pipe tomahawk he was smoking; and while
the mechanical play of his right foot indicated pre-occupation of
thought, his quick and meaning eye glanced frequently and alternately
upon the furthest of his companions, the prisoner without, and the
distant fort.
Within a few feet of the warrior lay, extended on a buffalo skin, the
delicate figure of a female, whose hair, complexion, and hands, denoted
her European extraction. Her dress was entirely Indian, however;
consisting of a machecoti with leggings, mocassins, and shirt of
printed cotton studded with silver brooches,--all of which were of a
quality and texture to mark the wearer as the wife of a chief; and her
fair hair, done up in a club behind, reposed on a neck of dazzling
whiteness. Her eyes were large, blue, but wild and unmeaning; her
countenance vacant; and her movements altogether mechanical. A wooden
bowl filled with hominy,--a preparation of Indian corn,--was at her
side; and from this she was now in the act of feeding herself with a
spoon of the same material, but with a negligence and slovenliness that
betrayed her almost utter unconsciousness of the action.
At the further side of the tent there was another woman, even more
delicate in appearance than the one last mentioned. She, too, was
blue-eyed, and of surpassing fairness of skin. Her attitude denoted a
mind too powerfully absorbed in grief to be heedful of appearances; for
she sat with her knees drawn up to her chin, and rocking her body to
and fro with an undulating motion that seemed to have its origin in no
effort of volition of her own. Her long fair hair hung negligently over
her shoulders; and a blanket drawn over the top of her head like a
veil, and extending partly over the person, disclosed here and there
portions of an apparel which was strictly European, although rent, and
exhibiting in various places stains of blood. A bowl similar to that of
her companion, and filled with the same food, was at her side; but this
was untasted.
"Why does the girl refuse to eat?" asked the warrior of her next him,
as he fiercely rolled a volume of smoke from his lips. "Make her eat,
for I would speak to her afterwards."
"Why does the girl refuse to eat?" responded the woman in the same
tone, dropping her spoon as she spoke, and turning to the object of
remark with a vacant look. "It is good," she pursued, as she rudely
shook the arm of the heedless sufferer. "Come, girl, eat."
A shriek burst from the lips of the unhappy girl, as, apparently roused
from her abstraction, she suffered the blanket to fall from her head,
and staring wildly at her questioner, faintly demanded,--
"Who, in the name of mercy, are you, who address me in this horrid
place in my own tongue? Speak; who are you? Surely I should know that
voice for that of Ellen, the wife of Frank Halloway!"
A maniac laugh was uttered by the wretched woman. This continued
offensively for a moment; and she observed, in an infuriated tone and
with a searching eye,--"No, I am not the wife of Halloway. It is false.
I am the wife of Wacousta. This is my husband!" and as she spoke she
sprang nimbly to her feet, and was in the next instant lying prostrate
on the form of the warrior; her arms thrown wildly around him, and her
lips imprinting kisses on his cheek.
But Wacousta was in no mood to suffer her endearments. He for the first
time seemed alive to the presence of her who lay beyond, and, to whose
whole appearance a character of animation had been imparted by the
temporary excitement of her feelings. He gazed at her a moment, with
the air of one endeavouring to recall the memory of days long gone by;
and as he continued to do so, his eye dilated, his chest heaved, and
his countenance alternately flushed and paled. At length he threw the
form that reposed upon his own, violently, and even savagely, from him;
sprang eagerly to his feet; and clearing the space that divided him
from the object of his attention at a single step, bore her from the
earth in his arms with as much ease as if she had been an infant, and
then returning to his own rude couch, placed his horror-stricken victim
at his side.
"Nay, nay," he urged sarcastically, as she vainly struggled to free
herself; "let the De Haldimar portion of your blood rise up in anger if
it will; but that of Clara Beverley, at least--."
"Gracious Providence! where am I, that I hear the name of my sainted
mother thus familiarly pronounced?" interrupted the startled girl; "and
who are you,"--turning her eyes wildly on the swarthy countenance of
the warrior,--"who are you, I ask, who, with the mien and in the garb
of a savage of these forests, appear thus acquainted with her name?"
The warrior passed his hand across his brow for a moment, as if some
painful and intolerable reflection had been called up by the question;
but he speedily recovered his self-possession, and, with an expression
of feature that almost petrified his auditor, vehemently observed,--
"You ask who I am! One who knew your mother long before the accursed
name of De Haldimar had even been whispered in her ear; and whom love
for the one and hatred for the other has rendered the savage you now
behold! But," he continued, while a fierce and hideous smile lighted up
every feature, "I overlook my past sufferings in my present happiness.
The image of Clara Beverley, even such as my soul loved her in its
youth, is once more before me in her child; THAT child shall be my
wife!"
"Your wife! monster;--never!" shrieked the unhappy girl, again vainly
attempting to disengage herself from the encircling arm of the savage.
"But," she pursued, in a tone of supplication, while the tears coursed
each other down her cheek, "if you ever loved my mother as you say you
have, restore her children to their home; and, if saints may be
permitted to look down from heaven in approval of the acts of men, she
whom you have loved will bless you for the deed."
A deep groan burst from the vast chest of Wacousta; but, for a moment,
he answered not. At length he observed, pointing at the same time with
his finger towards the cloudless vault above their heads,--"Do you
behold yon blue sky, Clara de Haldimar?"
"I do;--what mean you?" demanded the trembling girl, in whom a
momentary hope had been excited by the subdued manner of the savage.
"Nothing," he coolly rejoined; "only that were your mother to appear
there at this moment, clad in all the attributes ascribed to angels,
her prayer would not alter the destiny that awaits you. Nay, nay; look
not thus sorrowfully," he pursued, as, in despite of her efforts to
prevent him, he imprinted a burning kiss upon her lips. "Even thus was
I once wont to linger on the lips of your mother; but hers ever pouted
to be pressed by mine; and not with tears, but with sunniest smiles,
did she court them." He paused; bent his head over the face of the
shuddering girl; and gazing fixedly for a few minutes on her
countenance, while he pressed her struggling form more closely to his
own, exultingly pursued, as if to himself,--"Even as her mother was, so
is she. Ye powers of hell! who would have ever thought a time would
come when both my vengeance and my love would be gratified to the
utmost? How strange it never should have occurred to me he had a
daughter!"
"What mean you, fierce, unpitying man?" exclaimed the terrified Clara,
to whom a full sense of the horror of her position had lent unusual
energy of character. "Surely you will not detain a poor defenceless
woman in your hands,--the child of her you say you have loved. But it
is false!--you never knew her, or you would not now reject my prayer."
"Never knew her!" fiercely repeated Wacousta. Again he paused. "Would I
had never known her! and I should not now be the outcast wretch I am,"
he added, slowly and impressively. Then once more elevating his
voice,--"Clara de Haldimar, I have loved your mother as man never loved
woman; and I have hated your father" (grinding his teeth with fury as
he spoke) "as man never hated man. That love, that hatred are
unquenched--unquenchable. Before me I see at once the image of her who,
even in death, has lived enshrined in my heart, and the child of him
who is my bitterest foe. Clara de Haldimar, do you understand me now?"
"Almighty Providence! is there no one to save me?--can nothing touch
your stubborn heart?" exclaimed the affrighted girl; and she turned her
swimming eyes on those of the warrior, in appeal; but his glance caused
her own to sink in confusion. "Ellen Halloway," she pursued, after a
moment's pause, and in the wild accents of despair, "if you are indeed
the wife of this man, as you say you are, oh! plead for me with him;
and in the name of that kindness, which I once extended to yourself,
prevail on him to restore me to my father!"
"Ellen Halloway!--who calls Ellen Halloway?" said the wretched woman,
who had again resumed her slovenly meal on the rude couch, apparently
without consciousness of the scene enacting at her side. "I am not
Ellen Halloway: they said so; but it is not true. My husband was
Reginald Morton: but he went for a soldier, and was killed; and I never
saw him more."
"Reginald Morton! What mean you, woman?--What know you of Reginald
Morton?" demanded Wacousta, with frightful energy, as, leaning over the
shrinking form of Clara, he violently grasped and shook the shoulder of
the unhappy maniac.
"Stop; do not hurt me, and I will tell you all, sir," she almost
screamed. "Oh, sir, Reginald Morton was my husband once; but he was
kinder than you are. He did not look so fiercely at me; nor did he
pinch me so."
"What of him?--who was he?" furiously repeated Wacousta, as he again
impatiently shook the arm of the wretched Ellen. "Where did you know
him?--Whence came he?"
"Nay, you must not be jealous of poor Reginald:" and, as she uttered
these words in a softening and conciliating tone, her eye was turned
upon those of the warrior with a mingled expression of fear and
cunning. "But he was very good and very handsome, and generous; and we
lived near each other, and we loved each other at first sight. But his
family were very proud, and they quarrelled with him because he married
me; and then we became very poor, and Reginald went for a soldier,
and--; but I forget the rest, it is so long ago." She pressed her hand
to her brow, and sank her head upon her chest.
"Ellen, woman, again I ask you where he came from? this Reginald Morton
that you have named. To what county did he belong?"
"Oh, we were both Cornish," she answered, with a vivacity singularly in
contrast with her recent low and monotonous tone; "but, as I said
before, he was of a great family, and I only a poor clergyman's
daughter."
"Cornish!--Cornish, did you say?" fiercely repeated the dark Wacousta,
while an expression of loathing and disgust seemed for a moment to
convulse his features; "then is it as I had feared. One word more. Was
the family seat called Morton Castle?"
"It was," unhesitatingly returned the poor woman, yet with the air of
one wondering to hear a name repeated, long forgotten even by herself.
"It was a beautiful castle too, on a lovely ridge of hills; and it
commanded such a nice view of the sea, close to the little port of
----; and the parsonage stood in such a sweet valley, close under the
castle; and we were all so happy." She paused, again put her hand to
her brow, and pressed it with force, as if endeavouring to pursue the
chain of connection in her memory, but evidently without success.
"And your father's name was Clayton?" said the warrior, enquiringly;
"Henry Clayton, if I recollect aright?"
"Ha! who names my father?" shrieked the wretched woman. "Yes, sir, it
was Clayton--Henry Clayton--the kindest, the noblest of human beings.
But the affliction of his child, and the persecutions of the Morton
family, broke his heart. He is dead, sir, and Reginald is dead too; and
I am a poor lone widow in the world, and have no one to love me." Here
the tears coursed each other rapidly down her faded cheek, although her
eyes were staring and motionless.
"It is false!" vociferated the warrior, who, now he had gained all that
was essential to the elucidation of his doubts, quitted the shoulder he
had continued to press with violence in his nervous hand, and once more
extended himself at his length; "in me you behold the uncle of your
husband. Yes, Ellen Clayton, you have been the wife of two Reginald
Mortons. Both," he pursued with unutterable bitterness, while he again
started up and shook his tomahawk menacingly in the direction of the
fort,--"both have been the victims of yon cold-blooded governor; but
the hour of our reckoning is at hand. Ellen," he fiercely added, "do
you recollect the curse you pronounced on the family of that haughty
man, when he slaughtered your Reginald. By Heaven! it shall be
fulfilled; but first shall the love I have so long borne the mother be
transferred to the child."
Again he sought to encircle the waist of her whom, in the strong
excitement of his rage, he had momentarily quitted; but the unutterable
disgust and horror produced in the mind of the unhappy Clara lent an
almost supernatural activity to her despair. She dexterously eluded his
grasp, gained her feet, and with tottering steps and outstretched arms
darted through the opening of the tent, and piteously exclaiming, "Save
me! oh, for God's sake, save me!" sank exhausted, and apparently
lifeless, on the chest of the prisoner without.
To such of our readers as, deceived by the romantic nature of the
attachment stated to have been originally entertained by Sir Everard
Valletort for the unseen sister of his friend, have been led to expect
a tale abounding in manifestations of its progress when the parties had
actually met, we at once announce disappointment. Neither the lover of
amorous adventure, nor the admirer of witty dialogue, should dive into
these pages. Room for the exercise of the invention might, it is true,
be found; but ours is a tale of sad reality, and our heroes and
heroines figure under circumstances that would render wit a satire upon
the understanding, and love a reflection upon the heart. Within the
bounds of probability have we, therefore, confined ourselves.
What the feelings of the young Baronet must have been, from the first
moment when he received from the hands of the unfortunate Captain
Baynton (who, although an officer of his own corps, was personally a
stranger to him,) that cherished sister of his friend, on whose ideal
form his excited imagination had so often latterly loved to linger, up
to the present hour, we should vainly attempt to paint. There are
emotions of the heart, it would be mockery in the pen to trace. From
the instant of his first contributing to preserve her life, on that
dreadful day of blood, to that when the schooner fell into the hands of
the savages, few words had passed between them, and these had reference
merely to the position in which they found themselves, and whenever Sir
Everard felt he could, without indelicacy or intrusion, render himself
in the slightest way serviceable to her. The very circumstances under
which they had met, conduced to the suppression, if not utter
extinction, of all of passion attached to the sentiment with which he
had been inspired. A new feeling had quickened in his breast; and it
was with emotions more assimilated to friendship than to love that he
now regarded the beautiful but sorrow-stricken sister of his bosom
friend. Still there was a softness, a purity, a delicacy and tenderness
in this new feeling, in which the influence of sex secretly though
unacknowledgedly predominated; and even while sensible it would have
been a profanation of every thing most sacred and delicate in nature to
have admitted a thought of love within his breast at such a moment, he
also felt he could have entertained a voluptuous joy in making any
sacrifice, even to the surrender of life itself, provided the
tranquillity of that gentle and suffering being could be by it ensured.
Clara, in her turn, had been in no condition to admit so exclusive a
power as that of love within her soul. She had, it is true, even amid
the desolation of her shattered spirit, recognised in the young officer
the original of a portrait so frequently drawn by her brother, and
dwelt on by herself. She acknowledged, moreover, the fidelity of the
painting: but however she might have felt and acted under different
circumstances, absorbed as was her heart, and paralysed her
imagination, by the harrowing scenes she had gone through, she, too,
had room but for one sentiment in her fainting soul, and that was
friendship for the friend of her brother; on whom, moreover, she
bestowed that woman's gratitude, which could not fail to be awakened by
a recollection of the risks he had encountered, conjointly with
Frederick, to save her from destruction. During their passage across
lake Huron, Sir Everard had usually taken his seat on the deck, at that
respectful distance which he conceived the delicacy of the position of
the unfortunate cousins demanded; but in such a manner that, while he
seemed wholly abstracted from them, his eye had more than once been
detected by Clara fixed on hers, with an affectionateness of interest
she could not avoid repaying with a glance of recognition and approval.
These, however, were the only indications of regard that had passed
between them.
If, however, a momentary and irrepressible flashing of that sentiment,
which had, at an earlier period, formed a portion of their imaginings,
did occasionally steal over their hearts while there was a prospect of
reaching their friends in safety, all manifestation of its power was
again finally suppressed when the schooner fell into the hands of the
savages. Become the immediate prisoners of Wacousta, they had been
surrendered to that ferocious chief to be dealt with as he might think
proper; and, on disembarking from the canoe in which their transit to
the main land had been descried that morning from the fort, had been
separated from their equally unfortunate and suffering companions.
Captain de Haldimar, Madeline, and the Canadian, were delivered over to
the custody of several choice warriors of the tribe in which Wacousta
was adopted; and, bound hand and foot, were, at that moment, in the war
tent of the fierce savage, which, as Ponteac had once boasted to the
governor, was every where hung around with human scalps, both of men,
of women, and of children. The object of this mysterious man, in
removing Clara to the spot we have described, was one well worthy of
his ferocious nature. His vengeance had already devoted her to
destruction; and it was within view of the fort, which contained the
father whom he loathed, he had resolved his purpose should be
accomplished. A refinement of cruelty, such as could scarcely have been
supposed to enter the breast even of such a remorseless savage as
himself, had caused him to convey to the same spot, him whom he rather
suspected than knew to be the lover of the young girl. It was with the
view of harrowing up the soul of one whom he had recognised as the
officer who had disabled him on the night of the rencontre on the
bridge, that he had bound Sir Everard to the tree, whence, as we have
already stated, he was a compelled spectator of every thing that passed
within the tent; and yet with that free action of limb which only
tended to tantalize him the more amid his unavailable efforts to rid
himself of his bonds,--a fact that proved not only the dire extent to
which the revenge of Wacousta could be carried, but the actual and
gratuitous cruelty of his nature.
One must have been similarly circumstanced, to understand all the agony
of the young man during this odious scene, and particularly at the
fierce and repeated declaration of the savage that Clara should be his
bride. More than once had he essayed to remove the ligatures which
confined his waist; but his unsuccessful attempts only drew an
occasional smile of derision from his enemy, as he glanced his eye
rapidly towards him. Conscious at length of the inutility of efforts,
which, without benefiting her for whom they were principally prompted,
rendered him in some degree ridiculous even in his own eyes, the
wretched Valletort desisted altogether, and with his head sunk upon his
chest, and his eyes closed, sought at least to shut out a scene which
blasted his sight, and harrowed up his very soul.
But when Clara, uttering her wild cry for protection, and rushing forth
from the tent, sank almost unconsciously in his embrace, a thrill of
inexplicable joy ran through each awakened fibre of his frame. Bending
eagerly forward, he had extended his arms to receive her; and when he
felt her light and graceful form pressing upon his own as its last
refuge--when he felt her heart beating against his--when he saw her
head drooping on his shoulder, in the wild recklessness of
despair,--even amid that scene of desolation and grief he could not
help enfolding her in tumultuous ecstasy to his breast. Every horrible
danger was for an instant forgotten in the soothing consciousness that
he at length encircled the form of her, whom in many an hour of
solitude he had thus pictured, although under far different
circumstances, reposing confidingly on him. There was delight mingled
with agony in his sensation of the wild throb of her bosom against his
own; and even while his soul fainted within him, as he reflected on the
fate that awaited her, he felt as if he could himself now die more
happily.
Momentary, however, was the duration of this scene. Furious with anger
at the evident disgust of his victim, Wacousta no sooner saw her sink
into the arms of her lover, than with that agility for which he was
remarkable he was again on his feet, and stood in the next instant at
her side. Uniting to the generous strength of his manhood all that was
wrung from his mingled love and despair, the officer clasped his hands
round the waist of the drooping Clara; and with clenched teeth, and
feet firmly set, seemed resolved to defy every effort of the warrior to
remove her. Not a word was uttered on either side; but in the fierce
smile that curled the lip of the savage, there spoke a language even
more terrible than the words that smile implied. Sir Everard could not
suppress an involuntary shudder; and when at length Wacousta, after a
short but violent struggle, succeeded in again securing and bearing off
his prize, the wretchedness of soul of the former was indescribable.
"You see 'tis vain to struggle against your destiny, Clara de
Haldimar," sneered the warrior. "Ours is but a rude nuptial couch, it
is true; but the wife of an Indian chief must not expect the luxuries
of Europe in the heart of an American wilderness."
"Almighty Heaven! where am I?" exclaimed the wretched girl, again
unclosing her eyes to all the horror of her position; for again she lay
at the side, and within the encircling arm, of her enemy. "Oh, Sir
Everard Valletort, I thought I was with you, and that you had saved me
from this monster. Where is my brother?--Where are Frederick and
Madeline?--Why have they deserted me?--Ah! my heart will break. I
cannot endure this longer, and live."
"Clara, Miss de Haldimar," groaned Sir Everard, in a voice of searching
agony; "could I lay down my life for you, I would; but you see these
bonds. Oh God! oh God! have pity on the innocent; and for once incline
the heart of yon fierce monster to the whisperings of mercy." As he
uttered the last sentence, he attempted to sink on his knees in
supplication to Him he addressed, but the tension of the cord prevented
him; yet were his hands clasped, and his eyes upraised to heaven, while
his countenance beamed with an expression of fervent enthusiasm.
"Peace, babbler! or, by Heaven! that prayer shall be your last,"
vociferated Wacousta. "But no," he pursued to himself, dropping at the
same time the point of his upraised tomahawk; "these are but the
natural writhings of the crushed worm; and the longer protracted they
are, the more complete will be my vengeance." Then turning to the
terrified girl,--"You ask, Clara de Haldimar, where you are? In the
tent of your mother's lover, I reply,--at the side of him who once
pressed her to his heart, even as I now press you, and with a fondness
that was only equalled by her own. Come, dear Clara," and his voice
assumed a tone of tenderness that was even more revolting than his
natural ferocity, "let me woo you to the affection she once possessed.
It was a heart of fire in which her image stood enshrined,--it is a
heart of fire still, and well worthy of her child."
"Never, never!" shrieked the agonised girl. "Kill me, murder me, if you
will; but oh! if you have pity, pollute not my ear with the avowal of
your detested love. But again I repeat, it is false that my mother ever
knew you. She never could have loved so fierce, so vindictive a being
as yourself."
"Ha! do you doubt me still?" sternly demanded the savage. Then drawing
the shuddering girl still closer to his vast chest,--"Come hither,
Clara, while to convince you I unfold the sad history of my life, and
tell you more of your parents than you have ever known. When," he
pursued solemnly, "you have learnt the extent of my love for the one,
and of my hatred for the other, and the wrongs I have endured from
both, you will no longer wonder at the spirit of mingled love and
vengeance that dictates my conduct towards yourself. Listen, girl," he
continued fiercely, "and judge whether mine are injuries to be tamely
pardoned, when a whole life has been devoted to the pursuit of the
means of avenging them."
Irresistibly led by a desire to know what possible connection could
have existed between her parents and this singular and ferocious man,
the wretched girl gave her passive assent. She even hoped that, in the
course of his narrative, some softening recollections would pass over
his mind, the effect of which might be to predispose him to mercy.
Wacousta buried his face for a few moments in his large hand, as if
endeavouring to collect and concentrate the remembrances of past years.
His countenance, meanwhile, had undergone a change; for there was now a
shade of melancholy mixed with the fierceness of expression usually
observable there. This, however, was dispelled in the course of his
narrative, and as various opposite passions were in turn powerfully and
severally developed.