—No leave take I; for I will ride
As far as land will let me, by your side.
—Shakespeare.
The passage of the Pawnee to his village was interrupted by no scene of
violence. His vengeance had been as complete as it was summary. Not
even a solitary scout of the Siouxes was left on the hunting grounds he
was obliged to traverse, and of course the journey of Middleton’s party
was as peaceful as if made in the bosom of the States. The marches were
timed to meet the weakness of the females. In short, the victors seemed
to have lost every trace of ferocity with their success, and appeared
disposed to consult the most trifling of the wants of that engrossing
people, who were daily encroaching on their rights, and reducing the
Red-men of the west, from their state of proud independence to the
condition of fugitives and wanderers.
Our limits will not permit a detail of the triumphal entry of the
conquerors. The exultation of the tribe was proportioned to its
previous despondency. Mothers boasted of the honourable deaths of their
sons; wives proclaimed the honour and pointed to the scars of their
husbands, and Indian girls rewarded the young braves with songs of
triumph. The trophies of their fallen enemies were exhibited, as
conquered standards are displayed in more civilised regions. The deeds
of former warriors were recounted by the aged men, and declared to be
eclipsed by the glory of this victory. While Hard-Heart himself, so
distinguished for his exploits from boyhood to that hour, was
unanimously proclaimed and re-proclaimed the worthiest chief and the
stoutest brave that the Wahcondah had ever bestowed on his most
favoured children, the Pawnees of the Loup.
Notwithstanding the comparative security in which Middleton found his
recovered treasure, he was not sorry to see his faithful and sturdy
artillerists standing among the throng, as he entered in the wild
train, and lifting their voices, in a martial shout, to greet his
return. The presence of this force, small as it was, removed every
shadow of uneasiness from his mind. It made him master of his
movements, gave him dignity and importance in the eyes of his new
friends, and would enable him to overcome the difficulties of the wide
region which still lay between the village of the Pawnees and the
nearest fortress of his countrymen. A lodge was yielded to the
exclusive possession of Inez and Ellen; and even Paul, when he saw an
armed sentinel in the uniform of the States, pacing before its
entrance, was content to stray among the dwellings of the “Red-skins,”
prying with but little reserve into their domestic economy, commenting
sometimes jocularly, sometimes gravely, and always freely, on their
different expedients, or endeavouring to make the wondering housewives
comprehend his quaint explanations of what he conceived to be the
better customs of the whites.
This enquiring and troublesome spirit found no imitators among the
Indians. The delicacy and reserve of Hard-Heart were communicated to
his people. When every attention, that could be suggested by their
simple manners and narrow wants, had been fulfilled, no intrusive foot
presumed to approach the cabins devoted to the service of the
strangers. They were left to seek their repose in the manner which most
comported with their habits and inclinations. The songs and rejoicings
of the tribe, however, ran far into the night, during the deepest hours
of which, the voice of more than one warrior was heard, recounting from
the top of his lodge, the deeds of his people and the glory of their
triumphs.
Every thing having life, notwithstanding the excesses of the night, was
abroad with the appearance of the sun. The expression of exultation,
which had so lately been seen on every countenance, was now changed to
one better suited to the feeling of the moment. It was understood by
all, that the Pale-faces, who had befriended their chief were about to
take their final leave of the tribe. The soldiers of Middleton, in
anticipation of his arrival, had bargained with an unsuccessful trader
for the use of his boat, which lay in the stream ready to receive its
cargo, and nothing remained to complete the arrangements for the long
journey.
Middleton did not see this moment arrive entirely without distrust. The
admiration with which Hard-Heart regarded Inez, had not escaped his
jealous eye, any more than had the lawless wishes of Mahtoree. He knew
the consummate manner in which a savage could conceal his designs, and
he felt that it would be a culpable weakness to be unprepared for the
worst. Secret instructions were therefore given to his men, while the
preparations they made were properly masked behind the show of military
parade, with which it was intended to signalise their departure.
The conscience of the young soldier reproached him, when he saw the
whole tribe accompanying his party to the margin of the stream, with
unarmed hands and sorrowful countenances. They gathered in a circle
around the strangers and their chief, and became not only peaceful, but
highly interested observers of what was passing. As it was evident that
Hard-Heart intended to speak, the former stopped, and manifested their
readiness to listen, the trapper performing the office of interpreter.
Then the young chief addressed his people, in the usual metaphorical
language of an Indian. He commenced by alluding to the antiquity and
renown of his own nation. He spoke of their successes in the hunts and
on the war-path; of the manner in which they had always known how to
defend their rights and to chastise their enemies. After he had said
enough to manifest his respect for the greatness of the Loups, and to
satisfy the pride of the listeners, he made a sudden transition to the
race of whom the strangers were members. He compared their countless
numbers to the flights of migratory birds in the season of blossoms, or
in the fall of the year. With a delicacy, that none know better how to
practise than an Indian warrior, he made no direct mention of the
rapacious temper, that so many of them had betrayed, in their dealings
with the Red-men. Feeling that the sentiment of distrust was strongly
engrafted in the tempers of his tribe, he rather endeavoured to soothe
any just resentment they might entertain, by indirect excuses and
apologies. He reminded the listeners that even the Pawnee Loups had
been obliged to chase many unworthy individuals from their villages.
The Wahcondah sometimes veiled his countenance from a Red-man. No doubt
the Great Spirit of the Pale-faces often looked darkly on his children.
Such as were abandoned to the worker of evil could never be brave or
virtuous, let the colour of the skin be what it might. He bade his
young men look at the hands of the Big-knives. They were not empty,
like those of hungry beggars. Neither were they filled with goods, like
those of knavish traders. They were, like themselves, warriors, and
they carried arms which they knew well how to use—they were worthy to
be called brothers!
Then he directed the attention of all to the chief of the strangers. He
was a son of their great white father. He had not come upon the
prairies to frighten the buffaloes from their pastures, or to seek the
game of the Indians. Wicked men had robbed him of one of his wives; no
doubt she was the most obedient, the meekest, the loveliest of them
all. They had only to open their eyes to see that his words must be
true. Now, that the white chief had found his wife, he was about to
return to his own people in peace. He would tell them that the Pawnees
were just, and there would be a line of wampum between the two nations.
Let all his people wish the strangers a safe return to their towns. The
warriors of the Loups knew both how to receive their enemies, and how
to clear the briars from the path of their friends.
The heart of Middleton beat quick, as the young partisan[18] alluded to
the charms of Inez, and for an instant he cast an impatient glance at
his little line of artillerists; but the chief from that moment
appeared to forget he had ever seen so fair a being. His feelings, if
he had any on the subject, were veiled behind the cold mask of Indian
self-denial. He took each warrior by the hand, not forgetting the
meanest soldier, but his cold and collected eye never wandered, for an
instant, towards either of the females. Arrangements had been made for
their comfort, with a prodigality and care that had not failed to
excite some surprise in his young men, but in no other particular did
he shock their manly pride, by betraying any solicitude in behalf of
the weaker sex.
The leave-taking was general and imposing. Each male Pawnee was
sedulous to omit no one of the strange warriors in his attentions, and
of course the ceremony occupied some time. The only exception, and that
was not general, was in the case of Dr. Battius. Not a few of the young
men, it is true, were indifferent about lavishing civilities on one of
so doubtful a profession, but the worthy naturalist found some
consolation in the more matured politeness of the old men, who had
inferred, that though not of much use in war, the medicine of the
Big-knives might possibly be made serviceable in peace.
When all of Middleton’s party had embarked, the trapper lifted a small
bundle, which had lain at his feet during the previous proceedings, and
whistling Hector to his side, he was the last to take his seat. The
artillerists gave the usual cheers, which were answered by a shout from
the tribe, and then the boat was shoved into the current, and began to
glide swiftly down its stream.
A long and a musing, if not a melancholy, silence succeeded this
departure. It was first broken by the trapper, whose regret was not the
least visible in his dejected and sorrowful eye—
“They are a valiant and an honest tribe,” he said; “that will I say
boldly in their favour; and second only do I take them to be to that
once mighty but now scattered people, the Delawares of the Hills. Ah’s
me, Captain, if you had seen as much good and evil as I have seen in
these nations of Red-skins, you would know of how much value was a
brave and simple-minded warrior. I know that some are to be found, who
both think and say that an Indian is but little better than the beasts
of these naked plains. But it is needful to be honest in one’s self, to
be a fitting judge of honesty in others. No doubt, no doubt they know
their enemies, and little do they care to show to such any great
confidence, or love.”
“It is the way of man,” returned the Captain; “and it is probable they
are not wanting in any of his natural qualities.”
“No, no; it is little that they want, that natur’ has had to give. But
as little does he know of the temper of a Red-skin, who has seen but
one Indian, or one tribe, as he knows of the colour of feathers who has
only looked upon a crow. Now, friend steersman, just give the boat a
sheer towards yonder, low, sandy point, and a favour will be granted at
a short asking.”
“For what?” demanded Middleton; “we are now in the swiftest of the
current, and by drawing to the shore we shall lose the force of the
stream.”
“Your tarry will not be long,” returned the old man, applying his own
hand to the execution of that which he had requested. The oarsmen had
seen enough of his influence, with their leader, not to dispute his
wishes, and before time was given for further discussion on the
subject, the bow of the boat had touched the land.
“Captain,” resumed the other, untying his little wallet with great
deliberation, and even in a manner to show he found satisfaction in the
delay, “I wish to offer you a small matter of trade. No great bargain,
mayhap; but still the best that one, of whose hand the skill of the
rifle has taken leave, and who has become no better than a miserable
trapper, can offer before we part.”
“Part!” was echoed from every mouth, among those who had so recently
shared his dangers, and profited by his care.
“What the devil, old trapper, do you mean to foot it to the
settlements, when here is a boat that will float the distance in half
the time, that the jackass, the Doctor has given the Pawnee, could trot
along the same.”
“Settlements, boy! It is long sin’ I took my leave of the waste and
wickedness of the settlements and the villages. If I live in a
clearing, here, it is one of the Lord’s making, and I have no hard
thoughts on the matter; but never again shall I be seen running
wilfully into the danger of immoralities.”
“I had not thought of parting,” answered Middleton, endeavouring to
seek some relief from the uneasiness he felt, by turning his eyes on
the sympathising countenances of his friends; “on the contrary, I had
hoped and believed that you would have accompanied us below, where I
give you a sacred pledge, nothing shall be wanting to make your days
comfortable.”
“Yes, lad, yes; you would do your endeavours; but what are the
strivings of man against the working of the devil! Ay, if kind offers
and good wishes could have done the thing, I might have been a congress
man, or perhaps a governor, years agone. Your grand’ther wished the
same, and there are them still lying in the Otsego mountains, as I
hope, who would gladly have given me a palace for my dwelling. But what
are riches without content! My time must now be short, at any rate, and
I hope it’s no mighty sin for one, who has acted his part honestly near
ninety winters and summers, to wish to pass the few hours that remain
in comfort. If you think I have done wrong in coming thus far to quit
you again, Captain, I will own the reason of the act, without shame or
backwardness. Though I have seen so much of the wilderness, it is not
to be gainsayed, that my feelings, as well as my skin, are white. Now
it would not be a fitting spectacle, that yonder Pawnee Loups should
look upon the weakness of an old warrior, if weakness he should happen
to show in parting for ever from those he has reason to love, though he
may not set his heart so strongly on them, as to wish to go into the
settlements in their company.”
“Harkee, old trapper,” said Paul, clearing his throat with a desperate
effort, as if determined to give his voice a clear exit; “I have just
one bargain to make, since you talk of trading, which is neither more
or less than this. I offer you, as my side of the business, one half of
my shanty, nor do I much care if it be the biggest half; the sweetest
and the purest honey that can be made of the wild locust; always enough
to eat, with now and then a mouthful of venison, or, for that matter, a
morsel of buffaloe’s hump, seeing that I intend to push my acquaintance
with the animal, and as good and as tidy cooking as can come from the
hands of one like Ellen Wade, here, who will shortly be Nelly
somebody-else, and altogether such general treatment as a decent man
might be supposed to pay to his best friend, or for that matter, to his
own father; in return for the same, you ar’ to give us at odd moments
some of your ancient traditions, perhaps a little wholesome advice on
occasions, in small quantities at a time, and as much of your agreeable
company as you please.”
“It is well—it is well, boy,” returned the old man, fumbling at his
wallet; “honestly offered, and not unthankfully declined—but it cannot
be; no, it can never be.”
“Venerable venator,” said Dr. Battius; “there are obligations, which
every man owes to society and to human nature. It is time that you
should return to your countrymen, to deliver up some of those stores of
experimental knowledge that you have doubtless obtained by so long a
sojourn in the wilds, which, however they may be corrupted by
preconceived opinions, will prove acceptable bequests to those whom, as
you say, you must shortly leave for ever.”
“Friend physicianer,” returned the trapper, looking the other steadily
in the face, “as it would be no easy matter to judge of the temper of
the rattler by considering the fashions of the moose, so it would be
hard to speak of the usefulness of one man by thinking too much of the
deeds of another. You have your gifts like others, I suppose, and
little do I wish to disturb them. But as to me, the Lord has made me
for a doer and not a talker, and therefore do I consider it no harm to
shut my ears to your invitation.”
“It is enough,” interrupted Middleton, “I have seen and heard so much
of this extraordinary man, as to know that persuasions will not change
his purpose. First we will hear your request, my friend, and then we
will consider what may be best done for your advantage.”
“It is a small matter, Captain,” returned the old man, succeeding at
length in opening his bundle. “A small and trifling matter is it, to
what I once used to offer in the way of bargain; but then it is the
best I have, and therein not to be despised. Here are the skins of four
beavers, that I took, it might be a month afore we met, and here is
another from a racoon, that is of no great matter to be sure, but which
may serve to make weight atween us.”
“And what do you propose to do with them?”
“I offer them in lawful barter. Them knaves the Siouxes, the Lord
forgive me for ever believing it was the Konzas! have stolen the best
of my traps, and driven me altogether to make-shift inventions, which
might foretell a dreary winter for me, should my time stretch into
another season. I wish you therefore to take the skins, and to offer
them to some of the trappers you will not fail to meet below in
exchange for a few traps, and to send the same into the Pawnee village
in my name. Be careful to have my mark painted on them; a letter N,
with a hound’s ear, and the lock of a rifle. There is no Red-skin who
will then dispute my right. For all which trouble I have little more to
offer than my thanks, unless my friend, the bee-hunter here, will
accept of the racoon, and take on himself the special charge of the
whole matter.”
“If I do, may I b—!” The mouth of Paul was stopped by the hand of
Ellen, and he was obliged to swallow the rest of the sentence, which he
did with a species of emotion that bore no slight resemblance to the
process of strangulation.
“Well, well,” returned the old man, meekly; “I hope there is no heavy
offence in the offer. I know that the skin of a racoon is of small
price, but then it was no mighty labour that I asked in return.”
“You entirely mistake the meaning of our friend,” interrupted
Middleton, who observed, that the bee-hunter was looking in every
direction but the right one, and that he was utterly unable to make his
own vindication. “He did not mean to say that he declined the charge,
but merely that he refused all compensation. It is unnecessary,
however, to say more of this; it shall be my office to see that the
debt we owe, is properly discharged, and that all your necessities
shall be anticipated.”
“Anan!” said the old man, looking up enquiringly into the other’s face,
as if to ask an explanation.
“It shall all be as you wish. Lay the skins with my baggage. We will
bargain for you as for ourselves.”
“Thankee, thankee, Captain; you grand’ther was of a free and generous
mind. So much so, in truth, that those just people, the Delawares,
called him the ‘Openhand.’ I wish, now, I was as I used to be, in order
that I might send in the lady a few delicate martens for her tippets
and overcoats, just to show you that I know how to give courtesy for
courtesy. But do not expect the same, for I am too old to give a
promise! It will all be just as the Lord shall see fit. I can offer you
nothing else, for I haven’t liv’d so long in the wilderness, not to
know the scrupulous ways of a gentleman.”
“Harkee, old trapper,” cried the bee-hunter, striking his own hand into
the open palm which the other had extended, with a report but little
below the crack of a rifle, “I have just two things to say—Firstly,
that the Captain has told you my meaning better than I can myself; and,
secondly, if you want a skin, either for your private use or to send
abroad, I have it at your service, and that is the skin of one Paul
Hover.”
The old man returned the grasp he received, and opened his mouth to the
utmost, in his extraordinary, silent, laugh.
“You couldn’t have given such a squeeze, boy, when the Teton squaws
were about you with their knives! Ah! you are in your prime, and in
your vigour and happiness, if honesty lies in your path.” Then the
expression of his rugged features suddenly changed to a look of
seriousness and thought. “Come hither, lad,” he said, leading the
bee-hunter by a button to the land, and speaking apart in a tone of
admonition and confidence; “much has passed atween us on the pleasures
and respectableness of a life in the woods, or on the borders. I do not
now mean to say that all you have heard is not true, but different
tempers call for different employments. You have taken to your bosom,
there, a good and kind child, and it has become your duty to consider
her, as well as yourself, in setting forth in life. You are a little
given to skirting the settlements but, to my poor judgment, the girl
would be more like a flourishing flower in the sun of a clearing, than
in the winds of a prairie. Therefore forget any thing you may have
heard from me, which is nevertheless true, and turn your mind on the
ways of the inner country.”
Paul could only answer with a squeeze, that would have brought tears
from the eyes of most men, but which produced no other effect on the
indurated muscles of the other, than to make him laugh and nod, as if
he received the same as a pledge that the bee-hunter would remember his
advice. The trapper then turned away from his rough but warm-hearted
companion; and, having called Hector from the boat, he seemed anxious
still to utter a few words more.
“Captain,” he at length resumed, “I know when a poor man talks of
credit, he deals in a delicate word, according to the fashions of the
world; and when an old man talks of life, he speaks of that which he
may never see; nevertheless there is one thing I will say, and that is
not so much on my own behalf as on that of another person. Here is
Hector, a good and faithful pup, that has long outlived the time of a
dog; and, like his master, he looks more to comfort now, than to any
deeds in running. But the creatur’ has his feelings as well as a
Christian. He has consorted latterly with his kinsman, there, in such a
sort as to find great pleasure in his company, and I will acknowledge
that it touches my feelings to part the pair so soon. If you will set a
value on your hound, I will endeavour to send it to you in the spring,
more especially should them same traps come safe to hand; or, if you
dislike parting with the animal altogether, I will just ask you for his
loan through the winter. I think I can see my pup will not last beyond
that time, for I have judgment in these matters, since many is the
friend, both hound and Red-skin, that I have seen depart in my day,
though the Lord hath not yet seen fit to order his angels to sound
forth my name.”
“Take him, take him,” cried Middleton; “take all, or any thing!”
The old man whistled the younger dog to the land; and then he proceeded
to the final adieus. Little was said on either side. The trapper took
each person solemnly by the hand, and uttered something friendly and
kind to all. Middleton was perfectly speechless, and was driven to
affect busying himself among the baggage. Paul whistled with all his
might, and even Obed took his leave with an effort that bore the
appearance of desperate philosophical resolution. When he had made the
circuit of the whole, the old man, with his own hands, shoved the boat
into the current, wishing God to speed them. Not a word was spoken, nor
a stroke of the oar given, until the travellers had floated past a
knoll that hid the trapper from their view. He was last seen standing
on the low point, leaning on his rifle, with Hector crouched at his
feet, and the younger dog frisking along the sands, in the playfulness
of youth and vigour.
[18] The Americans and the Indians have adopted several words, which
each believe peculiar to the language of the others. Thus “squaw,”
“papoose,” or child, wigwam, &c. &c., though it is doubtful whether
they belonged at all to any Indian dialect, are much used by both
white and red men in their Intercourse. Many words are derived from
the French, in this species of prairie nomaic. Partisan, brave, &c.
are of the number.