silk bandage, whilst of the other half, which was covered with a large
plaster, only a grey eye was visible, now stepped forward, and bowed
with an air of easy confidence.
"I believe I have the honour to address officers of militia, preparing
for the approaching conflict. If, as I hope, you go down stream
to-morrow, we shall have the pleasure of accompanying you."
"Very kind," replied the general.
"Not bashful," added the squire.
"We also are come," continued the stranger in the same free and easy
tone, "to lay our humble offering upon the altar of the land of
liberty, the happy asylum of the persecuted and oppressed. Who would
not risk his best blood for the greatest of earth's blessings?"
"You are very liberal with your best blood," replied the general
dryly. "How is it that, being already wounded, you come so far to seek
fresh wounds in a foreign service?"
"Our wounds were received from a party of Osages who attacked us on
the road, and paid dearly for their temerity. We are not quite
strangers here; we have for many years had connexions in New Orleans,
and some of the produce of our plantations will follow us in a few
days."
"And this gentleman," said Colonel Parker, who, after staring for some
time at one of the adventurers, now seized him by the collar, and in
spite of his struggles dragged him forward: "does he also come to make
an offering upon liberty's altar?"
With a blow of his hand he knocked off the man's cap, and with it a
bandage covering part of his face.
"By jingo! dat our Pompey, what run from Massa John in New Orlean,"
tittered the colonel's black servant, who stood a little on one side
with the horses.
"Pompey not know massa. Pompey free Mexican. Noding to massa,"
screamed the runaway slave.
"You'll soon learn to know me," said the colonel. "Orderly, take this
man to jail, and clap irons on his neck and ankles."
"You will remain here," said the general in a tone of command to the
spokesman of the party, who had looked on with an appearance of
perfect indifference during the detection and arrest of his black
confederate.
"It will be at your peril if you detain us," was the reply. "We are
ordered to repair to headquarters as speedily as possible."
"The surgeon will examine you, and if you are really wounded, you
will be at liberty to fix your temporary abode in the town. If not,
the prison will be your lodging."
"Sir!" said the man with an assumption of haughtiness.
"Say no more about it," replied the general coldly--"the
commander-in-chief shall be informed of your arrival, and you will
wait his orders here."
The stranger stepped forward, as if he would have expostulated, but
the general turned his back upon him, and walked away. A party of
militia now took charge of the gang, and conducted them to the
guard-house.
This scarred and ill-looking crew are Lafitte and the remnant of his
band, come, according to a private understanding with General Jackson,
to serve the American artillery against the British, (an historical
fact.) Their bandages and plasters being found to cover real wounds,
they are allowed to quarter themselves at the _estaminet_ of the Garde
Imperiale, kept by a Spaniard called Benito, once a member of
Lafitte's band, but now settled in Louisiana, married, and,
comparatively speaking, an honest man. Benito is greatly alarmed at
the sight of his former captain and comrades, and still more so when
they insist upon his aiding them that very night to rescue Pompey the
negro, lest he should betray their real character to the militia
officers. Lafitte promises to have the runaway slave conveyed across
the Mississippi; but as this would require the absence, for at least
three hours, of several of the pirates, who, although at liberty, are
kept under a species of surveillance, the real intention is to make
away with the unfortunate Pompey as soon as the boat is at a certain
distance from land. The negro is confined in a large building used as
a cotton store, built of boards, and in a dilapidated condition; the
militia on guard leave their post to listen to the proceedings of a
meeting then holding for the discussion of General Jackson's
unconstitutional conduct, and, profiting by their absence, Benito and
four of the pirates, Mexican Spaniards, contrive the escape of a
prisoner whom they believe to be Pompey. In the darkness they mistake
their man, and bring away Hodges, who is confined in the same
building. This occurs at midnight. The meeting, which absorbs the
attention of the militia, is not yet over, when the four pirates,
Benito, and the rescued prisoner, arrive at the junction of the creek
and the Mississippi, and, unmooring a boat, prepare to embark.
At this moment a second boat became visible, gliding gently down the
bayou towards the stream.
"_Que diablo!_" muttered the Mexicans. "What is that?"
The boat drew near; a man was in it.
"Who is that?" whispered the pirates, and then one of them sprang
suddenly into the strange skiff, whence the clanking of chains was
heard to proceed. The Mexican stared the unwelcome witness hard in the
face.
"Ah, massa Miguel!" cried the new-comer with a grin: "Pompey not stop
in jail. Pompey not love the ninetail."
"The devil!" exclaimed the Mexican--"it is Pompey. Who is the other
then? We are seven instead of six. What does all this mean?"
"Santiago!" cried the pirates: "Who is he?" they whispered,
surrounding the seventh, and, as it seemed, superfluous member of
their society.
"No Spanish. Speak English," was the reply.
"Santa Virgen! How came you here?"
"You ought to know, since you brought me."
The men stepped back, and whispered to each other in Spanish. "Come,
then!" said one of them at last.
"Not a step till I know who you are, and where you go."
"Fool! Who we are matters little to you, and where we go, as little.
Any place is better for you than this. Stop here and I would not give
a real for your neck."
"Leave him! Leave him!" muttered the others.
"Be off, and back again quickly," whispered the tavern-keeper, "or you
are all lost."
"Stop!" cried the Englishman. "I will go with you."
The negro had already jumped into the Mexicans' boat, and, with the
heedlessness of his race, had left his own adrift.
"Ingles!" said one of the pirates, "sit you here." And he showed him
his place in the bow of the boat next to a young Mexican. "And Pompey
in the middle, and now let's be off."
"Stop!" cried Hodges. "Had we not better divide ourselves between the
two boats?"
"Ah, massa never rowed across the Sippi," tittered the lazy negro.
"Massa not get over in six hours, and come to land at Point Coupé."
"Hush, Pompey," muttered his neighbour, and the boat, impelled by six
pair of hands, darted swiftly out into the stream.
"Ah, Massa Manuel, let Pompey file off him chains," grumbled the
black. "Pompey been in upper jail--been cunning," laughed he to
himself; "took file and helped himself out. Massa Parker stare when he
see Pompey gone."
"Hold your tongue, doctor," commanded a voice from the hinder part of
the boat, "and let your chains be till you get across."
The negro shook his head discontentedly. "Massa Felipe wouldn't like
to be in the collars," said he; but nevertheless he put away his file,
and whilst with one hand he managed the oar, with the other he held
the chain connecting the ankle irons with the collar, and which had
been filed in too close to the latter. This collar consisted of a ring
two inches broad, and as thick as a man's finger, encircling the neck,
and from which three long hooks rose up over the crown of the head.
With a sort of childish wonder he weighed the chain in his hand,
staring at it the while, and then let it fall into the bottom of the
boat, which now advanced towards the middle of the stream.
"Poor Lolli!" said the negro after a short silence--"she be sad not to
see Pompey. She live in St John's, behind the cathedral."
"Pompey!" cried the Mexican who sat forward on the same bench with
Hodges, "your cursed chain is rubbing the skin off my ankles."
"Sit still, Pompey," said the negro's neighbour. "I'll take it out of
the way."
"Ah! massa hurt poor Pompey," cried the black to his next man, who had
wound the chain round his feet, and now gave it so sudden a pull that
the negro let go his oar and fell back in the boat. The young
Englishman became suddenly attentive to what passed.
"What are you about?" cried he; "what are you doing to the poor
negro?"
"Gor-a-mighty's sake, massa, not joke so with poor Pompey," groaned
the negro. "Massa strangle poor nigger."
"It's nothing at all, Pompey; think of your fat Lolli behind the
cathedral, and don't forget the way to Nacogdoches," said the man on
the sternmost bench, who had taken the chain from his comrade, passed
it through the neck-iron, and, violently pulling it, drew the unhappy
negro up into a heap.
"Massa, Massa, Ma----!" gasped the negro, whose breath was leaving
him.
The whole had been the work of a moment, and the stifled groans and
sobs of the agonized slave were nearly drowned by the rush of the
waters and splash of the oar-strokes.
"The devil!" cried the Englishman, "what is all this?"
At that moment the board on which he sat was lifted, his fellow-rower
threw himself against him with all his force, and nearly succeeded in
precipitating him into the stream. Hodges staggered, but managed to
regain his balance, and turning quickly upon his treacherous
neighbour, dealt him a blow with his fist that knocked him overboard.
"_Buen viage á los infiernos!_" cried the other Mexicans with a burst
of hellish laughter, hearing the splash, but misapprehending its
cause.
"Go to hell yourself!" shouted the Englishman, grasping his oar, and
dealing the man in front of him a blow that stretched him by the side
of the negro.
"Santa Virgen! who is that?" cried the two sternmost pirates.
"The Englishman!" exclaimed one of them, pressing forwards towards
Hodges, but stumbling over the men at the bottom of the boat, which
now rocked violently from the furious struggle going on within it.
"Ma---- Ma----!" groaned the negro again, now seemingly in the death
agony--His eyes stood out from their sockets, and glittered like
stars in the darkness; his tongue hung from his mouth, swollen and
convulsed.
"By the living God! if you don't unfasten the negro, I'll knock you
all into the river."
"_Maldito Ingles! Picaro gojo!_"
"Let him go! Let him go! Holy Virgin!" yelled the three Mexicans, as
one of them who had approached the Englishman was knocked bellowing
into his place by a furious blow of the oar. "It's the devil himself!"
cried the pirates, and one of them pushed the negro towards Hodges.
"Stand back!" cried the midshipman, "and take off his neck-iron. If
you strangle him, you are all dead men."
One of the Mexicans laid hold of the negro, who was coiled up like a
ball, and drew the chain out of the collar. The poor slave's limbs
fell back, dead and powerless as pieces of wood. A gasping, rattling
noise in his throat alone denoted that life was still in him.
"Stand back!" repeated Hodges, stooping down, and endeavouring, by
vigorous friction with a blanket, to restore the negro to
consciousness. During this life-and-death struggle, the boat, left at
the mercy of the waters, had been borne swiftly away by the stream,
and was now floating amongst a number of the enormous trees which the
Mississippi carries down by thousands to the sea. The Mexicans resumed
their places, and with their utmost strength began to pull up-stream.
Not far from the frail skiff, beneath the mantle of fog covering the
river, a huge tree-trunk was seen coming directly towards the
boat--Hodges had barely time to bid the Mexicans be careful, when it
shot by them. As it did so, a strange, unnatural cry saluted their
ears, and straining his eyes through the darkness, the young
Englishman saw a head and a hand appearing above one of the limbs of
the forest giant.
"_Misericordia!_" cried the voice--"_Socorro! Por Dios!_"
It was the Mexican whom Hodges had knocked into the water, and who, by
means of the tree, had saved himself from drowning.
"Turn the boat!" cried Hodges, "your countryman is still alive."
"_Es verdad!_" exclaimed the desperadoes, and the boat was
turned--Meanwhile the negro had come gradually to himself, and now
crouched down at the feet of his deliverer. He peered over the gunwale
at the half-drowned Mexican.
"Gor-a-mighty, Massa!" cried he, seizing the Englishman's oar--"dat
Miguel--trike him dead, Massa; Miguel very bad mans."
"Keep still, Pompey!" answered Hodges, pulling with might and main to
the assistance of the Mexican. The boat shot alongside the floating
tree, and the half-drowned wretch had just sufficient strength left to
extend his hand, which the Englishman grasped.
"Take care, Massa! the pirates will kill us both," cried the negro.
At that moment the boat received a violent shock, a wave dashed over
it, and threw the Mexican on the gunwale, across which he lay more
dead than alive.
"Lay hold of him!" said Hodges to the negro.
"Ah, Pompey not such dam' fool--Pompey lub Massa too much. The others
don't row. Look, Massa, they only wait to kill Massa."
"Hark ye!" cried Hodges to the Mexicans, at the same time giving the
nearest to him a blow with his oar--"the first who leaves off
rowing--you understand me?"
The boat rocked on the huge sheet of water, in the midst of the
floating trees, menaced each moment with destruction from the latter,
or with being swallowed up by the troubled and impetuous stream; the
Mexicans cowered upon their benches--thirst of blood, and rage,
suppressed only by fear, gleaming in their black, rolling eyes and
ferocious countenances. The negro now twisted the boat rope round the
body of the rescued man, who, still groaning and imploring mercy, was
dragged on board.
"Ah, Massa! Miguel good swimmer; bath not hurt him, Massa," mumbled
the restless black: "Massa not forget to take his oar with him out of
the boat."
"And Pompey not forget to handle his own a little more diligently,"
was the reply of Hodges.
For a time the negro obeyed the injunction, and then looked at the
young Englishman, who appeared to listen attentively to some distant
sound.
"Massa never fear, militiaman sleep well--only Sippi's noise. Pompey
know the road, Massa Parker not catch him."
A quarter of an hour passed away, and the strength of the rowers began
to diminish under their continued and laborious efforts.
"Massa soon see land--out of the current already," cried the negro.
Another quarter of an hour elapsed, and they reached the shore; Hodges
jumped out of the boat, and was followed by the negro, still loaded
with his fetters. The Mexicans sprang after them.
"Stop by your boat!" cried Hodges in a threatening tone. Instead of an
answer, a knife, thrown by a sure and practised hand, struck him on
the breast. The deerskin vest with which Canondah had equipped him,
proved his protection. The weapon stuck in it, and remained hanging
there.
"Vile assassins!" cried Hodges, who now broke off the flat part of his
oar, and grasping the other half, was about to rush upon the bandits,
when the negro threw his arms round him.
"Massa not be a fool! pirates have more knives, and be glad if he go
near them. Kill him then easy."
"You are right, Pompey," said Hodges, half laughing, half angry, at
the negro, who was showing his white teeth in an agony of fear and
anxiety. "The dogs are not worth the killing."
For a moment the three assassins stood undecided; then yelling out a
"Buen viage á los infiernos," got into their boat and speedily
disappeared in the fog and darkness.
Hodges is pursued and recaptured, but Tokeah and Rosa, who, with their
companions, are brought in by a party of militia, and the latter of
whom is joyfully recognised and welcomed by the worthy Squire
Copeland, clear him of the charge of spying, and he remains a prisoner
of war. The troops take their departure for New Orleans, and the
Indians are detained at the town, whence, however, Tokeah and El Sol
depart in the night-time, and continue their journey. The old chief
accomplishes his object, disinters his father's bones, and returns to
fetch Rosa, and proceed with her to his new home in the country of the
Comanches. Meanwhile the action of New Orleans has been fought, and he
finds, to his grief and astonishment, that Lafitte, whose life he had
spared in the expectation of his meeting punishment at the hands of
the Americans, has actually been fighting in their ranks, and has
received, as a reward for his services, a free pardon, coupled,
however, with an injunction to quit the territory of the United
States. Through an advertisement in an old newspaper, traces have been
discovered of Rosa's father, who, as the reader is given to
understand, is a Mexican of high rank. She had been stolen by a tribe
of Indians with whom Tokeah was at war, and from whose hands he
rescued her. Tokeah has an interview with General Jackson, who
cautions him against the further indulgence of his inveterate
hostility to the Americans, and permits him to depart. Rosa now goes
to take leave of the old chief, who is as yet unaware that she is not
to accompany him.
When Rosa, Squire Copeland, and Hodges entered the estaminet of the
Garde Imperiale, they found the two chiefs and their followers seated
in their usual manner upon the floor of the room, which had no other
occupants. El Sol rose at their entrance, and, advancing a few steps,
took Rosa's hand and conducted her to a chair. She did not sit down,
but ran to the Miko and affectionately embraced him. The old chief
gazed at her with a cold and inquiring look.
"Miko," said the squire, "Miss Rosa has come to take leave of you, and
to thank you for the kindness you have shown her. You yourself shall
fix the sum that will compensate you for your expenses on her
account."
"Tokeah," replied the Indian, misunderstanding Major Copeland's words,
and taking a leather bag from his wampum belt, "will willingly pay
what the white chief claims for food and drink given to the White
Rose."
"You are mistaken," replied the squire; "payment is due to you.
Strictly speaking, the amount should be fixed by a jury, but you have
only to ask, and any reasonable sum shall be paid at once."
"The white chief," said the Indian, "may take whatever he pleases."
"I tell you it is I, and not you, who have to pay," returned the
squire.
"Has my daughter bid farewell to her foster-father?" said the Indian
to Rosa, who had listened to this dialogue with some uneasiness. "Rosa
must leave the wigwam of the white men; the Miko's path is a long one,
and his spirit is weary of the palefaces."
"And must the Miko go?" said Rosa. "Oh! father of my Canondah! remain
here; the white men will love thee as a brother."
The Indian looked at her with astonishment.
"What means the White Rose?" said he,--"the palefaces love Tokeah? Has
the White Rose----?" He paused, and surveyed her gloomily and
suspiciously. "Tokeah," continued he, at last, "is very weary of the
white men; he will be gone."
"Miko," said Rosa, timidly--for it was evident that the chief was
still in error as to the motive of her visit--"Rosa has come to beg
you to remain a while with the white men; but if you must go, she
will"----
"The Miko is the father of his people," interrupted Tokeah; "they call
him; he must go, and the Rose of the Oconees shall also be the Rose of
the Comanches, the squaw of a great chief."
The young girl blushed, and stepped back.
"Miko," said she, "you are the beloved father of my dear Canondah; you
saved my life and maintained me, and I thank you heartily; but, Miko,
I cannot, I must not, do as you wish. I no longer belong to you, but
to my father, my long-lost father."
"Rosa speaks truth--she belongs to her father," said the Miko, not yet
undeceived; "my daughter's feet are weak, but she shall sit in a canoe
till she reaches the wigwams of the Pawnees, and they have many
horses."
"By G--!" cried the squire, "here is a mistake; the Indian thinks to
take Rosa with him. My dear boy," continued he to Hodges, "run as
quick as you can to Colonel Parker, and bring a party of men. Bayonets
are the only things these savages respect. Rosa, say no more to him,
he is getting wild."
A change had taken place in the Indian, although it was one which only
a keen observer could detect. He began to have an inkling that Rosa
was to be taken from him, and his gloomy inanimate physiognomy
betrayed a restless agitation, which alarmed the major.
"The White Rose," resumed Tokeah, after a while, "is a dutiful
daughter. She will cook her father's venison."
"That would I willingly do for the father of my Canondah," said the
young girl; "but a higher duty calls me. Father of my Canondah! Rosa
has come to take leave of thee."
The Indian listened attentively.
"Miko," continued the maiden, "the father who gave me life, is found.
Rosa must hasten to him who for fourteen years has wept and sought
her."
"Tokeah gave Rosa her life; he saved her from the tomahawk of
Milimach; he paid with skins for the milk she drank."
"But Rosa has another father who is nearer to her, whom the Great
Spirit bestowed upon her; to him must she go. I _must_ leave you,
Miko," said she, with increased firmness of manner.
Upon the countenance of the Indian all the bad passions of his nature
were legible. The scales had at last fallen from his eyes; but even
now his cold and terrible calmness did not desert him, although the
violence of the storm raging within showed itself in the play of his
features and the variation of his complexion.
"Miko," said the squire, who foresaw an approaching outburst of
fury--"Miko, you heard the words of the great warrior of the
palefaces?"
The Indian took no notice of the caution; his whole frame was agitated
by a feverish trembling; his hand sought his scalping-knife; and he
cast so terrible a look at Rosa, that the horrorstruck squire sprang
to her side. To Major Copeland's astonishment, the young girl had
regained all her courage, and there was even a certain dignity in her
manner.
"Miko," said she, extending her arms, "I must leave you."
"What says my daughter?" demanded the Indian--who even yet seemed
unable to believe his ears--his voice assuming so shrill and unnatural
a tone, that the tavern-keeper and his wife rushed terrified into the
room. "Tokeah is not her father? she will not follow the Miko?"
"She cannot," answered Rosa firmly.
"And Rosa," continued the Indian, in the same piercing accents, "will
leave the Miko; will let him wander alone on his far and weary path?"
The words were scarcely uttered, when, by a sudden and unexpected
movement, Tokeah sprang to his feet, caught Rosa in his arms, and with
a like rapidity retreating to the side door of the room, came in such
violent contact with it, that its glass panes were shivered into a
thousand pieces.
"And does the white snake think," he exclaimed, with flashing eyes,
"that the Miko is a fool?" He held the maiden in his left arm, whilst
his right raised the glittering scalping-knife. "Does the white snake
think," continued the raging Indian, with a shrill laugh of scorn,
whilst the foam gathered round his mouth, "that the Miko fed and
cherished her, and gave skins for her, that she might return to the
white men, the venomous palefaces, whom he spits upon?" And he spat
with loathing upon the ground.
"By the God who made you, hold! Hurt the child, and you are a dead
man!" cried the squire, who seized a stool and endeavoured to force
his way to Rosa, but was repulsed by the Comanches and Oconees.
"Therefore did the white snake accompany me!" yelled Tokeah. "Does my
son know," cried he to El Sol, "that the White Rose has betrayed her
father--betrayed him for the palefaces? Will the white snake follow
her father?" screamed the frantic savage.
"I cannot," was the reply. "The voice of my white father calls me."
An expression of intense hatred came over the features of the Indian,
as he gazed at the beautiful creature who lay half-fainting on his
arm.
"Tokeah will leave the White Rose with her friends," said he, with a
low deadly laugh, drawing back his hand and aiming the knife at her
bosom.