There was a curious and motley assembly, that night, in the halls of
Sir William Johnson. There were several ladies and gentlemen from
Albany, several young military men, and two or three persons of a
class now extinct, but who then drove a thriving commerce, and whose
peculiar business it was to trade with the Indians. Some of the latter
were exceedingly well educated men, and one or two of them were
persons not only of enlightened minds, but of enlarged views and
heart. The others were mere brutal speculators, whose whole end and
object in life was to wring as much from the savages and give as
little in return as possible. Besides these, an Indian chief would,
from time to time, appear in the rooms, often marching through in
perfect silence, observing all that was going on with dignified
gravity, and then going back to his companions at the Castle. Amongst
the rest was Otaitsa, still in her Indian costume, but evidently in
gala dress, of the finest cloth and the most elaborate embroidery. Not
only was she perfectly at her ease, talking to everyone, laughing with
many; but the sort of shrinking, timid tenderness which gave her so
great a charm in the society of the few whom she loved had given place
to a wild spirit of gaiety but little in accordance with the character
of her nation.
She glided hither and thither through the room; she rested in one
place hardly for a moment; her jests were as light, and sometimes as
sharp as those of almost any Parisian dame; and when one of the young
officers ventured to speak to her somewhat lightly as the mere Indian
girl, she piled upon him a mass of ridicule that wrung tears of
laughter from the eyes of one or two older men standing near.
"I know not what has come to the child to-night," said Mr. Gore, who
was seated near Edith in one of the rooms; "a wild spirit seems to
have seized upon her, which is quite unlike her whole character and
nature--unlike the character of her people, too, or I might think that
the savage had returned notwithstanding all my care."
"Perhaps it is the novelty and excitement of the scene," said Edith.
"Oh no," answered the missionary, "there is nothing new in this scene
to her. She has been at these meetings several times during the last
two or three years, but never seemed to yield to their influence as
she has done to-night."
"She has hardly spoken a word to me," said Edith. "I hope she will not
forget the friends who love her."
"No fear of that, my dear," replied Mr. Gore, "Otaitsa is all heart,
and that heart a gentle one; under its influence is she acting now. It
throbs with something that we do not know; and those light words that
make us smile to hear, have sources deep within her--perhaps of
bitterness."
"I think I have heard her say," answered Edith, "that you educated her
from her childhood."
"When first I joined the people of the Stone," replied the missionary,
"I found her there a young child of three years old. Her mother was
just dead, and although her father bore his grief with the stern,
gloomy stoicism of his nation, and neither suffered tear to fall nor
sigh to escape his lips, I could see plainly enough that he was struck
with grief such as the Indian seldom feels and never shows. He
received me most kindly, and made my efforts with his people easy; and
though I know not to this hour whether with himself I have been
successful in communicating blessed light, he gave his daughter
altogether up to my charge, and with her I have not failed. I fear in
him the savage is too deeply rooted to be ever wrung forth, but her I
have made one of Christ's flock indeed."
It seemed as if by a sort of instinct that Otaitsa discovered that she
was the subject of conversation between her two friends. Twice she
looked around at them from the other side of the room, and then she
glided across and seated herself beside Edith. For a moment she sat in
silence there, and then leaning her head gracefully on her beautiful
companion's shoulder, she said in a low whisper: "Do not close thine
eyes this night, my sister, till thou seest me;" and then starting up,
she mingled with the little crowd again.
It was still early in the night when Edith retired to the chamber
assigned for her; for even in the most fashionable society of those
times, people had not learned to drive the day into the night, and
make morning and evening meet. Her room was a large and handsome one,
and though plainly, it was sufficiently furnished. No forest, as at
her dwelling, interrupted the beams of the rising moon, and she sat
and contemplated the ascent of the queen of night as she soared
grandly over the distant trees. The conduct of Otaitsa during that
night had puzzled her, and the few whispered words had excited her
curiosity, for it must not be forgotten that Edith was altogether
unacquainted with the fact of one of the Oneidas having been slain by
the hands of Captain Brooks within little more than two miles of her
own abode. She proceeded to make her toilet for the night, however,
and was almost undressed when she heard the door of her room open
quietly, and Otaitsa stole in and cast her arms around her.
"Ah, my sister," she said, "I have longed to talk with you;" and
seating herself by her side, she leaned her head again upon Edith's
shoulder, but remained silent for several minutes. The fair English
girl knew that it was better to let her take her own time and her own
way to speak whatever she had to say, but Otaitsa remained so long
without uttering a word that an undefinable feeling of alarm spread
over her young companion. She felt her bosom heave as if with
struggling sighs, she even felt some warm drops like tears fall upon
her shoulder, and yet Otaitsa remained without speaking, till at
length Edith said, in a gentle and encouraging tone: "What is it, my
sister? There can surely be nothing you should be afraid to utter to
my ear."
"Not afraid," answered Otaitsa, and then she relapsed into silence
again.
"But why do you weep, my sweet Blossom?" said Edith, after pausing for
a moment or two to give her time to recover her composure.
"Because one of your people has killed one of my people," answered the
Indian girl, sorrowfully. "Is not that enough to make me weep?"
"Indeed," exclaimed Edith, "I am much grieved to hear it, Blossom; but
when did this happen, and how?"
"It happened but yesterday," replied the girl, "and but a little
toward the morning from your own house, my sister. It was a sad day!
It was a sad day!"
"But I trust it was none near and dear to the Blossom or to the Black
Eagle," said Edith, putting her arms around her and trying to soothe
her.
"No, no," answered Otaitsa, "he was a bad man, a treacherous man, one
whom my father loved not. But that matters little. They will have
blood for his blood."
The truth flashed upon Edith's mind at once; for though less
acquainted with the Indian habits than her brother or her father, she
knew enough of their revengeful spirit to feel sure that they would
seek the death of the murderer with untiring eagerness, and she
questioned her sweet companion earnestly as to all the particulars of
the sad tale. Otaitsa told her all she knew, which was indeed nearly
all that could be told. The man called the Snake, she said, had been
shot by the white man Woodchuck, in the wood to the northeast of Mr.
Prevost's house. Intimation of the fact had spread like fire in dry
grass through the whole of the Oneidas, who were flocking to the
meeting at Sir William Johnson's Castle, and from them it would run
through the whole tribe.
"Woodchuck has escaped," she said, "or he would have been slain ere
now; but they will have his life yet, my sister;" and then she added,
slowly and sorrowfully, "or the life of some other white man, if they
cannot catch this one."
The words presented to Edith's mind a sad and terrible idea--one more
fearful in its vagueness and uncertainty of outline than in the
darkness of particular points. That out of a narrow and limited
population someone was foredoomed to be slain; that out of a small
body of men, all feeling almost as brethren, one was to be marked out
for slaughter; that one family was to lose husband or father or
brother, and no one could tell which, made her feel like one out of a
herd of wild animals cooped up within the toils of the hunters.
Edith's first object was to learn more from her young companion, but
Otaitsa had told almost all she knew.
"What they will do I know not," she said; "they do not tell us women.
But I fear, Edith, I fear very much; for they say our brother Walter
was with the Woodchuck when the deed was done."
"Not so! not so!" cried Edith. "Had he been so, I should have heard of
it. He has gone to Albany, and had he been present I am sure he would
have stopped it if he could. If your people tell truth they will
acknowledge that he was not there."
Otaitsa raised her head suddenly with a look of joy, exclaiming: "I
will make her tell the truth were she as cunning a snake as he
was--but yet, my sister Edith, someone will have to die if they find
not the man they seek."
The last words were spoken in a melancholy tone again; but then she
started up, repeating, "I will make her tell the truth."
"Can you do so?" asked Edith. "Snakes are always very crafty."
"I will try at least," answered the girl; "but oh, my sister, it were
better for you and Walter, and your father, too, to be away. When a
storm is coming, we try to save what is most precious. There is yet
ample time to go, for the red people are not rash, and do not act
hastily, as you white people do."
"But is there no means," asked Edith, "of learning what the intention
of the nation really is?"
"I know of none," answered the girl, "that can be depended upon with
certainty. The people of the Stone change no more than the stone from
which they sprang. The storm beats upon them, the sun shines upon
them, and there is little difference on the face of the rock. Yet let
your father watch well when he is at the great talk tomorrow. Then if
the priest is very smooth and soft-spoken, and if the Black Eagle is
stern and silent, wraps his blanket over his left breast, be sure that
something sad is meditated. That is all that I can tell you--but I
will make this woman speak the truth if there be truth in her, and
that, too, before the chiefs of the nation. Now, sister, lie down to
rest. Otaitsa is going at once to her people."
"But are you not afraid?" asked Edith. "It is a dark night, dear
Blossom. Lie down with me and wait the morning sunshine."
"I have no fear," answered the Indian girl; "nothing will hurt me.
There are times, sister, when a spirit enters into us that defies all
and fears nothing. So it has been with me this night. The only thing I
dreaded to face was my own thought, and it I would not suffer to rest
upon anything till I had spoken with you. Now, however, I have better
hopes. I will go forth and I will make her tell the truth."
Thus saying, she left Edith's chamber, and about an hour and a half
after she might be seen standing beside her father, who was seated
near a fire kindled in one corner of the court attached to a large
house, or rather fort, built by Sir William Johnson on the banks of
the Mohawk, and called by him his Castle. Round the sachem, forming a
complete circle, sat a number of the head men of the Oneidas, each in
that peculiar crouching position which has been rendered familiar to
our eyes by numerous paintings. The court and the Castle itself were
well nigh filled with Indians of other tribes of the Five Nations, but
none took any part in the proceedings of the Oneidas but themselves,
and the only stranger who was present in the circle was Sir William
Johnson. He was still fully dressed in his British uniform, and seated
on a chair in an attitude of much dignity, with his left hand resting
on the hilt of his sword. With the exception of that weapon he had no
arms whatever; and indeed it was his custom to sleep frequently in the
midst of his red friends utterly unarmed and defenceless. The occasion
seemed a solemn one, for all faces were very grave, and a complete
silence prevailed for several minutes.
"Bring in the woman," said Black Eagle, at length; "bring her in, and
let her speak the truth."
"Of what do you accuse her, Otaitsa?" asked Sir William Johnson,
fixing his eyes upon his beautiful guest.
"Of lying to the sachem and to her brethren," answered Otaitsa. "Her
breath has been full of the poison of the Snake."
"Thou hearest," said the Black Eagle, turning to a woman of some one
or two and twenty years of age. "What sayest thou?"
"I lie not," answered the woman, in the Indian tongue. "I saw him lift
the rifle and shoot my brother dead."
"Who did it?" asked Black Eagle, gravely and calmly.
"The Woodchuck," answered the woman. "He did it. I know his face too
well."
"Believe her not," answered Otaitsa, "the Woodchuck was ever a friend
of our nation. He is our brother. He would not slay an Oneida."
"But he was my brother's enemy," answered the woman. "There was
vengeance between them."
"Vengeance on thy brother's part," answered the old chief. "More
likely he to slay the Woodchuck than the Woodchuck to slay him."
"If she have a witness, let her bring him forward," said Otaitsa. "We
will believe her by the tongue of another."
"I have none," cried the woman, vehemently; "none was present but
ourselves, but I saw him kill my brother with my own eyes, and I cry
for his blood."
"Didst thou not say that there were two white men with him?" asked
Otaitsa, raising up her right hand. "Then in this thou hast lied to
the sachem and thy brethren, and who shall say whether thou speakest
the truth now."
A curious sort of drowsy hum ran round the circle of the Indians, and
one old man said: "She has spoken well."
The woman, in the meanwhile, stood silent and abashed, with her eyes
fixed upon the ground, and Black Eagle said in a grave tone: "There
was none?"
"No," said the woman, lifting her look firmly, "there was none; but I
saw two others in the wood hard by, and I was sure they were his
companions."
"That is guile," said Black Eagle, sternly. "Thou didst say that there
were two men with him, one the young paleface, Walter, and the other a
tall stranger, and brought a cloud over our eyes, and made us think
that they were present at the death."
"Then methinks, Black Eagle," said Sir William Johnson, using their
language nearly as fluently as his own, "there is no faith to be put
in the woman's story, and we cannot tell what has happened."
"Not so, my brother," answered Black Eagle. "We know that the Snake
was slain yesterday, before the sun had reached the pine tops. We
believe, too, that the Woodchuck slew him, for there was an enmity
between them; and the ball which killed him was a large ball, such as
we have never seen but in that man's pouch."
"That is doubtful evidence," said Sir William, "and I trust my brother
will let vengeance cease till he have better witnesses."
The Indians remained profoundly silent for more than a minute, and
then the old man who had spoken once before, replied: "If our brother
will give us up Woodchuck, vengeance shall cease."
"That I cannot do," answered Sir William Johnson. "First, I have no
power; secondly, he may be tried by our laws; but I will not lie to
you. If he can show he did it in self-defence, he will be set free."
Again there was a long silence, and then Black Eagle rose, saying: "We
must take counsel."
His face was very grave, and as he spoke he drew the large blue
blanket which covered his shoulders over his left breast, with the
gesture which Otaitsa had described to Edith, as indicating some dark
determination. Sir William Johnson marked the signs he saw, and was
too well acquainted with Indian character to believe that their thirst
for blood was at all allayed; but neither by expression of
countenance, nor by words, did he show any doubt of his red friends,
and slept amongst them calmly that night without a fear of the result.
At an early hour on the following morning all the arrangements were
made for the great council, or talk, that was about to be held. Some
large armchairs were brought forth into the court. A few soldiers were
seen moving about, and some negro servants. A number of the guests
from the Hall came up about nine o'clock, most of them on horseback;
but when all were assembled, the body of white men present were few
and insignificant when compared with the multitude of Indians who
surrounded them. No one showed or entertained any fear, however, and
the conference commenced and passed off with perfect peace and
harmony.
It is true that several of the Indian chiefs, and more especially King
Hendrick, as he was called, the son of the chief who had been killed
near Fort George a year or two before, had made some complaints
against the British government for neglect of the just claims of their
red allies. All angry feeling, however, was removed by a somewhat
large distribution of presents, and after hearing everything which the
Indians had to say, Sir William Johnson rose from the chair in which
he had been seated, between Lord H---- and Mr. Prevost, and addressed
the assembly in English, according to his invariable custom, when
called upon to deal publicly with the heads of the Five Nations, the
speech being translated, sentence for sentence, by an interpreter. The
whole of his address cannot be given here, but it was skillfully
turned to suit the prejudices and conciliate the friendship of the
people to whom he spoke. He said that their English father, King
George, loved his red children with peculiar affection, but as his
lodge was a long way off, he could not always know their wants and
wishes. He had very lately, however, shown his great tenderness and
consideration for the Five Nations by appointing him, Sir William
Johnson, as Indian agent, to make known as speedily as possible all
that his red children desired. He then drew a glowing picture of the
greatness and majesty of the English monarch, as the Attotarho of
chief leader of a thousand different nations, sitting under a pine
tree that reached to the sky, and receiving every minute messages from
his children in every part of the earth.
A hum of satisfaction from the Indians followed this flight of fancy,
and the speaker went on to say that this great chief, their father,
had long ago intended to do much for them, and still intended to do
so, but that the execution of his benevolent purposes had been delayed
and impeded by the machinations of the French, their enemies and his,
whom he represented as stealthily lying in wait for all the ships and
convoys of goods and presents which were destined for his Indian
children, and possessing themselves of them by force or fraud. Rich as
he might be, he asked how was it possible that their white father
could supply all their wants when he had so many to provide for, and
when so many of his enemies had dug up the tomahawk at once. If the
chiefs of the Five Nations, however, he said, would vigorously aid him
in his endeavors, King George would speedily drive the French from
America; and to show his intention of so doing, he had sent over the
great chief on his left hand, Lord H----, and many other mighty
warriors, to fight side by side with their red brethren. More, he
said, would come on in the ensuing spring, and with the first flower
that blossomed under the hemlock trees the English warriors would be
ready for the battle, if the Indian chiefs then present would promise
them cordial support and co-operation.
It must not be supposed that in employing very exaggerated language
Sir William had any intention of deceiving. He merely used figures
suited to the comprehension of his auditors, and his speech gave the
very highest satisfaction. The unusually large presents which had been
distributed, the presence and bearing of the young nobleman, and a
natural weariness of the state of semi-neutrality between the French
and the English, which they had maintained for some time, disposed the
chiefs to grant the utmost he could desire, and the conference broke
up with the fullest assurance of support from the heads of the
Iroquois tribes--assurances which were faithfully made good in the
campaigns which succeeded.