—Methought, I heard a voice.
—Shakespeare.
The water-courses were at their height, and the boat went down the
swift current like a bird. The passage proved prosperous and speedy. In
less than a third of the time, that would have been necessary for the
same journey by land, it was accomplished by the favour of those rapid
rivers. Issuing from one stream into another, as the veins of the human
body communicate with the larger channels of life, they soon entered
the grand artery of the western waters, and landed safely at the very
door of the father of Inez.
The joy of Don Augustin, and the embarrassment of the worthy father
Ignatius, may be imagined. The former wept and returned thanks to
Heaven; the latter returned thanks, and did not weep. The mild
provincials were too happy to raise any questions on the character of
so joyful a restoration; and, by a sort of general consent, it soon
came to be an admitted opinion that the bride of Middleton had been
kidnapped by a villain, and that she was restored to her friends by
human agency. There were, as respects this belief, certainly a few
sceptics, but then they enjoyed their doubts in private, with that
species of sublimated and solitary gratification that a miser finds in
gazing at his growing, but useless, hoards.
In order to give the worthy priest something to employ his mind,
Middleton made him the instrument of uniting Paul and Ellen. The former
consented to the ceremony, because he found that all his friends laid
great stress on the matter; but shortly after he led his bride into the
plains of Kentucky, under the pretence of paying certain customary
visits to sundry members of the family of Hover. While there, he took
occasion to have the marriage properly solemnised, by a justice of the
peace of his acquaintance, in whose ability to forge the nuptial chain
he had much more faith than in that of all the gownsmen within the pale
of Rome. Ellen, who appeared conscious that some extraordinary
preventives might prove necessary to keep one of so erratic a temper as
her partner, within the proper matrimonial boundaries, raised no
objections to these double knots, and all parties were content.
The local importance Middleton had acquired, by his union with the
daughter of so affluent a proprietor as Don Augustin, united to his
personal merit, attracted the attention of the government. He was soon
employed in various situations of responsibility and confidence, which
both served to elevate his character in the public estimation, and to
afford the means of patronage. The bee-hunter was among the first of
those to whom he saw fit to extend his favour. It was far from
difficult to find situations suited to the abilities of Paul, in the
state of society that existed three-and-twenty years ago in those
regions. The efforts of Middleton and Inez, in behalf of her husband,
were warmly and sagaciously seconded by Ellen, and they succeeded, in
process of time, in working a great and beneficial change in his
character. He soon became a land-holder, then a prosperous cultivator
of the soil, and shortly after a town-officer. By that progressive
change in fortune, which in the republic is often seen to be so
singularly accompanied by a corresponding improvement in knowledge and
self-respect, he went on, from step to step, until his wife enjoyed the
maternal delight of seeing her children placed far beyond the danger of
returning to that state from which both their parents had issued. Paul
is actually at this moment a member of the lower branch of the
legislature of the State where he has long resided; and he is even
notorious for making speeches that have a tendency to put that
deliberative body in good humour, and which, as they are based on great
practical knowledge suited to the condition of the country, possess a
merit that is much wanted in many more subtle and fine-spun theories,
that are daily heard in similar assemblies, to issue from the lips of
certain instinctive politicians. But all these happy fruits were the
results of much care, and of a long period of time. Middleton, who
fills, with a credit better suited to the difference in their
educations, a seat in a far higher branch of legislative authority, is
the source from which we have derived most of the intelligence
necessary to compose our legend. In addition to what he has related of
Paul, and of his own continued happiness, he has added a short
narrative of what took place in a subsequent visit to the prairies,
with which, as we conceive it a suitable termination to what has gone
before, we shall judge it wise to conclude our labours.
In the autumn of the year, that succeeded the season, in which the
preceding events occurred, the young man, still in the military
service, found himself on the waters of the Missouri, at a point not
far remote from the Pawnee towns. Released from any immediate calls of
duty, and strongly urged to the measure by Paul, who was in his
company, he determined to take horse, and cross the country to visit
the partisan, and to enquire into the fate of his friend the trapper.
As his train was suited to his functions and rank, the journey was
effected, with the privations and hardships that are the accompaniments
of all travelling in a wild, but without any of those dangers and
alarms that marked his former passage through the same regions. When
within a proper distance, he despatched an Indian runner, belonging to
a friendly tribe, to announce the approach of himself and party,
continuing his route at a deliberate pace, in order that the
intelligence might, as was customary, precede his arrival. To the
surprise of the travellers their message was unanswered. Hour succeeded
hour, and mile after mile was passed, without bringing either the signs
of an honourable reception, or the more simple assurances of a friendly
welcome. At length the cavalcade, at whose head rode Middleton and
Paul, descended from the elevated plain, on which they had long been
journeying, to a luxuriant bottom, that brought them to the level of
the village of the Loups. The sun was beginning to fall, and a sheet of
golden light was spread over the placid plain, lending to its even
surface those glorious tints and hues, that, the human imagination is
apt to conceive, forms the embellishment of still more imposing scenes.
The verdure of the year yet remained, and herds of horses and mules
were grazing peacefully in the vast natural pasture, under the keeping
of vigilant Pawnee boys. Paul pointed out among them, the well-known
form of Asinus, sleek, fat, and luxuriating in the fulness of content,
as he stood with reclining ears and closed eye-lids, seemingly musing
on the exquisite nature of his present indolent enjoyment.
The route of the party led them at no great distance from one of those
watchful youths, who was charged with a trust heavy as the principal
wealth of his tribe. He heard the trampling of the horses, and cast his
eye aside, but instead of manifesting curiosity or alarm, his look
instantly returned whence it had been withdrawn, to the spot where the
village was known to stand.
“There is something remarkable in all this,” muttered Middleton, half
offended at what he conceived to be not only a slight to his rank, but
offensive to himself, personally; “yonder boy has heard of our
approach, or he would not fail to notify his tribe; and yet he scarcely
deigns to favour us with a glance. Look to your arms, men; it may be
necessary to let these savages feel our strength.”
“Therein, Captain, I think you’re in an error,” returned Paul, “if
honesty is to be met on the prairies at all, you will find it in our
old friend Hard-Heart; neither is an Indian to be judged of by the
rules of a white. See! we are not altogether slighted, for here comes a
party at last to meet us, though it is a little pitiful as to show and
numbers.”
Paul was right in both particulars. A group of horsemen were at length
seen wheeling round a little copse, and advancing across the plain
directly towards them. The advance of this party was slow and
dignified. As it drew nigh, the partisan of the Loups was seen at its
head, followed by a dozen younger warriors of his tribe. They were all
unarmed, nor did they even wear any of those ornaments or feathers,
which are considered testimonials of respect to the guest an Indian
receives, as well as evidence of his own importance.
The meeting was friendly, though a little restrained on both sides.
Middleton, jealous of his own consideration no less than of the
authority of his government, suspected some undue influence on the part
of the agents of the Canadas; and, as he was determined to maintain the
authority of which he was the representative, he felt himself
constrained to manifest a hauteur, that he was far from feeling. It was
not so easy to penetrate the motives of the Pawnees. Calm, dignified,
and yet far from repulsive, they set an example of courtesy, blended
with reserve, that many a diplomatist of the most polished court might
have strove in vain to imitate.
In this manner the two parties continued their course to the town.
Middleton had time, during the remainder of the ride, to revolve in his
mind, all the probable reasons which his ingenuity could suggest for
this strange reception. Although he was accompanied by a regular
interpreter, the chiefs made their salutations in a manner that
dispensed with his services. Twenty times the Captain turned his glance
on his former friend, endeavouring to read the expression of his rigid
features. But every effort and all conjectures proved equally futile.
The eye of Hard-Heart was fixed, composed, and a little anxious; but as
to every other emotion, impenetrable. He neither spoke himself, nor
seemed willing to invite discourse in his visiters; it was therefore
necessary for Middleton to adopt the patient manners of his companions,
and to await the issue for the explanation.
When they entered the town, its inhabitants were seen collected in an
open space, where they were arranged with the customary deference to
age and rank. The whole formed a large circle, in the centre of which,
were perhaps a dozen of the principal chiefs. Hard-Heart waved his hand
as he approached, and, as the mass of bodies opened, he rode through,
followed by his companions. Here they dismounted; and as the beasts
were led apart, the strangers found themselves environed by a thousand,
grave, composed, but solicitous faces.
Middleton gazed about him, in growing concern, for no cry, no song, no
shout welcomed him among a people, from whom he had so lately parted
with regret. His uneasiness, not to say apprehensions, was shared by
all his followers. Determination and stern resolution began to assume
the place of anxiety in every eye, as each man silently felt for his
arms, and assured himself, that his several weapons were in a state for
service. But there was no answering symptom of hostility on the part of
their hosts. Hard-Heart beckoned for Middleton and Paul to follow,
leading the way towards the cluster of forms, that occupied the centre
of the circle. Here the visiters found a solution of all the movements,
which had given them so much reason for apprehension.
The trapper was placed on a rude seat, which had been made, with
studied care, to support his frame in an upright and easy attitude. The
first glance of the eye told his former friends, that the old man was
at length called upon to pay the last tribute of nature. His eye was
glazed, and apparently as devoid of sight as of expression. His
features were a little more sunken and strongly marked than formerly;
but there, all change, so far as exterior was concerned, might be said
to have ceased. His approaching end was not to be ascribed to any
positive disease, but had been a gradual and mild decay of the physical
powers. Life, it is true, still lingered in his system; but it was as
if at times entirely ready to depart, and then it would appear to
re-animate the sinking form, reluctant to give up the possession of a
tenement, that had never been corrupted by vice, or undermined by
disease. It would have been no violent fancy to have imagined, that the
spirit fluttered about the placid lips of the old woodsman, reluctant
to depart from a shell, that had so long given it an honest and an
honourable shelter.
His body was placed so as to let the light of the setting sun fall full
upon the solemn features. His head was bare, the long, thin, locks of
grey fluttering lightly in the evening breeze. His rifle lay upon his
knee, and the other accoutrements of the chase were placed at his side,
within reach of his hand. Between his feet lay the figure of a hound,
with its head crouching to the earth as if it slumbered; and so
perfectly easy and natural was its position, that a second glance was
necessary to tell Middleton, he saw only the skin of Hector, stuffed by
Indian tenderness and ingenuity in a manner to represent the living
animal. His own dog was playing at a distance, with the child of
Tachechana and Mahtoree. The mother herself stood at hand, holding in
her arms a second offspring, that might boast of a parentage no less
honourable, than that which belonged to the son of Hard-Heart. Le
Balafré was seated nigh the dying trapper, with every mark about his
person, that the hour of his own departure was not far distant. The
rest of those immediately in the centre were aged men, who had
apparently drawn near, in order to observe the manner, in which a just
and fearless warrior would depart on the greatest of his journeys.
The old man was reaping the rewards of a life remarkable for temperance
and activity, in a tranquil and placid death. His vigour in a manner
endured to the very last. Decay, when it did occur, was rapid, but free
from pain. He had hunted with the tribe in the spring, and even
throughout most of the summer, when his limbs suddenly refused to
perform their customary offices. A sympathising weakness took
possession of all his faculties; and the Pawnees believed, that they
were going to lose, in this unexpected manner, a sage and counsellor,
whom they had begun both to love and respect. But as we have already
said, the immortal occupant seemed unwilling to desert its tenement.
The lamp of life flickered without becoming extinguished. On the
morning of the day, on which Middleton arrived, there was a general
reviving of the powers of the whole man. His tongue was again heard in
wholesome maxims, and his eye from time to time recognised the persons
of his friends. It merely proved to be a brief and final intercourse
with the world on the part of one, who had already been considered, as
to mental communion, to have taken his leave of it for ever.
When he had placed his guests in front of the dying man, Hard-Heart,
after a pause, that proceeded as much from sorrow as decorum, leaned a
little forward and demanded—
“Does my father hear the words of his son?”
“Speak,” returned the trapper, in tones that issued from his chest, but
which were rendered awfully distinct by the stillness that reigned in
the place. “I am about to depart from the village of the Loups, and
shortly shall be beyond the reach of your voice.”
“Let the wise chief have no cares for his journey,” continued
Hard-Heart with an earnest solicitude, that led him to forget, for the
moment, that others were waiting to address his adopted parent; “a
hundred Loups shall clear his path from briars.”
“Pawnee, I die as I have lived, a Christian man,” resumed the trapper
with a force of voice that had the same startling effect upon his
hearers, as is produced by the trumpet, when its blast rises suddenly
and freely on the air, after its obstructed sounds have been heard
struggling in the distance: “as I came into life so will I leave it.
Horses and arms are not needed to stand in the presence of the Great
Spirit of my people. He knows my colour, and according to my gifts will
he judge my deeds.”
“My father will tell my young men, how many Mingoes he has struck, and
what acts of valour and justice he has done, that they may know how to
imitate him.”
“A boastful tongue is not heard in the heaven of a white man,” solemnly
returned the old man. “What I have done, He has seen. His eyes are
always open. That, which has been well done, will He remember; wherein
I have been wrong will He not forget to chastise, though He will do the
same in mercy. No, my son; a Pale-face may not sing his own praises,
and hope to have them acceptable before his God.”
A little disappointed, the young partisan stepped modestly back, making
way for the recent comers to approach. Middleton took one of the meagre
hands of the trapper, and struggling to command his voice, he succeeded
in announcing his presence. The old man listened like one whose
thoughts were dwelling on a very different subject, but when the other
had succeeded in making him understand, that he was present, an
expression of joyful recognition passed over his faded features—“I hope
you have not so soon forgotten those, whom you so materially served!”
Middleton concluded. “It would pain me to think my hold on your memory
was so light.”
“Little that I have ever seen is forgotten,” returned the trapper: “I
am at the close of many weary days, but there is not one among them
all, that I could wish to overlook. I remember you with the whole of
your company; ay, and your grand’ther, that went before you. I am glad,
that you have come back upon these plains, for I had need of one, who
speaks the English, since little faith can be put in the traders of
these regions. Will you do a favour to an old and dying man?”
“Name it,” said Middleton; “it shall be done.”
“It is a far journey to send such trifles,” resumed the old man, who
spoke at short intervals, as strength and breath permitted; “a far and
weary journey is the same; but kindnesses and friendships are things
not to be forgotten. There is a settlement among the Otsego hills—”
“I know the place,” interrupted Middleton, observing that he spoke with
increasing difficulty; “proceed to tell me, what you would have done.”
“Take this rifle, and pouch, and horn, and send them to the person,
whose name is graven on the plates of the stock,—a trader cut the
letters with his knife,—for it is long, that I have intended to send
him such a token of my love.”
“It shall be so. Is there more that you could wish?”
“Little else have I to bestow. My traps I give to my Indian son; for
honestly and kindly has he kept his faith. Let him stand before me.”
Middleton explained to the chief what the trapper had said and
relinquished his own place to the other.
“Pawnee,” continued the old man, always changing his language to suit
the person he addressed, and not unfrequently according to the ideas he
expressed, “it is a custom of my people for the father to leave his
blessing with the son, before he shuts his eves for ever. This blessing
I give to you; take it, for the prayers of a Christian man will never
make the path of a just warrior, to the blessed prairies, either
longer, or more tangled. May the God of a white man look on your deeds
with friendly eyes, and may you never commit an act, that shall cause
Him to darken His face. I know not whether we shall ever meet again.
There are many traditions concerning the place of Good Spirits. It is
not for one like me, old and experienced though I am, to set up my
opinions against a nation’s. You believe in the blessed prairies, and I
have faith in the sayings of my fathers. If both are true, our parting
will be final; but if it should prove, that the same meaning is hid
under different words, we shall yet stand together, Pawnee, before the
face of your Wahcondah, who will then be no other than my God. There is
much to be said in favour of both religions, for each seems suited to
its own people, and no doubt it was so intended. I fear, I have not
altogether followed the gifts of my colour, inasmuch as I find it a
little painful to give up for ever the use of the rifle, and the
comforts of the chase. But then the fault has been my own, seeing that
it could not have been His. Ay, Hector,” he continued, leaning forward
a little, and feeling for the ears of the hound, “our parting has come
at last, dog, and it will be a long hunt. You have been an honest, and
a bold, and a faithful hound. Pawnee, you cannot slay the pup on my
grave, for where a Christian dog falls, there he lies for ever; but you
can be kind to him, after I am gone, for the love you bear his master.”
“The words of my father are in my ears,” returned the young partisan,
making a grave and respectful gesture of assent.
“Do you hear, what the chief has promised, dog?” demanded the trapper,
making an effort to attract the notice of the insensible effigy of his
hound. Receiving no answering look, nor hearing any friendly whine, the
old man felt for the mouth and endeavoured to force his hand between
the cold lips. The truth then flashed upon him, although he was far
from perceiving the whole extent of the deception. Falling back in his
seat, he hung his head, like one who felt a severe and unexpected
shock. Profiting by this momentary forgetfulness, two young Indians
removed the skin with the same delicacy of feeling, that had induced
them to attempt the pious fraud.
“The dog is dead!” muttered the trapper, after a pause of many minutes;
“a hound has his time as well as a man and well has he filled his days!
Captain,” he added, making an effort to wave his hand for Middleton, “I
am glad you have come; for though kind, and well meaning according to
the gifts of their colour, these Indians are not the men, to lay the
head of a white man in his grave. I have been thinking too, of this dog
at my feet; it will not do to set forth the opinion, that a Christian
can expect to meet his hound again; still there can be little harm in
placing what is left of so faithful a servant nigh the bones of his
master.”
“It shall be as you desire.”
“I’m glad, you think with me in this matter. In order then to save
labour, lay the pup at my feet, or for that matter put him, side by
side. A hunter need never be ashamed to be found in company with his
dog!”
“I charge myself with your wish.”
The old man made a long, and apparently a musing pause. At times he
raised his eyes wistfully, as if he would again address Middleton, but
some innate feeling appeared always to suppress his words. The other,
who observed his hesitation, enquired in a way most likely to encourage
him to proceed, whether there was aught else that he could wish to have
done.
“I am without kith or kin in the wide world!” the trapper answered:
“when I am gone, there will be an end of my race. We have never been
chiefs; but honest and useful in our way, I hope it cannot be denied,
we have always proved ourselves. My father lies buried near the sea,
and the bones of his son will whiten on the prairies—”
“Name the spot, and your remains shall be placed by the side of your
father,” interrupted Middleton.
“Not so, not so, Captain. Let me sleep, where I have lived, beyond the
din of the settlements! Still I see no need, why the grave of an honest
man should be hid, like a Red-skin in his ambushment. I paid a man in
the settlements to make and put a graven stone at the head of my
father’s resting place. It was of the value of twelve beaver-skins, and
cunningly and curiously was it carved! Then it told to all comers that
the body of such a Christian lay beneath; and it spoke of his manner of
life, of his years, and of his honesty. When we had done with the
Frenchers in the old war, I made a journey to the spot, in order to see
that all was rightly performed, and glad I am to say, the workman had
not forgotten his faith.”
“And such a stone you would have at your grave?”
“I! no, no, I have no son, but Hard-Heart, and it is little that an
Indian knows of White fashions and usages. Besides I am his debtor,
already, seeing it is so little I have done, since I have lived in his
tribe. The rifle might bring the value of such a thing—but then I know,
it will give the boy pleasure to hang the piece in his hall, for many
is the deer and the bird that he has seen it destroy. No, no, the gun
must be sent to him, whose name is graven on the lock!”
“But there is one, who would gladly prove his affection in the way you
wish; he, who owes you not only his own deliverance from so many
dangers, but who inherits a heavy debt of gratitude from his ancestors.
The stone shall be put at the head of your grave.”
The old man extended his emaciated hand, and gave the other a squeeze
of thanks.
“I thought, you might be willing to do it, but I was backward in asking
the favour,” he said, “seeing that you are not of my kin. Put no
boastful words on the same, but just the name, the age, and the time of
the death, with something from the holy book; no more no more. My name
will then not be altogether lost on ’arth; I need no more.”
Middleton intimated his assent, and then followed a pause, that was
only broken by distant and broken sentences from the dying man. He
appeared now to have closed his accounts with the world, and to await
merely for the final summons to quit it. Middleton and Hard-Heart
placed themselves on the opposite sides of his seat, and watched with
melancholy solicitude, the variations of his countenance. For two hours
there was no very sensible alteration. The expression of his faded and
time-worn features was that of a calm and dignified repose. From time
to time he spoke, uttering some brief sentence in the way of advice, or
asking some simple questions concerning those in whose fortunes he
still took a friendly interest. During the whole of that solemn and
anxious period each individual of the tribe kept his place, in the most
self-restrained patience. When the old man spoke, all bent their heads
to listen; and when his words were uttered, they seemed to ponder on
their wisdom and usefulness.
As the flame drew nigher to the socket, his voice was hushed, and there
were moments, when his attendants doubted whether he still belonged to
the living. Middleton, who watched each wavering expression of his
weather-beaten visage, with the interest of a keen observer of human
nature, softened by the tenderness of personal regard, fancied he could
read the workings of the old man’s soul in the strong lineaments of his
countenance. Perhaps what the enlightened soldier took for the delusion
of mistaken opinion did actually occur, for who has returned from that
unknown world to explain by what forms, and in what manner, he was
introduced into its awful precincts? Without pretending to explain what
must ever be a mystery to the quick, we shall simply relate facts as
they occurred.
The trapper had remained nearly motionless for an hour. His eyes,
alone, had occasionally opened and shut. When opened, his gaze seemed
fastened on the clouds, which hung around the western horizon,
reflecting the bright colours, and giving form and loveliness to the
glorious tints of an American sunset. The hour—the calm beauty of the
season—the occasion, all conspired to fill the spectators with solemn
awe. Suddenly, while musing on the remarkable position, in which he was
placed, Middleton felt the hand, which he held, grasp his own with
incredible power, and the old man, supported on either side by his
friends, rose upright to his feet. For a moment, he looked about him,
as if to invite all in presence to listen (the lingering remnant of
human frailty), and then, with a fine military elevation of the head,
and with a voice, that might be heard in every part of that numerous
assembly the word—
“Here!”
A movement so entirely unexpected, and the air of grandeur and
humility, which were so remarkably united in the mien of the trapper,
together with the clear and uncommon force of his utterance, produced a
short period of confusion in the faculties of all present. When
Middleton and Hard-Heart, each of whom had involuntarily extended a
hand to support the form of the old man, turned to him again, they
found, that the subject of their interest was removed for ever beyond
the necessity of their care. They mournfully placed the body in its
seat, and Le Balafré arose to announce the termination of the scene, to
the tribe. The voice of the old Indian seemed a sort of echo from that
invisible world, to which the meek spirit of the trapper had just
departed.
“A valiant, a just, and a wise warrior has gone on the path, which will
lead him to the blessed grounds of his people!” he said. “When the
voice of the Wahcondah called him, he was ready to answer. Go, my
children; remember the just chief of the Pale-faces, and clear your own
tracks from briars.”
The grave was made beneath the shade of some noble oaks. It has been
carefully watched to the present hour by the Pawnees of the Loup, and
is often shown to the traveller and the trader as a spot where a just
Whiteman sleeps. In due time the stone was placed at its head, with the
simple inscription, which the trapper had himself requested. The only
liberty, taken by Middleton, was to add—“May no wanton hand ever
disturb his remains!”