THE close of the Revolution had brought no cessation of British
intrigue along the northern frontier. The British did not believe the
confederacy of states would endure. In any event the western frontier
was uncertain; miles upon miles of territory--land enough for a dozen
principalities--lay open to whoever should first grasp it. Treaties
were mere paper; possession was everything. Colonization in western
Canada had always lagged and the British could supply no white barrier
to hold back the resistless tide that was rolling up from the south.
But this very dearth of colonists was in a way an advantage, for
it prevented the pressure on the Indians for lands that had caused
perpetual war further south. Desiring to check the Americans rather
than to advance their own lines the British, through McKee and other
agents, poured out money to win the friendship of the Indians. Arms,
ammunition, provisions, gew-gaws in abundance were always ready. In the
five years before the breaking out of the War of 1812 probably more
than half the Indians about the Great Lakes had visited one British
post or another in Canada and had come back home loaded with presents.
The policy was wise, even if not humane. When the conflict came it was
to save Canada, which without Indian aid would have been lost forever
to the British crown.
South of Canada, within the borders of the United States, ten thousand
Indians hung in the balance, ready to be swayed by a hair. They were
friendly to the British, and they hated the Americans. But they feared
them, also--feared the men who had fought and bled and died as they
forced their way westward past all resistance. Some would go north at
the first word of war, but most would stay quiet, awaiting results.
The first British triumph, however small, would call hundreds of them
to the British standard; a great British triumph would call them forth
in thousands.
Tecumseh was the head and front of those Indians who favored war.
For years he had urged that the red men should unite in one great
league and should establish a line beyond which the white man must not
advance. Behind this, no foot of land was to be parted with without the
unanimous consent of all the tribes. Two long journeys had he made,
travelling swiftly, tireless as a wolf, from one tribe to another,
from Illinois to Virginia, from Florida to New York, welding all red
men into a vast confederacy that in good time would rise against the
ever-aggressive white man, crush his outposts, sweep back his lines,
and establish a great Indian empire that would hold him back forever.
A year before he had brought his plans nearly to perfection. He had
accumulated great quantities of arms and ammunition and supplies at
the town of his brother, the Prophet, on the banks of the Wabash, and
had set out on his first long journey--a journey that was intended to
rivet fast the league his emissaries had built. But he had gotten back
to find that Harrison, the white chief, had struck in his absence, had
defeated and scattered his chosen warriors, had destroyed his town, and
had blotted out the work of three long years.
All afternoon long, from the protection of a near-by cabin, Alagwa
watched that of Tecumseh, seeing the chiefs come and go. Simon Girty
and the man in the red coat were among them.
When at last the sun was setting and the ridge poles of the cabin were
outlined against the swirl of rose-colored cloud that hung in the west,
Tecumseh sent for her.
Pushing through the mantle of skins that formed the door she found the
great chief sitting cross-legged in the semi-gloom. Silently she sank
down before him and waited.
For a long time Tecumseh smoked on in silence. At last he spoke, using
the Shawnee tongue, despite the fact that he was a master of English
and that Alagwa spoke it also, though not fluently. “Little daughter,”
he began. “For ten years you have dwelt in Tecumseh’s cabin and have
eaten at his fireside. The time has come for you to leave him and take
a trail of your own.”
Startled, with quivering lips and tear-filled eyes, Alagwa threw
herself forward. “Why? Why? Why?” she cried. “What has Alagwa done that
Tecumseh should send her away?”
“Alagwa has done nothing. Tecumseh does not send her away. And yet she
must go. Listen, little daughter, and I will tell you a tale. Some of
it you have heard already from the redcoat chief who spoke to you today
against my will. The rest you shall hear now.
“Ten years ago, your father left you in my care. His name was Delaroche
Telfair, a Frenchman, a Manaouioui. He came of a great chiefs family,
from far across the water. All the chiefs of his house are now dead and
all their lands have come down to him and from him to you. If you were
dead the lands would go to another chief--the chief Brito, who spoke
to you today. Two moons ago this chief came to Tecumseh, seeking you
and speaking fair words and promising all things. He is the servant of
the British King and the ally of Tecumseh, and if Tecumseh were free to
choose, he would have let you go with him gladly. But he is not free.
Before your father died he warned Tecumseh against Brito, saying of
him all things that were evil. He told also of the other chiefs of
his house who dwelt far to the south, near the great salt water and
near the ancient home of the Shawnee people before they were driven
northward by the whites. He begged that Tecumseh should put you in the
care of these chiefs rather than in that of the chief Brito. Does my
daughter understand?”
Alagwa bowed. “I understand, great chief,” she answered, breathlessly.
“Therefore Tecumseh bade the chief Brito wait until he should return
from a journey. He stationed the chief Wilwiloway to watch and protect
you. For many moons he travelled. His moccasins trod the woods and
the prairies. He visited the home of his friends’ people by the far
south sea. Of them one is a young white chief, handsome and brave and
skilful, called Te-pwe (he who speaks truth) by the Shawnees. His years
are four or five more than Alagwa’s. Tecumseh saw him and gave him a
belt of black and white and told him by what trail he should come to
fetch you. The young chief took the belt and Tecumseh hoped to find him
here when he came. But he has not come.”
Alagwa’s breast was heaving. The suggestion that she was to be sent far
south into the land of the Americans filled her with terror. She had
been trained in the stoicism of the Indian and she knew that it was
her part to obey in silence, accepting the words of the chief, but her
white blood cried out in protest.
The chief went on. “Tecumseh has done what he can to keep his promise
to his friend. But now Tecumseh’s people call him and he must leave
all else to serve them. Tonight he holds a great council and tomorrow
he and those who follow him go north to join the redcoats and fight
against the Seventeen Fires (seventeen states). But before he goes he
must decide what to do with Alagwa. He can not take her north with him.
He can not leave her here, for that would be to give her to the chief
Brito whether he wished it or not and whether she wished it or not. Two
things only can he do. He can give her into the hands of her father’s
foe or he can send her south to meet the young white chief, who is on
his way to fetch her. Which shall he do, little daughter?”
Alagwa sat silent. Scarcely breathing, she strove desperately to think,
to choose between the courses of action that Tecumseh had outlined, but
the throbbing of her pulses made the task difficult. In her ears was
the roaring of deep waters.
Suddenly a flush of rage swept over her and she sprang to her feet.
“I will not! I will not!” she panted. “Am I a dog that I should go
begging to the doors of the Long Knives from the south. They are my
people’s foes and mine. I will take nothing from them. Neither will I
go north with the man whom my father hated. I can not stay here, the
great chief says? Good! I will go, but I will go to fight his foes and
mine. I am a woman and I can not travel the warpath. But surely there
is some other way for me to help? Can not the great chief lay upon me
some task? Is there not some service that I may render to him and to
the people who took me in when I was a child and who have cared for me
these many moons?” Imploringly the girl stretched out her hands.
It was long before Tecumseh answered. But at last he nodded. “It is
just,” he said. “Your father came to the Shawnees and the Shawnees took
him in. He left you with the Shawnees, and the Shawnees have cared for
you as one of themselves. Now the Shawnees are to fight for their lands
and for the lands of their children and their children’s children. It
is right that you should help them.”
Alagwa drew her breath sharply. “It is right,” she echoed. “Let the
white chief take my lands. I care nothing for them. My heart is not
white. It is red, red.”
Tecumseh smiled. “Truly have the people named you Bobapanawe (Little
Lightning),” he said slowly. “And yet--Let not my daughter think that
this is a small matter. It is a very great matter. If my daughter
will----”
“Oh! I will! I will!” Alagwa’s white blood spoke in her outcry. No
Indian woman would have interrupted a chief.
Tecumseh did not resent the outcry. “If my daughter will, she can go
south, not as Alagwa, not as a Shawnee, but as a prisoner escaping from
captivity. As such she can get and send word of the plans and doings of
the whites to Tecumseh and the redcoats and so help the people who have
fostered her! Will my daughter do this?”
Alagwa did not hesitate. To her all Americans were base and vile,
robbers and thieves. “I will! I will,” she cried.
“It is well. Perhaps my daughter may meet the young chief----If she
does, let her join herself to him and follow him. He should not be far
from Wapakoneta. All Americans are robbers and murderers at heart. But
the young chief is not as bad as most of them. Alagwa can trust him.”
But the girl shook her head stubbornly. “I will trust none of the Long
Knives,” she protested.
Tecumseh ignored the refusal. “If you go south as a spy you can not go
as an Indian, nor even as a woman,” he said. “You must go as a white
and as a boy. So shall you pass through perils that would otherwise
overtake you. Tonight there will be a great council. Wait till it is
over. Then dress yourself from the clothes yonder”--he pointed to a
heap at the side of the cabin--“and go to the squaw Wabetha and tell
her to cut your hair and to wash the paint from your cheeks and to
dress you as a boy. Let no one see you, for your enemies keep close
watch. The chief Wilwiloway will come for you at dawn and will go with
you to the bend of the Piqua and perhaps farther. Then you must shift
for yourself. From time to time I will send a runner to bring back the
information you gain.”
Alagwa bowed. “It is well,” she said.
The chief slipped his hand into the braided pouch that hung at his
side and drew forth a small packet wrapped in doeskin. From it he
took a flat oval case containing the miniature of a lady with a
proud, beautiful face, a chain so finely woven that the links could
scarcely be distinguished, and a packet of gold coins whose value even
Alagwa--child of the forest though she was--well knew. All of them he
handed to the girl.
“Your father left them,” he said. “Spend the money, but keep the
picture safe. Your father said it would prove your rights if need be.
Hang it around your neck by the chain and show it to no one till you
must. Now, farewell.”