The stillness of death pervaded the great lodge of the Oneidas, and
yet it was not vacant. But Black Eagle sat in the outer chamber alone.
With no eye to see him, with none to mark the traces of those emotions
which the Indian so carefully conceals from observation, he gave way,
in a degree, at least, to feelings which, however sternly hidden from
others, wrought powerfully in his own heart. His bright blue and
scarlet apparel, feathers and belt, medals and armlets, were thrown
aside, and with his head bowed, his face full of gloomy sadness, and
all the strong muscles of his beautifully proportioned figure relaxed,
he sat like an exquisite figure sculptured in porphyry. No tear,
indeed, bedewed his eyelids; no sigh escaped his lips; but the very
attitude bespoke sorrow, and there was something awfully sad in the
perfect, unvarying stillness of his form.
Oh! what a terrible strife was going on within! Grief is ten times
more terrible to those who concentrate it in the heart than to those
who pour it forth upon the wide air.
The door of the lodge opened. He started, and instantly was himself
again; the head upright, the face clear, the aspect calm and
dignified.
"Where hast thou been, my child?" asked the chief, gazing on his
daughter as she entered, with feeling mingled of a thousand strong
emotions--parental love, fond admiration, and manifold memories.
"Where thou hast permitted me to go, my father," she answered, with a
smile so bland and sweet that a momentary suspicion crossed her
father's mind.
"Thou hast not forgot thy promise, my Blossom?" he said, in a tone as
stern as he ever used to her.
"Oh, no, my father," answered Otaitsa; "didst thou ever know me to do
so? To see him--to be with him in his long captivity--to move the rock
between us, and to let some light into his dark lodge. I promised, if
thou wouldst let me stay with him a few short hours each day, I would
do naught, try naught for his escape. Otaitsa has not a double tongue
for her own father. Is Black Eagle's eye dim, that it cannot see his
child's heart? Her heart is in his hand."
"How fares the boy?" asked her father. "Is there sunshine with him, or
a cloud?"
"Sunshine," said Otaitsa, simply. "He sat and talked of death. It must
be very happy."
The chief gazed at her silently for a few moments, and then asked:
"Does he think so, too?"
"He makes me think so," answered the Blossom; "must it not be happy
where there is no weeping, no slaughter, no parting of dear friends
and lovers, where a Saviour and Redeemer is ever ready to mediate even
for those who do such deeds?"
"The Great Spirit is good," answered Black Eagle, thoughtfully. "The
happy hunting grounds are ever ready for those who die bravely in
battle."
"For those who do good," said Otaitsa, with a sigh; "for those who
spare their enemies, and show mercy--for those who obey even the voice
of God in their own hearts, and are merciful and forgiving to their
fellow men."
Black Eagle smiled. "A woman's religion," he said. "Why should I
forgive my enemies? The voice of God you speak of, in my heart,
teaches me to kill them; for if I did not, they would kill me."
"Not if they were Christians, too," said Otaitsa. "The voice of God
tells all men to spare each other, to love each other; and if everyone
obeyed it, there would be no such thing as enemies. All would be
friends and brethren."
Black Eagle mused for a moment or two, and then answered: "But there
are enemies, and therefore I must kill them."
"That is because men obey the voice of the evil spirit, and not that
of the good," replied the Blossom. "Will my father do so? Black Eagle
has the voice of the Good Spirit in his heart. He loves children, he
loves his friends, he spares women, and has taught the Oneidas to
spare them. All this comes from the the voice of the Good Spirit. Will
he not listen to it farther?"
Her father remained lost in thought, and believing that she had
carried something, Otaitsa went on to the point nearest to her heart.
"The Black Eagle is just," she said; "he dispenses equity between man
and man. Is it either just, or does it come from the voice of the Good
Spirit, that he should slay one who has done good, and not harm; that
he should kill a man for another man's fault? Even if it be permitted
to him to slay an enemy, is it permitted to slay a friend? If the laws
of the Oneidas are unjust, if they teach faithlessness to one who
trusted them, if they are contrary to the voice of the Good Spirit, is
not Black Eagle a great chief who can change them, and teach his
children better things?"
Her father started up, and waved his hand impatiently. "No more!" he
said; "no more! When I hear the voice of the Good Spirit, and know it,
I will obey it; but our laws came from him, and I will abide by the
sayings of our fathers."
As he spoke he strode to the door of the lodge and gazed forth, while
Otaitsa wept in silence. She saw that it was in vain to plead farther,
and gliding up to her father's side she touched his arm reverently
with her hand.
"My father," she said, "I give thee back the permission to see him,
and I take back my promise. Otaitsa will not deceive her father; but
the appointed hour is drawing on, and she will save her husband if she
can. She has laid no plan with him; she has found no scheme; she has
not spoken to him of safety or escape. She has deceived Black Eagle in
nothing, and she now tells him that she will shrink from no way to
save her brother Walter--no, not even from death itself!"
"Koui! koui!" said the chief, in a tone of profound melancholy. "Thou
canst do nothing." Then, raising his head suddenly, he added: "Go, my
daughter; it is well. If thy mother has made thee soft and tender as a
flower, thy father has given thee the courage of the eagle. Go in
peace; do what thou canst; but thou wilt fail!"
"Then will I die!" said Otaitsa; and gliding past him, she sought her
way through the huts.
The first door she stopped at was partly covered with strange
paintings in red and blue colors, representing, in somewhat grotesque
forms, men and animals, and flowers. She entered at once, without
hesitation, and found, seated in the dim twilight, before a large
fire, the old chief who had spoken last at the council of the chiefs,
in the glen. His ornaments bespoke a chief of high degree, and several
deep scars in his long, meager limbs showed that he had been known in
the battlefield. He did not even look round when Blossom entered, but
still sat gazing at the flickering flame, without the movement of a
limb or feature. Otaitsa seated herself before him, and gazed at his
face in silence, waiting for him to speak. At the end of not less than
five minutes he turned his head a little, looked at her, and asked:
"What would the Blossom of the old Cedar Tree?"
"I would take counsel with wisdom," said the girl. "I would hear the
voice of the warrior who is just, and the great chief who is merciful.
Let him whom my mother reverenced most, after her husband, among the
children of the Stone, speak words of comfort to Otaitsa."
Then, in language which, in rich imagery, and even in peculiarities of
style, had a striking resemblance to the Hebrew writings, she poured
forth to him all the circumstances of Walter's capture, and of their
love and plighted faith; and, with the same arguments which we have
seen already used, she tried to convince him of the wrong and
injustice done to her lover.
The old man listened with the usual appearance of apathy, but the
beautiful girl before him gathered that he was much moved at heart, by
the gradual bending down of his head, till his forehead nearly touched
his knees.
When she ceased, he remained silent for several moments, according to
their custom, and then raised his head and answered: "How can the old
Cedar Tree help thee?" he asked. "His boughs are withered, and the
snows of more than seventy winters have bent them down. His roots are
shaken in the ground, and the first blast of the tempest will lay him
low. But the law of the Oneidas is in his heart; he cannot change it
or pervert it. By thine own saying, it is clear that the Good Spirit
will do nothing to save this youth. The young warrior is the first
they lay hands on. No means have been found for his escape. No
paleface has come into the Oneida land who might be made to take his
place. All thine efforts to rescue him have been seeds that bore no
fruit. Did the Good Spirit wish to save him, he would provide a means.
I have no counsel, and my heart is dead, for I loved thy mother as a
child. She was to me as the evening star, coming from afar to shine
upon the nights of my days. But I have no way to help her child, no
words to give her comfort. Has not the Black Eagle a sister, who loved
thy mother well, who has seen well nigh as many winters as I have, and
who has a charm from the Great Spirit? Her lodge is even now filled
with wise women of the tribe, taking counsel together as to this
matter of the young chief. All love him well, except the dark and evil
Honontkoh; all would save him, whether man or woman of the nation,
were not the law of the Oneida against him. Go to her lodge, then, and
with her take counsel, for the Cedar Tree is without words."
The lodge of Black Eagle's sister was next in size and importance to
that of the chief himself, and on it, too, some European skill had
been expended. Though on a somewhat smaller scale, it was very much
such another building as that which has been described by a writer of
those days as the "Palace of King Hendrick," the celebrated chief of
the Mohawks. In a word, "It had the appearance of a good barn, divided
across by a mat hung in the middle." It was of but one story, however;
but the workman who had erected it, a good many years before, on the
return from the completion of Fort Oswego, had added a door of
European form, with a latch and a brass knob, which greatly increased
its dignity in the eyes of the tribe.
The possessor of this mansion, who was held in great reverence all
through the Oneida nation, and was supposed to hold communication with
the spiritual world, had obtained, I know not how, the name of the
Gray Dove, although her features by no means displayed the
characteristic meekness of the bird from which she derived her
appellation, but bore a considerable resemblance to those of her
brother, which certainly well accorded with his name.
When Otaitsa approached the door she found it fastened, and she
knocked twice with her hand before it was opened. A young girl then
peeped out, and seeing the sachem's daughter, gave her admission at
once into the outer apartment. The space on the outer side of the
large mat which formed the partition was vacant, but there was a
murmur of voices coming from the division beyond, and a light shone
through the crevices between the mat and the wall.
The feelings of Otaitsa's heart were too powerful to leave any
timidity in her bosom, and although she shared in some degree the
feelings of awe with which the other Oneidas regarded the Gray Dove,
she advanced at once, drew back the corner of the mat, and entered the
chamber beyond. The scene was neither of a very beautiful nor of a
very solemn character, but nevertheless there was something very
striking in it. Seated around a large fire in the middle were a number
of the elder women of the tribe, whose faces and forms, once, perhaps,
fair and lovely, had lost almost every trace of beauty. But their
features were strongly marked, and had in many instances a stern and
almost fierce expression. Their eyes, jetty black, and in most cases
as brilliant as in early youth, shone in the light of the fire like
diamonds, and in many an attitude and gesture appeared much of that
grace which lingers longer with people accustomed to a free and
unconfined life than with those of rigid and conventional habits.
Outside of the first and elder circle sat a number of the younger
women, from fifteen or sixteen years of age up to five or six and
twenty. Many of them were exceedingly beautiful, but the figures of
their elder companions shaded them mostly from the glare of the fire,
and it was only here and there that one of those countenances could be
discovered which offer in many of the Indian tribes fit models for
painter or sculptor. Seated, not on the ground, like the rest, but on
a small settle at the farther side of the inner circle, appeared Black
Eagle's sister, gorgeously dressed, almost entirely in crimson, with
armlets and bracelets of gold, and innumerable glittering ornaments
round her neck. She was much older than her brother, and her hair,
almost as white as snow, was knotted up behind on the ordinary roller,
without any decoration. Her features were aquiline, and much more
prominent than those of Black Eagle, and her eyes were still keen and
bright. The moment they lighted upon Otaitsa, the exclamation burst
from her lips: "She is come! The Great Spirit has sent her! Stand
there in the midst, Blossom, and hear what we have resolved."
Otaitsa passed between two of the younger and two of the elder women,
taking her place between the inner circle and the fire, and
wonderfully bright and beautiful did she look, with the flame flashing
upon her exquisite form and delicate features, and lighting up a
countenance full of strong enthusiasm and pure emotions.
"Thy child hears thy words," she said, without pause or hesitation;
for it must be remarked that the stoical gravity which prevailed at
the conferences of the chiefs and warriors was not thought necessary
among the women of the tribes. "What has the Gray Dove to say to the
daughter of her brother?"
"The boy must not die," said the old woman, in a firm and decided
tone. "It is not the will of the Great Spirit. Or, if he die, there
shall be wailing in every lodge, and mourning amongst the children of
the Stone. Art thou willing, Otaitsa, child of the Black Eagle,
daughter of the flower of the East, to do as we do, and to obey my
voice?"
Otaitsa gazed round the circle, and saw stern and lofty determination
written on every countenance.
After gazing round them for an instant, she answered: "I am. I will do
what thou sayest to save him, even unto death!"
"She has said!" cried the old woman. "Now, then, Blossom, this is the
task: Thou shalt watch eagerly as a fox upon the hillside, and bring
word to me of the exact day and hour when the sacrifice is to be
offered. Everyone must watch!"
"But how shall I discover?" asked Otaitsa. "The warriors tell not
their secrets to women. The Black Eagle hides his thoughts from his
daughter; he covers his face with a cloud, and wraps his purposes in
shadows from our eyes."
"By little signs shalt thou know," said the Gray Dove, "Small clouds
prognosticate great storms. When thou seest any change, mark it well.
If his head droop, and his eye seeks the ground more than common,
bring or send the tidings unto me. If he be silent when he should
speak, and hears not the words thou utterest; if he gazes up to the
heaven as if he were seeking to know the changes of the weather when
all is clear; and if he looks at the tomahawk as it hangs upon the
beam, with a dull and heavy eye, be sure the time is coming."
Otaitsa gave a wild start, and exclaimed: "Then it is this night, for
all the signs thou hast mentioned have been present. When I entered
the lodge his head was bowed down, and his eyes fixed upon the ground.
He was very sad. He heard me, but his thoughts seemed to wander. When
he stopped my petitions and turned toward the door, his eyes rested
gloomily on the hatchet; and when he stood without, they were lifted
to the sky, as if looking for stars in the daytime. It is to-night! It
is to-night! Oh, what shall be done?"
"Nay," answered the Gray Dove, with a kindly look, "it is not
to-night. Be composed, my child. Not until to-morrow, at the hour of
twilight, will the six moons have passed away, and the Black Eagle
speaks no word in vain. He will not lift the tomahawk a moment before
the hour; but to-morrow will be the time, after the sun has set. The
palefaces have taken the warpath against each other, and the allies of
the Black Eagle have called upon him to take wing and help them. They
have bid him paint himself for battle, and come forth with his
warriors. He has waited but for this, and now we know the day and the
hour; for he will not tarry."
Otaitsa still trembled, but her mind was much relieved for the
present. She knew her father well, and she saw the truth of what the
Gray Dove said. "How shall we stay him?" she inquired. "The Black
Eagle bends not in his way like the serpent; he goes straight upon his
path like a bird in the air. He hears not the voice of entreaty; his
ears are stopped against the words of prayer. You may turn the torrent
as it rushes down after the melting of the snow, or the rock as it
falls from the precipice, but you cannot arrest the course of the
Black Eagle, or turn him from his way!"
"Be firm and constant," said the Gray Dove. "We are in the hands of
the Great Spirit. Watch him closely, Otaitsa, all to-morrow, from the
midday till the setting sun--from the setting sun till the dawn, if it
be needful. The moment he goes forth, come then to me at the lodge of
the Lynx, by the western gate of the palisade; there shalt thou find
me with others. I know that thy young heart is strong, and that it
will not quail. Watch carefully, but watch secretly. See if he takes
the tomahawk in his belt, and if his face be gay or gloomy. Mark every
sign, and bring the news to me."
"They may go off by the other gate, and steal round," said one of the
women in the inner circle. "I will set my daughter, now waiting, to
watch that gate and bring us tidings. She is still and secret as the
air of night, and has the foot of the wind."
"It is good," said the Gray Dove, rising. "Let us all be prepared, for
the boy must not die."
No more was said, for the old prophetess fell into one of those deep
and solemn reveries from which all present knew she could not easily
be wakened, and which probably had acquired for her the reputation of
conversing with the spirit world which she possessed. One by one,
slowly and silently, the women stole out of the lodge, dispersing in
various directions the moment they quitted the door. Otaitsa remained
the last, in the hope that the Gray Dove would speak again, and afford
her some further information of her plans; but she continued silently
gazing on the fire, with her tall figure erect and stiff, and probably
perfectly unconscious of the departure of the others, till at length
the Blossom followed the rest, and returned quietly to the great
lodge.
The following day broke dark and stormy. About three o'clock in the
afternoon a sharp, cold wind succeeded to the mild breath of spring,
and the Indians generally remained assembled round their fires,
leaving the wide space within the palisade very nearly deserted.
Shortly before sunset one Indian woman crept quietly forth, and took
her way toward a hut near the eastern entrance of their village.
Another followed very speedily, and when twilight had ended and night
begun, no less than twelve stood beneath the roof, with the Gray Dove
in the midst of them. It was too dark for anyone to see the face of
another, for the night had fallen heavily and thick, and a blanket was
stretched across the entrance. But the Gray Dove felt them one after
another with her hands, asking a question of each, to which she seemed
to receive a satisfactory answer.
"The thirteenth is not here," she said, "but she will come, and her
heart will not fail."
A dead silence fell over them all after these words were spoken; that
sort of stern, heavy, solemn silence which not unfrequently precedes
the execution of some strong and terrible resolution. Yet of those
twelve there were several gay and lively girls, as well as women
fallen into the decline of life; but nevertheless all were as still as
death. The volatile lightness of youth, as well as the garrulity of
old age, was hushed.
Suddenly, after they had waited some twenty minutes, the blanket was
pushed aside, and another figure was added to the number. The voice of
Otaitsa whispered: "He has gone forth, armed as if for battle; he has
his tomahawk with him; his face is very sad. I saw the Old Cedar Tree
cross to the west gate, and others whom I knew not in the darkness."
She spoke in eager haste, and gasped for breath; but the old woman
took her by the arm, saying: "Be calm! Be still! Now follow
noiselessly. Then down as you pass through the maize, though in this
black night who shall see us?"
She was the first to issue forth; then came Otaitsa, and the others
followed, one by one, with quick but silent steps, through the wide
field of maize that swept round the palisade, and then into the
neighboring forest. Once, when they came near a spot where the
polished mirror of the lake collected and cast back every ray of light
that remained in the air, they caught sight of a dark file, shadowy
and ghostlike as themselves, moving on at a little distance, in the
same direction. But it was soon lost; and the sight only served to
hasten their footsteps. Passing along a trail which cut across the
neck of a little wooded promontory, they suddenly came in sight of the
lake again, and by its side a low Indian hut, marked out plainly
against the surface of the water. When within some thirty yards, the
Gray Dove halted, whispered a word or two to those who followed, and
then, bending down, crept closer to the lodge.
"Oh, let us hasten!" whispered Otaitsa. "They are already there! I
hear my father speaking!"
"Hush! hush! Be still!" said the old woman, in the same tone. "The
Black Eagle will do nothing hastily; it is for him a solemn rite. Let
me first get near; then follow, and do what I do."