THE CAPTIVE MAIDEN.
BUT what of Alice McElroy?
Let us go back in our narrative to her mysterious disappearance, the
resulting search for her, and her flight from the wigwam of her captor.
Her father's soldiers were within call. A moment more, and, environed
by those brave-hearted men, she would have been secure against a
hundred Indians. But by one of those unaccountable coincidences with
which human affairs are replete, just as she espied on the opposite
bank the uniform of Captain Manly, the hand of the pursuing savage
was placed upon her mouth, and flinging the struggling girl over his
shoulder, he bore her to his waiting canoe.
What a terrible revulsion! So near escape, and so frightfully to fail!
The malignant-featured savage uttered not a word till he carried her
the second time into his wigwam. Then, throwing her to the ground, he
said, with a fiendish look,—
"White squaw fool; Injun killee her!"
What motive impelled her captor to spare her life at first, and then
to be so anxious to hold her as to pursue and bring her once more to
his hut, Alice tried fruitlessly to determine. That it was not hope
of reward for ultimately restoring her to her parents, the rage he
exhibited when she held out that bribe fully disproved. It was plain,
however, that he held a deadly grudge against the general; for when
Alice mentioned her father's name, the face of the savage glowed with
hate, and he fiercely muttered,—
"White chief kill Injun—many! Injun killee him!"
It was evident, too, that the savage held a spite against her. As she
pondered, she suddenly recalled where and under what circumstances
she originally met her implacable foe. The recapitulation of certain
incidents, and a brief historical statement, will show why the
discovery filled her with the worst apprehensions.
One day Mrs. McElroy and her charming Alice, on their way home from a
visit to friends in Northern Iowa, were detained at the hotel at L— for
several days, while a party of Indians graced the village with their
presence. And Alice, flitting hither and thither, bird-like, often
tripped across the street to brighten Mrs. Mather's sitting-room with
her coming, and fill the house with music as she swept the piano and
sang her favorite songs.
Now, it chanced one morning, entering the back door of that lady's
dwelling, she came suddenly upon an Indian helping himself from the
good housewife's newly-packed "meat barrel." Startled, she cried out,—
"Mr. Mather! Here's a horrid savage stealing!"
The announcement brought quite a group of spectators to the spot,
before whom, the town-owner, who was a quick-tempered, stern man when
aroused, lifted the blanket of the copper-colored thief, disclosing
to view, hugged under a dirty arm, a number of pieces of salted pork,
which, with angry threats, he compelled the reluctant red-man to return
to their places in the barrel.
That Indian was the chief. That chief was Alice McElroy's captor. The
threatening expression of that evil face terrified her at the time, and
it was the same evil expression, reproduced with increased intensity,
that now enabled her shudderingly to identify the swarthy demon into
whose power she had so strangely fallen.
Now that she was hopelessly in his power, her mind intensely revolved
the awful question of her fate. Between the hut and stream was a
solitary oak. Around this, the Indian began to heap brushwood.
"Is he intending to burn me to death?" she queried.
The preparations indicated it. The expression of his hideous face and
glare of his diabolical eye confirmed the appalling inference. Unable
to cope with the white soldiery, his breast rankling with traditional
animosity and personal revenge, he would gloat over the slow agonies of
the helpless member of the hated race he had captured.
With ghastly, white face, the maiden noted the ominous preparations.
The pile was completed.
Repairing to a swamp at hand, he brought from thence fibrous grape-wood
to bind her fast, and was trimming it with his scalping-knife, when, as
if he heard a sound, he dropped the vines to listen. An instant after,
there was a report, and a bullet pierced his chest. The wounded savage
pitched forward, and commenced his death-song.
"It is the soldiers!" cried Alice, joyfully.
But to her surprise, a party of Indians rushed from out the bushes, the
foremost of whom struck his tomahawk into the skull of the dying savage.
Alice fell to her knees, as, after slaying her captor, the Indian
entered the wigwam. Instead of the dreaded stroke, he beckoned her to
follow him, and, returning to the Indian village, took her into his own
tent, and delivered her to his squaw.
Alice knew that her condition in that barbarous home depended largely
on what sort of a being the woman was, for the chief would necessarily
be absent much of the time, while his wife would dwell ever in the
tent. The trembling captive therefore rapidly scrutinized the feminine
form before her, to determine, if possible, her disposition and
character.
But it is difficult to read the Indian countenance, young or old,
male or female. This specimen was short and thick, untidy in person
and apparel, with a broad, wrinkled, haggish face. Whether she was as
old as she looked, Alice could not judge, as the Indian women, from
exposure, want, and toil, become prematurely decrepit. Her face wore a
gloomy, sullen expression, which Alice supposed was evidence of hatred
to her.
From the squaw, Alice's eyes passed to the survey of the little
habitation she was destined to occupy, how long and under what
circumstances she knew not.
Like the Arabs of the desert, the Dakotas live in tents—in their
language, "teepees." Like the army-tent, they are usually of a conical
shape, covered with buffalo-skins, or, when these are scarce, of cotton
cloth, or bark, the latter being more pleasant and cool for the summer.
This of the chief's was composed of not less than a dozen
buffalo-skins, dressed and sewed together by his squaw, and supported
by a number of poles fastened together at the top, and spreading out at
the bottom so as to suit the skin-covering, which was drawn around the
poles and fastened in front with a row of pins, leaving a hole at the
bottom for entrance, and one at the top for the smoke to pass out. The
lower edge of the covering was confined by pins driven into the ground,
while at the smoke-hole was a flap arranged so as to be accommodated to
the wind. The "draught," however, was not perfect, Alice concluded, as
she wiped the tears from her eyes caused by the smoke in the tent.
On the ground inside, dried grass had been spread by the squaw, on
which were placed skin-mats and robes—the carpet by day and bed by
night. In the centre was a space for the fire, the fuel for which the
squaw always provided.
When the chief brought Alice there, he said something concerning her
to the squaw. But as he used the Indian tongue, Alice was not able to
understand the purport of it. That it was not ominously harsh, however,
she gathered from the forbearance of the Indian woman to ill-treat her
at the outset, as their way is towards captives.
The sharp pangs of hunger reminded Alice that she had "lived on
excitement" already too long, and by signs she sought to signify to the
squaw that she was hungry; and bringing her some hominy and a boiled
egg on a wooden plate, with a horn spoon, Alice ate the food with
avidity.
It was evident from what the chief's wife proffered Alice that
provisions were not any too abundant in the "teepee;" and that was the
reason the husband had left so soon. He did not return that night,
nor the next. But each morning the squaw, with haggard looks and
dishevelled hair, wearing a ragged skirt and leggins, with an old piece
of buffalo-skin thrown over her shoulders, walked round the wigwam,
wailing, "'Me-choonk-she! Me-choonk-she!'"
She was mourning for her only daughter, slain by the Ojibwas. Bitter
was the lament of the Indian mother, which, if rendered in English,
would be somewhat like that given by Mrs. Riggs—"'Me-choonk-she!
Me-choonk-she!'" ('My daughter! My daughter!') "Alas, alas! My hope, my
comfort has departed, and my heart is very sad. My joy is turned into
sorrow, and my song into wailing. Shall I never more behold thy sunny
smile? Shall I never more hear the music of thy voice? The Great Spirit
has entered my 'teepee' in anger, and taken thee from me—my first-born,
my only child! I am comfortless, and must wail out my grief. The
pale-faces repress their sorrow; but we, children of nature, must give
vent to ours, or die. 'Me-choonk-she! Me-choonk-she!'"
"I have cast from me all comfortable clothing, and robed myself in
skins; for no clothing, no fire, can warm thee, my daughter. Unwashed
and uncombed I will mourn for thee, whose long locks I can never more
braid, and whose cheeks I can never again tinge with vermilion. I will
cut off my dishevelled hair, for my grief is great. 'Me-choonk-she!
Me-choonk-she!'"
The return of the Indians from the hunting expedition was announced,
while they were yet far-off, by their rejoicing song. This showed, too,
that they had been successful. And when they appeared, they brought
quite a little supply of game, which, however, they staid at home to
eat up, before getting more.
While the chief was at home day by day, Alice pleadingly inquired when
he was to take her to the fort.
His vague guttural reply uniformly being, "Take pappoose dere bimeby!"
What motives led her present captors to show her special consideration
we cannot say. Certain it is, however, that Alice McElroy was not
subjected to the sufferings that befell her less fortunate captive
sisters. Who can paint her thankfulness at their forbearance towards
her! She resolved to show her appreciation of it. And as her grateful
looks and winsome ways evoked additional kindness from her captors,
she trusted that ere long their softening natures would yield, and
they would grant her one consuming desire and oft-uttered prayer, and
restore her to those she knew were mourning her loss,—a quenchless
grief.
Conceive her dismay, then, when, one day, the childless couple gave her
to understand that they had concluded to adopt her!
"O, no; carry me to my 'true' father and mother!" she cried, convulsed
with agony.
But the brow of the chief grew portentous, and his squaw changed into
a fury, and seemed about to pounce upon and tear her in pieces. In
anguish and terror, she lay and pondered that night, and by morning
had wisely resolved to submit to their whim,—making a virtue of
necessity,—and patiently wait the issue. For were not her condition
and prospects enviable, compared with other captives? Would it not be
suicidal folly to offend those who held her prisoner? Moreover, as
a chief's daughter, if she used discreetly the advantages of such a
position, she could win the respect and confidence of the tribe, and
when her plans were ripe and the opportunity opened, farewell, Indian
captivity; welcome, liberty and home!
Alice's acquiescence in their wishes gave great satisfaction to the
swarthy pair; particularly as, with girl-tact, she became an Indian
of the Indians, as Paul was "a Pharisee of the Pharisees," conforming
to their habits, customs, and prejudices as far as she possibly
could—outwardly at least.
The use of paints, the Dakotas aver, was taught them by their gods. I
think their gods must have been poor artists—do you not? "Oon-ktay'-he"
showed the first "medicine-men" how to paint themselves when they
worshipped him, and what colors to use. "Ta'-koo-shkan-shkan'" whispers
to his favorites what colors are most acceptable to him. "Ha-yo'-ka"
hovers over them in dreams, and communicates how many streaks to make
upon their bodies, and what tinge they must have. And no rite in
worship was considered acceptable if destitute of the "wakan'," or
sacred application of colors.
So Alice, from those skilled in plants that dye, obtained liquids to
change her auburn locks to raven black, and her skin to a tawny hue—of
course the gods directed in the transformation, and in the added hues
and daubs.
Her manner became grave, composed, and dignified, as became the child
of the chief. Here her birth and training helped her. Accustomed all
her life to the sight of military discipline, and to her father's
commanding carriage, she easily bore herself with a quiet authority
eminently adapted to impress the savage mind.
One thing I liked to have forgotten. Alice could turn to black her
eyebrows and lids, but her "eyes" were "'true' blue," and neither of
the god painters, nor the trio combined, could undo what "the true God"
had done for her as to color in those conspicuous parts of her visage.
So, after all, I guess our God is God, and "the gods of the heathen are
vanity."
In becoming an Indian, Alice was honored with a new name. The Dakotas,
however, have no family names; so she was not named for her Indian
parents, as would be the case among us. They employ proper names only,
and these all have a significance. Generally they are formed of two
nouns, or a noun and an adjective, as "Good-House," "Scarlet-End,"
"Good-Road," "Long-Buffalo," "Iron-Cutter." Sometimes they consist
of a verb or participle, as "Walking-Spirit." And often the name is
affixed to the individual because of some peculiarity or defect, as
"Crooked-Feet," "Burnt-Legs," "Sleepy-Eyes," "Bit-Nose" (how would you
like that?), "Big-Eyes." It was perfectly natural, therefore, that they
should designate Alice, the chief's daughter, "Blue-Eyes." However,
black eyelids cause the peepers beneath them to seem darker than they
really are, and even in some lights to appear black; so Alice was not
afflicted with a serious defect.
Many phases of life among the Sioux must have been terribly repugnant
to the petted child of the general. But she had will and wisdom, and
was working for a precious object; and one can do, and dare, and endure
when inspired by a high purpose.
Blue-Eyes became the idol of the old chief and his squaw, while her
queenly air and personal grace and beauty made her the admiration of
the younger warriors, to win whose notice they wrestled, and ran,
and exhibited feats of physical prowess, and sang their impassional
love-songs.
I should insult the intelligence of my reader to explain, at this
point, that the charming "child of nature," who broke so unexpectedly
on Tom's wondering vision, the beautiful chief's daughter, she of
the "coffin cough" and grave demeanor, was Alice McElroy, otherwise
Blue-Eyes; and also that it was to her interposition the dwarf owed his
escape.
Ah, had Tom known into whose yellow palm he poured the healing
globules; had he been conscious of the concealed tremblings of those
girlish limbs that walked so unswerving a gait, or noted the latent
glances of the eyes that gazed straight ahead, as if unaware of his
presence; if to the ear of the soul there had been conveyed the
unwhispered word of recognition aching to burst from the voiceless
lips,—then might he have comprehended, in part, what self-mastery and
self-abnegation it cost her to preserve her composure, that he might
not be put in jeopardy.
O, how she longed to send a message by him to her parents, letting
them know that she still lived, and thought of them! Must she keep
her secret, and remain a captive? Could she see him depart, not once
dreaming who she was? Ah, how hateful then the Indian ornaments
celebrated in the songs of admiring braves! Ah, how odious her
disguise, if she might cast it off sufficiently to show that she was
not Blue-Eyes, the chief's daughter, but only Alice McElroy!
But keen eyes and ears were in ambush. She must act her part for
Tom's sake, and to secure a future chance. How magnificently she
triumphed over the trying ordeal, the chief's personal application to
Tom for "more medicine for pappoose," and Tom's unharmed dismissal,
demonstrated.
From that test-hour, the confidence of the Indians in Alice's fidelity
to them was almost unlimited.
She readily divined, however, that Tom was on his way to visit his
mother at the fort. From that interview, she was on the alert for an
opportunity to send a message to him. The coveted occasion came when
the little Hunchback strayed into the chief's encampment, after the
Indians had returned there.