I have always felt deeply interested in the past history of the
Aborigines of our country; and with a pleasure amounting to
enthusiasm, embrace every occasion of retracing the annals of that
once noble and heroic, but now degraded and scattered race. Who that
has any taste for the wild and picturesque, would not love to roam
along the Susquehanna, and call up the associations with which its
leafy forests are rife? They were once the favorite hunting grounds of
the numerous tribes of Indians, belonging to the empire of the Five
Nations, whose sway extended over every mountain, plain and river,
from Champlain to Carolina.
I set out upon my summer ramble, attracted by the feelings I have
mentioned, to visit scenes of so much traditionary interest; and being
unacquainted with the topography of the adjacent country, I sought out
one of its oldest settlers in the hope of obtaining a guide, and some
information respecting the most remarkable relics of the past. I was
so fortunate as to fall in with a real old forester, one who loved
nature in her wildness, who had trod her labyrinths of shade ere the
woodman’s axe was heard clearing the way for rising villages and busy
factories. I found him animated with antiquarian zeal, with a memory
filled with stories of by-gone days, and a spirit of poetic fervor,
which could re-people every spot with living images of the wild beings
who had there fulfilled their mysterious destiny. He readily offered
to be my guide in Indian antiquities, and we set out on our
pilgrimage; Oliver Oldham (thus was my cicerone called) beguiling the
way, now with a story, now with a song of ancient time, suggested by
this well-remembered pass, that over-hanging rock, or steep waterfall.
All was animated, all interesting, on the tongue of this old narrator.
He carried me back to the days when the Indians and the white settlers
were united in bonds of amity and love; when the unsuspecting red man
showed no dispositions but those of the most friendly and confiding
nature, towards the race before which he was so soon to disappear, and
from which he was fated to receive such injuries. He retraced the
history of aggression, and related several incidents of harrowing
barbarity, in which the power of our race was perverted to oppress and
finally to crush our ancient friends and allies. My mind retaining
some historical recollection of the massacre of the Conestogo Indians
by the white inhabitants of Pextang, I requested my companion to
proceed towards the site of that ancient settlement. As we advanced,
we saw nothing to remind us of the first masters of the soil, save the
magnificent features of nature, still bearing the appropriate epithets
of their language. The mighty voice of the Susquehanna still roared
through its breakers, and the dark form of the Black Warrior lifted
itself on high. Having arrived at the supposed spot of the cruel
massacre, Oliver gave me a short history of the war-like and generous
tribe who once inhabited the extensive and flourishing settlement,
lying between the Susquehanna and Conestogo creek. Among the rocks and
fastnesses to which it is said the Indians fled for refuge in the
general destruction of their tribe, he particularised one, called the
“Rock of Sacrifice,” with which, he remarked, there was a singular
tradition connected; and another story of still deeper interest, with
a bend in the river just below it, which he pointed out as the
“Kidnapper’s Cove;” thus designated from a remarkable circumstance
which once happened there. “But,” said he, “as both places are
inseparably connected in my own mind, I will begin with the ‘Rock of
Sacrifice,’ and tell you what the Indian legends relate of both.”
The tradition is, that only six warriors escaped the murder of their
people; and not wishing to survive the fall of their nation,
sacrificed themselves on this spot to the god of vengeance, believing
they should be permitted in the land of spirits to behold the day of
just retribution on their murderers. One of these chiefs was known by
the appellation of the “Spread Eagle,” from his power and majesty. He
was a famous chief; his word in council, and his arm in war, were
alike irresistible. He was the friend and ally of the whites. He said,
“they are wise, they will teach us their arts, there is room enough
for us both, let them fell the trees and till the soil, the wilderness
stretches to the great waters, our young men can follow the chase, and
our old ones learn to grow a great nation. Our white brethren must
dwell among us.” His counsel was followed, and mutual amity
established between the two races. At length the rapacious thirst for
gain fomented discord, and the Indians were assailed and murdered in
cold blood. The Spread Eagle, by his wonderfully muscular strength,
fought through the enemy, bearing two children (the only remaining
members of his family) on his shoulders. He fled to the habitation of
Colonel Carlisle, who in the general defection had maintained the
cause of the persecuted Indians. His confidence in this tried friend,
while all around was treachery and bloodshed, wavered not; and he
rushed through the infuriated crowd to the covert of his protection.
Exhausted by exertion and mental anguish, he had scarcely reached the
door, when he beheld his murderers in close pursuit. Darting forward
with a last effort, he threw his children at the feet of Carlisle,
exclaiming, “is there mercy, is there faith, in the heart of one white
man?” “Fear not,” replied the voice of his protector, “I will defend
you from every assault of your enemies.” The Indian’s emotion was
overwhelming. He vented not in words the deep feelings with which his
heart was torn, but his large chest heaved with the inward struggle.
After a few moments he became tranquil, and uttered his determination
in a few brief words—“Carlisle, my people are gone—their blood dyes
the ground—the smoke of their wigwams darkens the sky—I will not stay
to see their ashes scattered by the wind—I will join my brothers in
the spirit-land—see you yonder rock? It points upwards. To night its
blaze will tell that the last Conestogo chiefs have gone to call down
vengeance on their murderers. The Great Spirit drinks the blood of the
brave, but he calls not for the death of the young, they must live to
do deeds of glory. Carlisle, your children have sported with mine on
the brink of the roaring stream—let them roam together until ten
winters have stripped the leaves off the trees: then, my children,
mind the course of the sun—he rises in the east, but he goes down in
the west—follow his path until you find the home of the red man.
Arrowfoot and Caraola, my children, remember the words of your father.
Make not your home with the white man—get far away from him, but shed
not his blood—you have eaten of his bread, and slept by his fire: die
sooner {742} than do him harm, lest the frown of the Great Spirit
darken your souls, but forget not he has shed the blood of your
people, and broken the faith of his promise.” He rose, and unloosing
his wampum belt, presented it to Carlisle, which he received as the
pledge of faith and friendship. The next moment the “Spread Eagle” was
gone. As soon as it was dark, Colonel Carlisle looked towards the
beacon rock. Its fires were just kindling, but soon six figures were
seen within the circle of their ravages. They stood, like the rocks
around, unmoved and unterrified by the fury of the conflagration. He
watched, until the fiery billows swept over the self-devoted victims.
Arrowfoot and Caraola were also spectators of the scene. Their
sympathies, unlike those of the little group around, were not
expressed in tears of grief, or shrieks of terror. In silent and fixed
attention they stood with their backs against a tree, until the last
flickering spark was gone. Then each took the hand of the other, and
pointing to the extinguished pile, promised to obey their father’s
command.
Arrowfoot and Caraola were immediately taken as inmates into Colonel
Carlisle’s family, and the natural shyness and suspicion of the Indian
character, dispelled by the affectionate attention bestowed on them by
every member of the household.
Colonel Carlisle had been very unfortunate in his domestic ties. Death
had successively swept to the grave six children; and last of all his
beloved wife, who sunk under the repeated strokes of family
affliction. Eva and Eldred were now the melancholy father’s only ties
to existence. She was the oldest. Eleven summers had fanned the auburn
ringlets on her snowy brow, and health and joy sparkled on her radiant
cheek. But little Eldred, though nine years old, was feeble and
infantine; claiming a double share of his father’s care and
tenderness. The Indian children soon became the favorite and happy
companions of Carlisle’s own. They bounded with them through the wild
woods of the Susquehanna, Caraola bearing Eldred on her shoulder as
lightly as a bird skipped over the rocks; and Arrowfoot teaching the
nimble foot of Eva where to rest in climbing the steep precipice. His
dexterity in the use of the bow was an unceasing source of amusement:
and the young foresters often spent the day pursuing the chase, and at
night brought home a fawn, the trophy of Arrowfoot’s skill.
Such was the childhood of Eva and Eldred—passed amidst the
magnificence of nature, with two of her untutored children to teach
them how to love and commune with her in the thundering waterfall, the
deep voice of the coming storm, or the whispers of the evening
wind—each was alike delightful, because each was alike expressive of
her beauty or her grandeur. The disposition of Arrowfoot was naturally
contemplative—that of Caraola, tender and romantic. While he, in
thoughtful mood, watched the swift current of the mighty river,
journeying to meet its kindred fountains in the deep, and imagined
himself also a traveller in ceaseless step in pursuit of an unknown
destiny, she would sit on the beetling rock, overhung by the dark
hemlock, and chant the funeral dirge of her tribe, and, pointing to
the Indian mound, describe to her little group of wrapt listeners, the
mysterious rites of interment, and the plentiful supplies which are
left with the dead, to sustain them till they reach the spirit-land.
Her soul seemed to live in the memories of the past, associating with
the majestic scenery around her recollections of the faded glory of
her people.
Colonel Carlisle thought it his duty to instruct these young orphans
in some of the most useful branches of education; but he soon found
that their spirits could not be tamed down to con over the dull
elements of the white man’s language. They loved better to climb some
rocky steep in search of the young eaglet, or follow the bounding deer
into the depths of the near forest. It was only when the young Eva
became his teacher, that Arrowfoot listened to the page of
instruction, and even then his eye would stray from the lesson, to the
bright countenance that hung over it, in which his musing fancy beheld
all it could picture of beauty and happiness. Believe not those who
say the Indian’s heart is only susceptible of the fierce emotions.
Love, in all its strength and purity, often lies hidden in the deep
recesses of his nature, prompting him to deeds of high daring and
self-sacrifice, which the energies and feelings of civilized life,
dissipated upon a thousand objects, are too weak to achieve. Arrowfoot
looked on young Eva’s face of sunshine, and felt the pride and
sternness of his soul melt before it. At first he was happy, for it
beamed on him in his lonely walks, and gladdened the darkest wood
path. But a change came over him, when he attempted to analyze the
feelings that soon warred within his bosom. He became moody and sad,
for he knew the vision he had so long dwelt on would never pass away
from his soul, and he remembered the promise that bound him. He held
it sacred, for it was made to the parent and the chief; but darkness
fell upon his soul, and no star lighted the dim and dreary destiny to
which he was hastening. The struggle was however fearful between the
dignity and firmness of the Indian character, and the softer but still
powerful feelings that are called forth in men of every tribe and
language, by the fascinations of beauty, and the smiles of artless
affection. One day, when Eva was trying to awaken his interest in the
records of history, he exclaimed, turning on her a countenance of
grief and wounded pride, “Does Eva wish Arrowfoot to forget the
misfortunes of his race? Then tell him not of the triumphs, the
glories of other nations. Once the Indian could boast of the valor of
his warriors, and the number of his captives, but now he is driven
from his war-paths, and his hunting grounds. He is robbed of his
rights; and his injuries swell the page of your nations triumphs. If
he receives justice, it is because the oppressor grows weary of
trampling on the fallen. If he receives kindness, he is base enough to
forget the wrongs of his people. But Eva, my father’s death-song
sounds in my ears. His voice calls to me from the spirit-land, and
bids me break the spell that has bound me even near the grave of my
nation. He says the daughter of the white man has smiled on me, and
the coil of the serpent is around my heart. Oh, start not! The bright
sun warms into life the poison hemlock, and the healing balsam. But I
must go. It is the hand of destiny that shapes our lot; we may war
against it, but we cannot control it.”
The spring of the young Indian’s activity seemed gone. He no longer
took delight in the difficult and perilous adventure. He wandered amid
the solitude of nature, only to indulge the musings of a sensitive and
unhappy mind.
{743} Colonel Carlisle marked, with deep interest, the change which
had come over the boy. He knew too well the silent, dignified
fortitude of the Indian, to make any direct inquiry as to the cause of
his sadness. His sympathy was only shown in redoubled acts of
kindness, which availed nothing but to make Arrowfoot throw a deeper
covering of reserve over his feelings, and avoid, as much as possible,
the society of those he loved best. Months passed away, and still
there was on his countenance, “the settled shadow of an inward
strife.” The cause was a mystery to all, but it acted as a check upon
the full tide of joyful existence, which animated Eva and Eldred.
The lapse of two years wrote its changes on the brows of all that
household. In Eva, the lovely child expanded into the fair and
beautiful proportions of womanhood. Eldred’s pale cheek was exchanged
for the ruddy glow of health and exercise, and his frame became more
vigorous as he grew old enough to share the mountain sports of the
young Indian, who, now tall and athletic, displayed all the physical
powers of his race. His constitutional fortitude, strengthened by the
habits of reflection acquired in civilized life, enabled him to bear
his fate with great endurance; and he looked on the object of his
affections with the fixed and melancholy gaze, which some lovely
wanderer might cast towards the pure star, that shone bright and far,
above him. He sought not to attain her; he made no effort even to gain
her sympathy: but his way was not altogether so dark as if the beam
had been withdrawn.
Colonel Carlisle had resided in Pennsylvania from early manhood: one
sister shared with him the valuable funded property left by their
father, a wealthy Bristol merchant; but a large proportion of the
estate he had realized, was vested in land, which, according to the
custom of the country, only descended in the male line. The feeble
state of Eldred’s health through infancy and childhood, led many to
anticipate the time when these large estates would pass from Colonel
Carlisle’s family, to that of his sister; who, married to an East
Indian, was the mother of a wild and roving boy. Communication was
tardy and uncertain in those days; for the hidden powers of earth, air
and water, had not then been called into action, by the commanding
energies of man; and Colonel Carlisle having united his fortune with
the early adventurers in the colonies, while animated by the ardor of
youth, soon felt that the ties which bound him to the home of his
childhood, were feeble, compared with those man frames for himself in
maturer years.
He was sitting one evening, revolving in his mind some of the pleasant
memories of days long past, and scenes in which that sister had been
always at his side, when a purpose he had formed, of writing forthwith
to inquire after her welfare, and inform her of the health and
happiness of his own domestic circle, was frustrated by the arrival of
tidings from New York, that an officer in the British Navy, the son of
his sister Mrs. Fitzgerald, had just arrived in port, and would come
down to visit him in a few days. The heart of the affectionate old man
throbbed with joy at the prospect of embracing his young relative. “He
is a noble fellow I doubt not,” said he to his daughter. “A little
wild in his youth, I have heard that his strange adventures gave my
sister much pain, but young men will be thoughtless, and women’s fears
often outrun discretion, you know, my little Eva.” “Yes,” he continued
to himself, as she went dancing on, to spread the joyful news of the
arrival of a gay young visitor, through the house, “the boldest and
finest spirits often commit extravagancies, before education and
experience give them the right bent, ‘the upward and onward course.’
Poor fellow! he has had little of that best instruction, a father’s
high and pure example. Fitzgerald is an honest man, as the world goes,
but I doubt if he could teach his son any thing better than to scrape
together ingots. But half the blood in his veins is _Carlisle_, and
that could not flow on in the same current with any thing mean or
dishonorable. Besides, he wears his majesty’s uniform; so, as his
father would say, _the balance_ is in favor of his being a brave man
and a true.”
The expected guest at length came, and was welcomed by Colonel
Carlisle with honest warmth. As he surveyed the noble figure of his
nephew, in the imposing costume of the British navy, he felt assured
that all his hopes for him were realized; and was proud of the
relationship between them. Eva and Eldred with beating hearts gave a
timid welcome to their dashing kinsman, but were not perfectly at ease
until, with the frankness of a sailor, he inquired if they believed
him to be “the old man of the sea,” told of in children’s story books?
“Ah,” he said, taking Eva by the hand, “I have dreamed of your blue
eyes and sunny curls, but I never _even dreamed_ that you would not be
glad to see your own cousin Julian. You will not confess it, but I
hope this warm hand and mantling cheek, tell another tale.” Then
turning to Eldred, he exclaimed, “Is this the little fellow I have
often heard my mother talk of, who was’nt quite large enough to be
elected king of the fairies? Why here he is a sturdy boy, who could
heave the anchor of my schooner.” Then the young Indians were
introduced, and a few particulars added to what Julian already knew of
their history. Caraola was struck with the glitter of the young
officer, but Arrowfoot looked coldly on him, and soon turned away.
Between the visitor and the stern Indian there existed, from the
first, a sort of repulsion, such as we see between substances of the
most opposite nature. It was attributed by those around them, to the
difference of nature and habit, which had brought all the feelings and
mental qualities of the sailor to the surface, and buried those of
Arrowfoot in impenetrable reserve. This assumed the rigidity of marked
dislike towards the stranger, who evidently felt uneasy at “the keen
encounter” of his dark eye. The Indian was often reproached by the
open-hearted company, for avoiding their society, and taking part in
none of their plans of amusement: but as he gave no reason, his
coldness was attributed to some trivial prejudice, or intuitive
dislike. This was a check upon the hilarity of the young party: for
Julian was the spring of all their gaiety. Now, gathered around him,
they hung with breathless interest upon the fascinating adventures of
the sailor’s life; now, seated in the pleasure boat, they skimmed the
clear waves of the Susquehanna, he chanting some merry or sentimental
air, and keeping time with the graceful dip of his oar. The person of
the young officer never appeared to so much advantage as when borne on
the surface of his own element; his spirits seemed to acquire an
elasticity which gave grace to every motion, while {744} his full,
black eyes sparkled through the thick curls that floated in the
evening breeze. Arrowroot never failed to join these excursions;
though apparently unobservant of what was passing, he sat silent and
apart. Julian was evidently incommoded by his presence, and sometimes
seemed to shrink from his searching eye. What could there be about the
gay visitant to awaken the suspicion or the hatred of the Indian! It
could not be jealousy. The young foreigner had disclaimed all
pretensions to the hand of his fair cousin, by urging her, with the
freedom and affection of a brother, to accept the addresses of a
youthful admirer in the neighborhood. Indeed, Eldred appeared Julian’s
favorite, from the deep interest he took in all the boy’s amusements,
and the fatigue and self-denial he would undergo to promote his
pleasure. With all the zest of fifteen, he hunted, sailed or angled as
suited the whim of Eldred; and declared he would joyfully exchange the
deck of his schooner, for the hunting grounds of the Susquehanna. He
had so completely won the boy’s heart, that Eldred talked boldly of
forsaking his books and going abroad with Fitzgerald. The proposition
was actually made to Colonel Carlisle, who, at first, treated it as a
jest; but when he perceived that his nephew was serious in urging the
thing, and that he had gained Eldred’s hearty assent, he firmly but
affectionately refused to suffer his son to go beyond parental
restraint at his early age. Eldred was disappointed, but with the
gentleness which marked his disposition, cheerfully submitted to his
father’s wishes; but Julian was not only disturbed, but displeased.
This was the first time he had exhibited any thing of a sensitive or
suspicious nature. He asked if his uncle had not confidence in the
affection he had evinced for Eldred, or in the promises he had made to
guard him from all evil? His feelings were only calmed by new
assurances on the part of Colonel Carlisle, that his confidence in the
regard of his nephew was greatly heightened by this last expression of
it.
The day following, Julian, with a melancholy countenance, informed
Colonel Carlisle, that he had received orders to leave port in less
than a week, and of course he must reach his vessel in time to make
the necessary arrangements; two or three days more were all he could
spend with the beloved relatives to whom his heart was doubly bound by
the ties of kindred and affection. These tidings spread gloom over
every face but Arrowfoot’s. With a penetrating glance, he sought to
read the secret purposes of the stranger, whose words he heeded not.
Julian turned from the inquisitive look; and, with averted eyes,
remarked to Colonel Carlisle, that business called him immediately to
the neighboring town; but as he should only be detained a few hours,
he hoped to return in time to take a last sail with the little party
on the noble river, which would ever dwell in his memory, the mirror
of many past joys.
But I see you are curious to know whether the young Eva was proof
against the attractions of the gallant officer? Did her guileless
heart receive no arrow from the vagrant Cupid, who is so apt to make
one in water excursions and rambles in search of the picturesque; and
who, often an unbidden guest, forces himself into pleasant country
parties, to disturb their harmony and mar all their pastimes. She
remained “fancy free;” for Julian Fitzgerald deigned not to borrow
from the quiver of the mischievous boy, and Eva’s was not a love to be
bestowed, unsought. She was a being, too, of deep affections: and
though her cousin was handsome, brave, full of recitals of wild and
varied interest, and amusing sketches of life and manners, which she
knew only through books, his character was not one to excite her
enthusiasm. It seemed to her romantic spirit, deficient in the lofty
qualities which could alone call forth the enduring love of a refined,
feeling woman; though she admitted that it must be a very pleasant
world where the men were all as gay, and agreeable, and courteous as
he. With his knowledge of the human heart, he might have found it no
very difficult matter to deceive his cousin Eva’s penetration, had his
pride or vanity, or any of the thousand springs of action by which men
are actuated, been put in motion: but he existed for more stirring
scenes; though, now like a bird pursuing its mysterious way from one
far land to another, he paused to rest for awhile amid song and
sunshine.
The hours of Fitzgerald’s absence were spent by the family in
preparing mementos of regard, for him to take to their mutual friends
in England. He returned before Eva had completed her package; and, as
if to drive away care, rallied her on the Quaker taste of her
presents. But though he assumed gaiety, he was restless and uneasy,
and sometimes fell into fits of abstraction, from which he would
suddenly start, and attribute his unusual sadness to the prospect of
parting so soon from his only friends in America. Eldred hung on him,
persuading him with artless and disinterested affection to renounce
his wandering life, and share with him the large domains that would be
his in a few years. But the young officer smiling at the boy’s
simplicity, replied that he would “owe fortune only to his own arm,
and to the favoring gale.”
The evening came on, and the little party embarked on the bright
river. The breeze was fresh, dimpling it with smiles, and soft and
fleecy clouds flitted over them, on their way to form a canopy of
splendor the retiring monarch of day. The scene seemed to revive the
spirits of Julian, and he resumed his animated tone, as he called over
the roll for the excursion. “Where is our pilot Arrowfoot?” said Eva,
looking round. “Oh, the Indian boy,” replied Julian, “I did not
perceive he was missing. But you will not deny me the pleasure of
commanding your little bark this last cruise we shall make together? I
am sure I shall steer as gallantly as he, and as safely too.” “No
doubt of it, dear cousin,” answered Eva, “but there is something
singular in his leaving his post, without giving us any reason for
it.” “I thought,” said Eldred, “he had gone with you, Julian. I hav’nt
seen him since your return.” “No, indeed,” replied the young officer,
“I believe he has no desire for my companionship. These Indians are
strange beings; I would as soon think of taming the mountain eagle as
of civilizing them.” “Slacken sail,” cried Eldred, “if I mistake not,
that speck on the waters is Arrowfoot’s bark canoe. Yes, I know the
dash of his paddle; he is making towards us with all his strength.”
“What can the boy have been after?” remarked Fitzgerald, in rather an
anxious tone: but the next moment the Indian came alongside, and
bounded into the boat, leaving his own light canoe to drift down the
current.
“I thought,” said Eldred joyfully, “that our old pilot {745} would not
desert us altogether. But where have you been? Out of breath, and as
pale as a corpse! Have you been fighting with a wolf, or capsized by
the water-fiend?” “You will not speak,” exclaimed Eva, as he turned
silently away, and fixed his eyes on the dark cove they were nearing;
“can you not tell us whether the spirit who haunts yon depths will be
propitious, for we are going to invade his realms?” “You have nothing
to fear from the water-spirit,” replied Arrowfoot, “but why do you not
sail up the river as you have always done before?” “Because Julian
wishes to see the cove,” said Eva gaily; “and with you at the helm we
fear nothing.” “Trust not to that,” replied he, in a low tone, “I
would guard you from danger with my life, but—I would we were sailing
up the stream,” he continued with increased anxiety. “What can you
mean, Arrowfoot?” cried the now alarmed girl, but immediately
recovering her natural buoyancy of spirit, she rallied him on his
superstition. “Have you seen a raven hovering over us, or does the
moon dip her horn?” she laughingly inquired. “Believe not the omen,
but let us follow these merry waves that go dancing by us, to ‘the
cave of their slumbers,’ and hear the wild song of the water-spirit
soothing them to rest under yon rude canopy of rock.” Fitzgerald now
approached. “I do not like to see my cousin’s bright countenance
wearing this shadow? What gloomy forebodings are these that disturb
you, Eva?” “I wish,” answered she, “that we had taken the usual
course, for Arrowfoot thinks we are not quite safe in venturing into
the cove this evening. Night is coming on, and perhaps we may strike
upon some hidden rock.” “Never fear,” rejoined he, “I am an old
cruiser, who has doubled Cape Horn and been baptized by Neptune. I
want to show you how we steer through dangers in real nautical style.
This young Indian,” he continued in a lower tone, “knows nothing about
it.” “More perhaps than you think he does,” said Arrowfoot, sternly;
for the almost whispered accents had reached his acute ear. Julian
turned away apparently disconcerted, but in a few moments was himself
again, and that he might obliterate every uneasy feeling from the
breasts of the little party, played off Jack-tar for their
entertainment with so much odd singularity and humor, that all, save
the lone Indian, entered into the spirit of his drollery, and forgot
every thing but the fantastic drama before them. He stood apart,
gazing first on the dark masses of rock which overhung the river, then
down its broad and deep solitudes of water, on which no skiff or
fishing boat was visible. They were now entering the unfrequented
cove. Seldom was it that even the canoe of the wild Indian disturbed
the stillness of this spot. How strange was it then to see a small
boat rise as it were out of the waters, and emerge from the shadow of
the rocks within a few hundred yards of them. Arrowfoot, whose wary
ear had heard the dash of oars before it was visible, stood with
straining eye fixed upon it as it rapidly approached them. “I’ll
declare, the water-spirit you were talking of,” said Fitzgerald, “has
taken the form of a fishing boat, and Arrowfoot is going to answer his
demand why we presume to come into his presence. But let me speak him
as we do a ship at sea, and lo! the charm will dissolve, and the whole
affair turn out to be nothing more than a trader going down stream.”
In a moment he took out an instrument something like a bugle, but of a
peculiar tone, and blew a few notes, which were answered by another of
the same kind, and an attempt on the part of the trader to overhaul
them. “I told you,” said Julian, “it was no water-witch. See she
wishes to give us a friendly salute, and learn where we are bound.”
Eva’s looks were directed first to her cousin and then to the Indian,
but for whose look of alarm and defiance she would have enjoyed the
adventure. The boat came nearer, and yet seemed steered by invisible
hands, for no one could be seen beneath the awning which was raised at
one end of it. “What lazy hulks,” exclaimed Fitzgerald, “to let their
boat float on with the current, while they lie dozing there. I’ll pipe
them again, and if they dont answer more gaily I’ll board them
straightway.” He raised his bugle just as they were in the act of
passing, and sounded a note, which was replied to by two figures
masked and muffled in short cloaks, springing on the side of their
little bark. “Good God! who are you? what is your purpose?” cried he,
in a tone of consternation. “Villains! Murderers!” shouted Arrowfoot,
straining the terrified Eldred close to his bosom. The ruffians rushed
upon him, and the cry of despair he uttered when he found he could not
retain his hold upon the boy, revealed their success. The struggle had
been momentary. The Indian was shaken off into the water, by men whose
nerve had been strengthened by many a scene of blood and strife; and
the child he had so vainly striven to defend was heaved into the boat
of the strangers. One wild shriek pierced the silence of the cove and
all was still, while the pirates pushed silently down the stream. Eva
sunk lifeless on the bosom of Caraola, who seemed stunned by the
events which had just occurred, but soon her mournful wail told her
utter hopelessness. Julian Fitzgerald stood silent and unmoved. Where
was his vaunted courage, which had made no effort to rescue a helpless
boy? “Caraola,” he at length said, “I have been thinking what course
we had best pursue, to overtake these murderers before they have
completed their bloody purpose. I would follow them immediately, but
we must first get assistance for this fainting girl.” “Oh go,” cried
she, “I can steer the boat—I can revive Eva.” Her voice, as it dwelt
on the emphatic word “go,” roused the unconscious sufferer to a sense
of her wretchedness. “Go—haste—save him—my brother, my father’s
darling,” she shrieked in agony. “Julian, do you hesitate?” “No, Eva—I
am rowing with all my strength—I must leave you in safety. My plan is
formed. Your father will approve it. We must raise forces and scout
the country around, for the ruffians will not dare to execute their
design on the river. We can rescue the boy before they reach a place
of concealment.” “Oh Julian, speed, speed fast,” she said, in a tone
of touching entreaty, “my brother’s life depends upon your arm. Oh
Caraola, is Arrowfoot too gone? I know he clung to him as long as life
remained. Did they kill him?” “They threw him off,” replied Caraola,
“but he lives still. I saw him striving to reach yonder shore. His
heart is strong, and though his young arm bends like the sapling, I
know the Great Spirit will strengthen it.”
The night had fallen dark and gloomy ere they reached Colonel
Carlisle’s door. Eva’s cry of anguish caught her father’s ear, and he
rushed to meet them. {746} “Is it my child’s voice I hear?” exclaimed
he, with alarm. “Speak Eva! where is your brother? Oh God! what has
befallen him?” “He is gone, father—gone! seized by strangers; hasten
to pursue—Julian, tell him all!” she said, as she gasping, fell into
Caraola’s arms. He briefly sketched the events of the evening, and the
probable design of the ruffians, to obtain the costly watch and
diamonds which it was ascertained Eldred wore as a pledge of the
inheritance to which he was heir. It might be from some motive of
revenge to the father, but that Colonel Carlisle’s open heart and
hand, his high-minded and useful career, checked the supposition of
his having a secret enemy.
The necessity for instant exertion prevented the old man’s heart from
bursting under this unexpected calamity. A company was raised for
immediate pursuit. Julian co-operated in every plan to regain the lost
boy, and set out as the leader of a party to search every spot where
it was possible the villains had found a harbor. Colonel Carlisle
himself headed another, but being scarcely able to guide his own
steps, he yielded to his nephew’s counsel, and returned home, that he
might not delay others in their search.
We will leave Fitzgerald engaged in this fruitless enterprise, and
follow the trace of the boat which bore Eldred away from all he loved
on earth. He lay still in the bottom of it, with a gag in his mouth
and his tender frame enveloped in a seaman’s cloak. He heard but the
splash of the oars and the shrill cries of the night-hawk scared from
its solitary resting place. The hardened wretches, whose victim he had
become, heeded not his stifled sobs, but leaving the wide Susquehanna,
rowed up Conistoga creek until they came to a little inlet, which
formed a very secluded cove, overhung by precipitous banks and
surrounded by unbroken wood. There they lifted out the now senseless
boy, and making fast their boat to the rocks, bore him through rugged
paths to an old tenantless habitation, which had once been a
mill-house, but all its works having been destroyed by a recent flood
it had been left a wreck in the midst of desolation. Not until they
had deposited their burden in the remotest corner of the building, did
these murderers break the profound silence in which they had
travelled. Having descended the ladder by which they had entered the
upper story, and carefully concealed it from view, they began to
consult upon the best means to adopt. “Did he say,” asked McMurdough,
“that he would be here before day light? I am against delaying the
thing. A bird in the hand may flutter.” “He said we might depend on
him,” replied Hawkins. “I would rather obey orders in these things. It
is enough for my conscience to do the deed; let them bear the
responsibility that get the money.” “Hush!” whispered the other;
“didn’t you hear the leaves stir?” “Nothing,” said his comrade, “but
that cursed whippoorwill going to set up its screech. I’ll tell you,
Hawkins, I had just as lief tap the boy on the head as to crack an
egg, but this Antonio is a cunning fellow. He always leaves some hole
to creep out at himself, but his poor followers must take care of
themselves. He likes to get others to do his dangerous deeds too, but
I know I must hear the clink of the Spanish dollars or he never sets
foot on the deck of the Scudder again, and so I’ve told him.”
“McMurdough,” said Hawkins, “did I tell you what I heard them Yankee
lubbers say, as we cruised off Newport?” “Who cares for their guesses?
As soon set a parcel of clams to privateering as such as them.” “Not
so fast. They showed some cuteness in their talk. One tapped the other
as our vessel was gliding by and said, ‘Jonathan, as ever I hope to
eat pumpkin pie thanksgiving day, that’s no English trader, though she
does spread their colors. Notice how clear she keeps of “old
Ironsides.” I bet you don’t find her shaking hands, if she can help
it. I’ll stake a Jews-harp she hoists other colors before she gets
much farther.’ ‘And strikes them too,’ replied the other. ‘That's all
talk,’ said the first: ‘I’ve heard all about the Buccaneers, as they
call ’em, and what nice traps are laid for ’em, but where’s one they
have ever catched? Catch a pirate before you hang him say I.’” “So say
I too,” said McMurdough, laughing. “As long as we have satisfaction
among ourselves we may defy the devil; but some things must be
altered, or I don’t serve under, Antonio.” “McMurdough, the boy keeps
very quiet,” observed Hawkins: “like as not you fixed him, so he’ll
die before his time.” “May be so—he’s but an unfledged bird, and will
not stand rough handling. No concern of mine, I did but _his_
bidding.” “The moon is wrapping herself up in as black a cloak as
ours,” remarked Hawkins, “so we might as well take a little rest. But
first I’ll step above and see about the child. If he’s smothered, all
the better; I never had so little mind to a job in my life.” “Why so?
he says there is no doubt of the fortune—just put this one out of the
way, and he’s the next heir.” “It goes against my conscience,
McMurdough, to shed the blood of the young and innocent; let there be
guilt where I strike.”
He ascended the ladder, and groped for the spot where lay the victim
of their cruelty. No sound escaped from him, and it was not until he
pulled away the gag and uncovered his face, that he perceived the boy
still breathed. His pulses were quick and faint, betokening exhausted
and failing life. He was evidently locked in a deep slumber, which
neither the terrors of his situation nor the gripe of the iron screws,
had power to break. Folded in the sweet mantle of forgetfulness, he
was insensible to every thing but the busy fancies that sported in his
brain. Even the stern heart of the murderer relented, when a
straggling moonbeam fell on the pale face, and revealed the bruises
made by the hand of violence. The fresh air seemed already to revive
the young slumberer, and he had not the heart to shut it out, but
turned his head towards the rent in the wall, and then endeavored to
seek repose in another part of the building.
The covering of night was not so secure as the banditti supposed. The
faithful Arrowfoot, with untiring step, had followed all the windings
of their rugged course. Resolving not to lose the traces of their
flight, he had traversed dangers which by day light would have
appeared impassable; and while they were placing their charge in the
upper story of the house, crept within hearing and laid himself down
in a thick underwood, where his ear caught every word which passed
between them. It was his presence which had scared the whippoorwill
from its perch, and gave occasion to the imprecation of the ruffian.
He listened intently to their discourse, which revealed all he
suspected, that Julian was the contriver of the whole scheme of {747}
abduction and murder. As soon as he heard this, he moved off as
lightly as the air itself, and making his way to the boat they had
left, seized the oars, and with the skill of a practised hand pushed
over the water, straining every nerve to give the alarm before
Fitzgerald’s arrival at the designated spot.
He was conscious of his danger in meeting the false-hearted villain,
and blessed the thick veil of darkness which concealed his little bark
from view. His only thought was to reach home before the star of
Eldred’s fate had set forever; and kind nature almost seemed to stay
her rapid wheels, to give the devoted Indian the only boon he sought,
time to arrest the murderer’s knife. Having reached the landing, he
bounded like the shot arrow, to the chamber where the wretched father
paced the floor in the phrensy of despair. Arrowfoot rushed into his
presence, exclaiming, “Where is Fitzgerald?” “Not returned,” replied
the deep voice of agony, “the search is fruitless—Julian delays to
confirm the fatal tidings.” “Hasten, Carlisle, if ever you hope to see
your son again—he lives, but the hour for his death is appointed—the
assassin waits but the sentence from the mouth of your nephew
Fitzgerald to despatch him. Stand not motionless. Doubt not the
certainty of what I tell you. I have pursued the ruffians and heard
all the plot. In two hours, Eldred’s fate may be sealed: for the
ruffians wait but the return of their leader, Julian Fitzgerald. Arm
yourselves and follow me,” he cried to the gathering retainers of the
household, as, seizing the first weapon that came to his hand, he
darted towards the river where he had fastened the little skiff.
While Arrowfoot is leading the way towards the lonely habitation where
he had left the imprisoned boy, we will follow the covert footsteps of
Julian. After he had prevailed on Colonel Carlisle to retire from the
search, he dispersed the band under his guidance, in every direction,
but the right one, and under pretence of making inquiries at a small
fishing station, sailed down the river alone, intending to take this
opportunity to meet the instruments of his dark purposes.
The brow of McMurdough lowered with angry impatience, as leaning
against an overshadowing tree, he waited the appearance of Fitzgerald.
The assassin knew too well his rapacity for wealth to believe that any
trivial cause could detain him, and yet the “slow paced night” had
nearly finished her circuit without his coming. At length the glimmer
of twilight gave place to the broad day, and still he came not. In a
state of fearful doubt and uncertainty McMurdough strode backwards and
forwards, resolving the part he should take.
The return of light roused the sleeping senses of Eldred. The
unfinished dream still floated in his fancy, and gave color to his
words. “Oh! Arrowfoot you have saved me from falling headlong down the
precipice. I should have perished but for you.” “Who?” muttered the
hoarse voice of Hawkins. Shuddering, at the sound the boy looked up,
and beheld the savage visage of the robber bending over him. His
recollection suddenly returned, and clinging to the cloak of the
robber who was endeavoring to withdraw, he plead for mercy in the most
moving terms. “What have I done,” he exclaimed “how have I wronged
you, or any one else? Tell me, and I will restore you fourfold. Only
spare my life, that is all I ask, and you shall be rewarded. I am my
father’s darling, he will give all he has for my life. Think, were you
a father, had you but one son, the hope of your age, the pillow of
your widowed heart, and he were torn——” “Boy, boy, your words
pierce me like a sword! And yet it is not the voice of a child that
can shake the mind from its purpose. It is the voice of the Almighty,
crying _blood for blood!_ What! can nothing pay the forfeit of blood,
but blood again? Whose blood must pay this boy’s? The deep answer
speaks in my soul, my own child’s blood is the price. I dare not, no I
will not shed a drop of yours. Let others answer for their own deeds,”
he said, slowly retiring. As soon as he was alone, Eldred lifted up
his heart to God, and prayed that he who hears the young ravens when
they cry, would deliver him out of the hands of his enemies. Feeling
tranquillized by casting himself upon the Almighty arm, he calmly
surveyed the waving woodlands, and rushing streams, where had been the
pastime and joy of his childhood. His eye caught the upwards flight of
the “cloud cleaving eagle” soaring with unchained wing in boundless
air, and he thought of the days when his heart bounded on wing as free
and joyous, and the tears gushed from their full fountains as his head
sunk on the broken aperture of the wall on which he was leaning.
Absorbed in deep sorrow he heeded not the angry colloquy of the
Kidnappers below, debating the point of his instant death or release,
Hawkins refusing to take any further part in his destruction, and
McMurdough in brutal ferocity at Fitzgerald’s delay, threatening his
immediate assassination. A confused noise of voices approaching, broke
in upon their dialogue, putting every other idea to flight, but that
of immediate escape; and they fled towards a deep ravine, hoping to
secrete themselves in it, until the pursuit was over; but it was too
late. The wary Indian had placed a guard at every pass, and they were
soon made prisoners. What was their astonishment to see Fitzgerald in
the train of their pursuers? The unusual darkness of the night,
prevented his finding the secret path to the place of rendezvous, and
seeing himself totally at fault, he was obliged to await the glimmer
of day light, in order to proceed more securely. Arrowfoot’s ear
caught the sound of his stealthy tread, and warning his followers to
advance cautiously, he darted forward, and intercepted Fitzgerald, at
the spot where his followers had left the boat. It instantly flashed
across his mind that his base design was known to the Indian; and
resolving that his secret should perish with him, he drew his sabre
and attempted to close with his adversary. But the movement was
perceived in time for Arrowfoot to place himself on his guard; and
although Julian was quick of eye and firm of foot, he gained no
vantage ground. He was confident of success, for few had ever resisted
that arm who encountered it in deadly strife: but Arrowfoot, with
agile spring, always eluded the sweep of his weapon, and repaid his
efforts by honest downright blows with a battle axe which he had
seized from the boat of the Pirates. In the first moment of conflict,
a shrill cry had given signal to the band of pursuers, but before they
reached the spot, Julian Fitzgerald lay prostrate and disarmed at the
feet of their leader. The skill and self possession which until now
had always ensured him victory, failed in his struggle with the
Indian. Conscience, defied so {748} long, at last asserted its power,
and unnerved his arm. He uttered no word of wrath or of fear; but his
clenched teeth, and the wild glare of his eye, spoke the roused
ferocity of the demon within. Arrowfoot, leaving the prisoners in the
care of the rest of his party, flew to the captive boy. Eldred was
aroused from his slumber by his hurried steps. Thinking his murderers
had returned to do the work of death, he dropped from his resting
place on the wall, and terror depriving him of every other sensation,
he heeded not the rush of many feet, or the cries of his distracted
father calling his name. The deeply moving voice of Arrowfoot at
length awoke him to the consciousness of life and hope. A faint sob
was the only expression he was able to give to these overpowering
emotions. In speechless ecstasy he gazed on the haggard face of his
father; who, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, gave thanks to the
Almighty for his merciful interposition.
The Indian soon became aware of the danger of such a reaction in the
feelings of the boy, and bore him from Colonel Carlisle’s presence
into the near forest, where placing him on the bank of a murmuring
rivulet, he bathed his temples, and, aided by the soothing sights and
sounds of nature, soon restored him to tranquillity, and enabled him
to return with his father and friends to the home where his sister
watched with straining eyes, for some messenger who would tell her of
his safety or his death.
Meantime the officers of the law took charge of the criminals. The
general delight at receiving the lost one again shut out for a time
all recollection of the traitor from the hearts of this affectionate
family. But the indignation of the community was strongly excited, and
numbers surrounded the prison, calling loudly for the instant trial of
the prisoners. On examination, Fitzgerald protested that he was
innocent of the crime laid to his charge. McMurdough maintained an
obstinate silence. But Hawkins confessed the whole plot, and further
added, that Fitzgerald had joined the Buccaneers in the West Indies in
the preceding year—had distinguished himself in their piratical
depredations by his daring courage; and was now commander of a small
cruiser on the Chesapeake. Fitzgerald, he said, had not specified to
him the person to be put out of the way, but only that one life stood
between him and a large fortune, which all should share, provided his
hand was not seen in the business. This evidence was sustained by that
of Arrowfoot. When asked why he suspected the pretended affection of
Fitzgerald for the boy, he replied in the sententious manner of his
race, that he “saw him cast an evil eye on him, when he first met
him.” When questioned as to his knowledge of the scheme laid to entrap
Eldred, he said that he saw “something dark working in Fitzgerald’s
mind, and followed him to the fishing town. There unperceived he saw
him meet two men drest as fishers, and all three walked off together.
After a while, the fishermen returned, but Fitzgerald was gone, where,
he knew not; he only suspected some evil was intended against the boy,
for his fortune.” When it was inquired why he did not reveal his
suspicions? he replied, that he “scorned the part of a meddler or tale
bearer, and he had no positive evidence of what he believed.” The
testimony was now summed up, and the jury retired to consider the
verdict. Colonel Carlisle sent in a petition, recommending his guilty
nephew to the mercy of the court, but the intercession was rejected,
and sentence of death pronounced on Fitzgerald and McMurdough.
Hawkins, who was considered less guilty and who was penitent, was
doomed to ten years imprisonment. The night preceding the day fixed
for their execution, the prison was discovered to be on fire; and
before any aid could be procured, the devouring flames had enveloped
the building, and rendered all access to the prisoners’ rooms
impossible. The next morning diligent search was made for their
skeletons, but as they were never found, it was universally believed
that the arch-villain Fitzgerald had found means to fire the prison,
and taken advantage of the general confusion to fly with his
associates from the penalty of the law.
Another cloud was soon to rest on Colonel Carlisle’s family. The
period destined for the departure of their Indian friends was at hand.
Arrowfoot spoke not of his purpose, until his plans were matured, but
his countenance betrayed the struggle within. There was something
almost solemn in the secrecy and silence with which these young
Indians made preparation for their pilgrimage. Lest they should yield
to the sympathies of nature, in receiving the expressions of the love
and gratitude of the companions of their childhood, they kept almost
aloof from them; and it was only by stealth that Eva and Eldred
conveyed to their secret depository, stores for their long journey,
and mementos of attachment.
Colonel Carlisle, while he lamented deeply the obligation which must
separate the Indian orphans from their only earthly friends, could not
violate his pledge to their father by attempting to detain them. He
restored to Arrowfoot the wampum belt of the Spread Eagle, remarking,
that it contained something which he must not examine till he had
crossed the great western river. The Indian made the promise, deeming
it some mysterious token left him by his father; and Colonel Carlisle
hoped the large sum of gold he had prevailed on him by this stratagem
to accept, would be of use to him in after life.
The evening preceding his departure, Arrowfoot’s heart seemed lighter
than usual. He led Eva to one of the favorite haunts of their
childhood. “Eva,” he said, “you have seen my dark and sad countenance;
you have thought me ungrateful and unhappy. Yes, the soul of Arrowfoot
is debased; it has rebelled against the command of my dying father,
and preferred degradation and pity to the high hopes of my brethren in
the West. Eva, you know it not, but it was the spell of Eva’s voice,
the charm of Eva’s eye, that darkened my soul; but now, that dream is
gone, my soul rises from its sleep, and brushes away the dew that
dimmed its sight.” The tears of Eva flowed fast, to think that she had
ever caused grief in such a noble heart. She turned to speak some word
of comfort to him, but he had left her side, and plunged into the
forest to regain calmness.
That night, when sleep had prest down the eyelids of Eva, and she lay
in sweet unconsciousness of all, save the gay visions of happier years
which floated through her brain, the beloved Caraola hung over her
earliest friend, kissing her cheek and wetting it with her tears. The
lovely sleeper heard not the deep sigh of suppressed sorrow, or the
light foot which was passing forever from the home, where love and
protection had {749} been extended to the children of the savage. The
morning light revealed the truth. A fan of eagles’ feathers was lying
on Eva’s pillow, and a bow and arrow were placed near Eldred’s
couch—the sole traces of their Indian friends. A melancholy void was
left in the little group who had been wont to gather with cheerful
faces round the hearth; and many a sigh and heartfelt prayer were
breathed for the wanderers who came not again. Thus passed away, like
the shadows of evening, the last scions of the Conistoga Indians.