THE CAPTIVES.
With all the speed possible, Durant hurried off toward the Ohio, determined
as soon as it could be done, to place that river between himself and
captives and any pursuers that might follow them, when it became known that
the lovers were missing.
It was a matter of wonder with Ellen's family what could keep her and
Hamilton out so late in the evening; and when darkness set in, and they
were still absent, the wonder changed to alarm. Search was instantly made;
they were traced to their resting-place; the evident marks of a scuffle
were visible; and the unanimous opinion of all was that they were in the
hands of Indians. Preparations for pursuit were immediately instituted, and
by daylight next morning, a strong band of armed pioneers, well mounted,
were on the trail of the fugitives, determined to retake the captives, if
such a feat were in the bounds of possibility.
Durant had everything so arranged, that his party need not be subjected to
a moment's delay. Every member of his band, including the prisoners,
expected a vigorous pursuit, and the lovers were not without hope that it
would prove successful. In this hope, they, as far as circumstances and
ability permitted, endeavored to retard the progress of the captors by slow
movements; and Durant was finally constrained to threaten them, if they did
not step with greater alacrity; for he feared they might be overtaken.
At length the hilly banks of the Ohio were reached; the clear waters of
that noble stream lay before them; and between the prisoners and despair,
and no friends in sight to bid them hope! Durant now concluded all was
safe; and the malice of his heart, which the pressure of circumstances had
kept smothered, began again to display itself. Pointing to the verdure-clad
and tree-crowned hills on the other side of the river, he said:
"Once there, amid the lovely groves of Ohio, and you are beyond the last
hope of recovery from my power, my beautiful girl! Then and there I shall
have the exquisite pleasure of informing you more particularly concerning
my plans for the future. For the present, receive my assurances, that
nothing else could give me such unbounded satisfaction as the felicity
unspeakable of having won my old and dear love from all competitors for her
hand and person, and the certain assurance, that, for the time to come, she
is all my own, without fear of rivalship!"
The bitter irony attempted in this malignantly polite address went to the
heart of the fair girl; but she resolutely set herself against any display
of fear, or the least manifestation of alarm, well knowing that the marks
of such emotions would but increase the revengeful feeling of delight
evinced by her adversary.
Just as Durant concluded his speech, the tramp of horses' feet was heard in
the distance, and the cry raised by the Indians:
"White man come! white man come!"
All hands sprung to unmoor the canoes, which were in readiness, concealed
among the drooping branches of some trees which overhung the margin of the
stream. While thus engaged, Hamilton, who was watching his opportunity,
knocked down the Indian who guarded him, sent Durant whirling round like a
top to the distance of ten or twelve feet, seized Ellen in his arms, and
with strength almost superhuman, and a speed miraculous under the
circumstances, bounded away in the direction of the approaching horsemen,
who were now visible through the interstices of the forest, a good way off,
but coming rapidly on to the rescue, though, as yet, in ignorance of their
near proximity to friends and foes.
"Seize them! seize them!--shoot the infernal dog!" roared Durant, in a
hoarse voice of passion and rage, so soon as he recovered from the
astonishment and fright into which the unceremonious assault of Hamilton
had thrown him.
[Illustration: "Hamilton knocked down the Indian who guarded him, sent
Durant whirling round like a top to the distance of ten or twelve
feet."--See page 54.]
His first command was not obeyed, for Hamilton and Ellen were already
beyond reach when the order was given; but the second one led to the
discharge of two guns without effect, and the leveling of a third by
Ramsey, with a coolness and steadiness of nerve and aim which gave
assurance of success. His finger was on the trigger, when Durant himself
threw up the muzzle of the rifle, and sent the ball whizzing through the
air, some ten feet above the heads of the fugitives.
"My revenge must be fuller than that, or not at all," he said. "The ball
would have killed both, and I would not have had that for the world."
He had hardly uttered these words, when the sharp crack of the remaining
Indian's rifle, who had recovered from the blow given him by Hamilton, and
was glad of the opportunity of so speedily avenging it, rung in his ear
with piercing shrillness, and looking in the direction of the flying
couple, Durant saw Hamilton stagger with his burden, and then both fell to
the earth. Instantly the demon was roused within him; every emotion of fear
was swallowed up in his usually cowardly heart by the burning thirst for
revenge which rankled in his bosom; and crying "_Come_!" he rushed to the
spot where the lovers lay, followed by his comrade. Both were wounded, but
neither was dead. Lifting the bleeding Ellen in his arms, he bore her back,
while Ramsey and an Indian did the same by Hamilton. Springing into their
canoes, and bending to the oars with all the strength they could muster,
they were soon far out into the stream, and had just reached a point of
safety, when the pursuing party of whites came up to the water's brink.
Several shots were fired at the canoes without effect, and then the men
tried to force their horses into the river; but by yelling and splashing
the water with their oars by the enemy, the beasts were effectually
frightened, so that no efforts of their riders could induce them to attempt
the unwilling task of swimming across.
Durant could perceive the agony of the father and brother of Ellen, as they
wrung their hands in despair, still vainly striving to urge forward their
stubborn steeds. Feeling perfectly secure, now that the pursuers were
effectually baffled in their designs, he gave orders to cease the
frightening demonstrations, and continue their course. In a few minutes the
Ohio shore was gained, and they soon buried themselves in the deep woods
beyond and were lost to the sight of those on the opposite bank, who
reluctantly turned their faces homeward, and, in deep and mournful silence,
retraced their steps, revolving in their minds what next could be done.
Hamilton and Ellen were both severely wounded, the ball having passed
through the right side of each, but no vital part seemed to have suffered,
and the wounds were not deemed mortal of themselves, but might prove fatal
if not properly attended to. Durant's first care was to have them dressed
and bound up; and he used every means within his reach to expedite their
recovery. He had them taken to a place of safety, a kind of cove, known to
himself and Ramsey, which was in an obscure and unfrequented spot, where
they were carefully nursed until in a fair way for speedy recovery.
Until now, Durant had been careful to say and do nothing that might tend to
excite the minds of his captives, fearing that inflamation might ensue, and
rob him of his anticipated triumph and revenge. But so soon as their
convalescence was distinctly manifest, the crisis and the danger past, he
began to torment his victims; the one of his wounded vanity, his
disappointed avarice, and his venomous hate; the other of his envy and
jealous malice. In consummating his revenge upon Ellen, he would not only
gratify his malicious and vengeful nature, but minister, also, to the
basest passions of a corrupt human heart. Seating himself in her presence
one day, he said:
"I now understand why it was that I found no more favor in your sight while
so foolishly attempting to win your love. Your heart was already occupied,
a circumstance you took good care to conceal. Thank my stars, my rival is
now in my hands! And do you know, my dear, that he is a doomed man? If not,
permit me to inform you of the fact."
"Sir, what has he ever done to you that you should wish to harm him?"
"Done! Has he not robbed me of your love, your hand, and made my life a
hopeless desert and a weary waste?"
"No, sir, he has not. My heart was his before I saw you, and _you_, sir,
attempted the part of a robber, not Mr. Hamilton. Now judge yourself by
your own rule and what fate should be yours?"
"Ah, very fine logic, truly; but, unfortunately, you have not the power to
back it up. I presume you have never beheld the sacrifice of a victim on a
funeral pile, nor more than read of prisoners burned at the stake; how
would such a spectacle affect you, think?"
This was said with a peculiar expression, and was evidently intended to
make a strong impression; but whatever its real effect upon the mind of his
auditor, no visible tokens of dread or pain were manifested, and Ellen
replied:
"I do not know, so much would depend on circumstances; but that I would
abhor the actors in the scene of barbarous cruelty, I can well imagine."
This was not the kind of a reply expected, and Durant changed his discourse
from an insinuating tone to a direct manner.
"I perceive it will be necessary for me to render my meaning more explicit,
and I now change the form of my query, and beg to know how you would
probably feel, were you compelled to witness the burning of your lover at
the stake?"
A momentary paleness blanched the cheek of the fair girl, as this heartless
interrogation was fully comprehended, but recovering herself quickly from
the rude shock, she replied:
"I doubt not the sight would be a harrowing one, but I do not anticipate
such an unlikely event."
"Pardon me, but I may as well tell you at first, that this fate is in store
for you."
"Why do you persist in this attempt at refinement of cruelty? Bad as you
are, I give you credit for too much humanity to believe your words are more
than an idle threat, which you have no intention of putting into
execution."
"Then you have given me credit for more humanity than is justly my due; for
I never was more earnest in my life, and it is my fixed determination to do
exactly what I have intimated."
Ellen, who had all the time been really alarmed, now gave way, in her
reduced strength of body, to the feelings which, until now, she had kept in
subjection; and, changing her tone, commenced pleading with the miscreant:
"Mr. Hamilton has never harmed you, and can, therefore, only be hated by
you through me; do not, then, make him the object of your wrath, but let it
fall on me. I will readily burn at the stake to save him."
This last remark, as it showed the depths and tenderness of her love for
his rival, only excited him the more, and he repeated his intention of
burning Hamilton at the stake in her presence, with many additions,
purposely introduced to make a more horrifying impression. In vain she
pleaded for her lover, and offered herself as the sacrifice; the only
effect of her prayers was to render him more savage and determined in his
intentions and avowals. The excitement of the interview, however, in her
case, superinduced a state of fever, which bid fair, for a few days, to
render her recovery very doubtful. This result was not expected by Durant,
and he in turn became alarmed, lest his dearly bought vengeance should yet
slip from him. Every exertion was put forth for her restoration, and
finally success crowned the well directed but ill intentioned efforts of
the villain. Ellen's fever abated, and she again began to mend. It would be
some time, however, ere the monster would dare renew his threats, and in
the interim, he set his wits to work with a little different object in
view. A new thought had entered his mind, the ultimate end of which he
would endeavor to carry out.
He had never fallen in love with savage life, because it was one of too
much peril to suit his natural disposition to cowardice, and he would
gladly return to civilized life, if he could do so safely--his Indian home
and habits having only been adopted as a means, and the only means, of
ministering to his revengeful desires. His idea looked to the
accomplishment of this object, and he was fain to believe he saw a way to
succeed. As Ellen was to act a part in his newly formed plan, his manner
toward her changed. He was polite and respectful in his words and
attentions. He was, also, very kind and considerate toward Hamilton. They
were both surprised at this unexpected change in the demeanor of their
captor, but were unable to account for it. All was explained in time. One
day, after Ellen was much restored, he ventured on the following
communication:
"I have," he said to her, "had very serious thoughts of late. A singular
dream, which made a powerful impression on my mind, opened up to my mental
vision the sinfulness of my past life, and convinced me of the necessity of
repentance and reformation. I would gladly amend my ways, and lead a new
and better life, but my way is hedged up before me. I am an outcast of
society, made so by my own acts, the dark enormity of which I now behold
with astonishment, and, unless some great influence is brought to bear in
my favor, I dare not return to a Christian community, and if I remain here
among the heathens, I may give up all hope at once, as it will be
impossible for me, as one of the savages, to become a moral and Christian
man. It is in your power, fair lady, to give me the requisite guarantee of
safety. May I hope that you will extend to me the hand of salvation?"
Ellen hardly knew whether to believe in the man's sincerity or not; but
hoping for the best, she replied:
"If in your good intentions I can aid you in any way, I shall be most happy
to do so."
"Thank you; I expected as much from your generous heart, though I have
merited nothing but hatred from you by my acts. I will consult Mr. Hamilton
on the subject, before pointing out more definitely the mode in which you
can serve and save me."
Leaving her presence, he placed himself before Hamilton, whom he addressed
after this manner:
"I am aware, my good sir, that you are on somewhat intimate terms with Miss
Walton, the lady in another apartment of this rather dismal abode, and, I
doubt not, have much influence over her. If so, I very much desire the
benefit of that influence, to aid me in the best and noblest undertaking of
my life."
He then explained his intentions and desires of reformation, and the
impediments in the way, much in the same manner as he had done to Ellen;
after which he continued:
"Now, to relieve me from my embarrassing situation, I deem it needful to
form a connection with some influential person or family, whose
recommendation and protection will secure me from harm, and restore me to
the bosom of that society from whose enjoyments and privileges I severed
myself by a rash act, committed in an hour of passion, and followed up by
a strange course of infatuation ever since. I know of none upon whose names
and aid I would sooner cast myself than upon you and Miss Walton, as your
families are of the first respectability, and could throw an effectual
shield around me. I would, therefore, that you let me bear to the young
lady the assurances that you approve my plans and purposes, (if you really
do so,) and that you are willing to aid me yourself, and hope she will
also, in carrying them out."
Hamilton was still confined by his wound, which had been a much more
serious one than that inflicted upon Ellen; and in his then state of
prostration, was not as well prepared to scorn the motives of Durant, or
penetrate his designs, as he might have been under more favorable auspices;
and having no reason to doubt the sincerity of the seemingly repentant man,
he entered into his plans at once, with all the warmth of a benevolent and
Christian heart. He said:
"I can hardly believe it necessary that I should say a word to Miss Walton,
to induce her to put forth her best endeavors to serve you in so worthy a
work; but, if need be, bear to her the assurance of my hearty approval of
your designs and wishes, and that I shall do all in my power to aid you in
the laudable efforts you are making to return to a Christian country, and a
virtuous life."
"As I have, very unfortunately, laid myself liable to her distrust, will
you have the goodness to place your approval on this slip of paper?"
Saying which, he handed him the paper and a pencil. He wrote as follows:
"MISS WALTON:--The bearer, Mr. Durant, has laid before me his
intentions and wishes, and the difficulties in the way of his
reformation. I most heartily approve his plans, as they seem to be
the most judicious that now occur to me, and hope you will assist
him to the utmost of your ability in his very worthy object.
"HAMILTON."
As Durant run his eye over the lines, a peculiar expression of satisfaction
crossed his features, and with the warmest thanks on his lips, he
departed, and lost no time in again presenting himself before Ellen, whom
he thus addressed:
"I have just laid my case before Mr. Hamilton, whose opinion on the subject
you will find here expressed in his own hand-writing."
And he gave her the slip. She read the lines traced upon it, when he
proceeded:
"If I only dared to hope you would as readily approve and as heartily enter
into my plans, all disquiet in my heart would at once be set at rest."
"I am quite sure I shall object to nothing Mr. Hamilton approves; and in
all good endeavors, I shall be most happy to render you all the assistance
I can command or bestow."
"Then I need entertain no further apprehensions, and will at once make
known to you the details which seem to me necessary to be carried out.
There are very few persons in the settlements who have any knowledge of my
connection with the Indians, and my first request is that you never, under
any circumstances, allude to this connection, or let it be known that I
have been here. Have I your promise?"
"Most certainly."
"I desire, in the second place, that you will say as much good of me as you
can, (and that, I am sorry to say, will be but little,) to those who may
ask you for information concerning me; but if you have _nothing_ good to
say, then that you will say no evil, and especially if my Indian life is
alluded to. May I hope for your favor in this respect?"
"I will do my best to exonerate you in all cases where your reputation is
at stake, and to aid you in reaching a place of honor in society."
"Thank you. I have but one additional solicitation to make, and if to this
you can give your assent, I shall be truly happy, delighted, and
confident."
All this time he had been driving at one point, which he had now reached,
but was slow to present. A momentary pause ensued; Ellen was in doubt as to
the nature of the requirement, and he of the propriety of making it. But he
had set his all upon the desperate stake for which he was playing, and it
would not now do to leave the game. He at length went on:
"I shall not feel myself safe in society unless I can form an alliance with
some family of note and respectability. I am not as extensively acquainted
as some others--in a word, I know of no young lady but yourself to whom I
can offer my hand, and having loved you so long and ardently, I can do
nothing less than make this as my final request, _that you consent to
become my wife_. I make this request the only condition of release, and
upon your acceptance of my hand depends my present and future hope, my
salvation in time and eternity. My fate is in your hands, and you can raise
me to heaven, or cast me down to hell. Will you save me?"
It would be quite impossible to depict the consternation this announcement
created in the mind of Ellen. In spite of her better judgment, and the
precedents in the villain's former life, she had suffered herself to be
beguiled by his seeming sincerity of manner into the hope that he was
really desirous of reforming; and even now she could hardly believe her own
ears, so consummate was his hypocrisy; but as the whole truth shone out to
her comprehension, she saw through his scheme at once--that all his seeming
repentance was a pretense as hollow as his own heart. The hope that had
begun to swell in her heart was blotted out in a moment. She replied
without hesitation:
"I cannot accede to your last proposition."
"Why not?"
"It is impossible."
"Then you willingly consign me to wretchedness in this life, and to
perdition hereafter."
"I do no such thing. _You_ are not responsible for _my_ acts; and your
repentance can be just as sincere without a wife as with one."
"You are mistaken. If I am doomed to remain among the Indians, I shall
never be able to reform, however earnestly I may desire to do so; and if I
go to the settlements, I shall be slain as a foe, unless protected by
family ties and influence; these I can secure in no other way than by
becoming your husband."
"I am of an entirely different opinion; and I think your whole scheme a
very thin and flimsy contrivance, of which you ought to be ashamed."
"But there are two against you. Mr. Hamilton, as you have already seen,
perfectly coincides with me in his views, and--"
"I beg leave to correct you. Mr. Hamilton never consented to your last
proposition, for the very good reason that it was never mentioned to him;
in this respect you have tried to deceive me; but to put the matter to
rest, at once and forever, let me say, as mistress of my own decisions,
that whether _he_ should consent to your proposition or not, _I never
will_!"
"Then, as you voluntarily cast me off, and consign me to infamy and
hopeless wretchedness, be the consequences upon your own head. I came to
you and implored assistance in my extremity, but you turned away, and left
me in despair. Do not, therefore, accuse me of cruelty if I demand by force
that which you have denied as a free gift. You know that I have the power
of life and death over yourself and Hamilton, and I now ask you, as a last
resort, to choose between assenting to become my wife and seeing your lover
at the stake! You may well start and turn pale; for as sure as there is a
sky above and the earth beneath us, I swear that one or the other fate
shall be yours. Make your own election, and, in doing so, bear in mind that
Hamilton's death will be gratuitous, if caused, for you shall then be worse
than my wife. As a lawful companion, I will use my best endeavors to make
you happy; as a companion in what the world calls _guilt_, I will bind
myself by no such promise. Think of all these things, and then decide."
"Louis Durant, the very proposition you make, accompanied as it is by the
alternative, is one of such black enormity, that if nothing else were added
to debase you in my estimation, I would spurn your offer as I would the
proffered hand of Satan himself or of the vilest imp in the loathsome pit
of night where he reigns! You have your answer. As well try to pluck the
sun from his place in the heavens or wrench the sparkling stars from the
firmament as to alter my resolve."
"Perhaps you will think differently when the trying hour comes, perhaps
repent when it is too late."
"Never, sir villain! Do you suppose I cannot penetrate the thin gauze that
is intended to hide your motives? Your highest aspiration is after the
_Wealth_ you imagine me to possess; if I were poor, you would not even
offer me your hand, let alone make such efforts to obtain it. I see through
all your devices, base miscreant, including your sham repentance, which
deserves the descent of God's just indignation upon your guilty head, and
polluted soul!"
"Your perceptions are exceedingly acute, I must confess; but I leave you
for the present, to reflect on the subject, so vital to us all, and hope
that reason may yet prevail."
Much after the same manner he continued to persecute her, day after day,
and with no better success. In the meantime Hamilton had so far recovered
as to be able to walk about. To him Durant appealed; but his offer of
freedom, on condition of using his influence to induce Ellen to consent to
become his captor's wife, was rejected with the contempt and scorn it
merited, and a brave man could give it.
This was the last peg upon which the villain hung a hope of working out his
purpose, and he now resolved to fall back on his first intention, and
execute his long threatened vengeance. The stake was prepared after the
most approved Indian model, and the fagots piled high around it. The two
victims were then led out to see what awaited them; and this excess of
cruelty, this torture in advance, was forced upon the lovers with a view to
shake their resolution.
Again they were separately and jointly appealed to; but with the same
result as before; they were pale with hopeless despair, but firm and
unwavering in purpose.
"I would die a thousand deaths of torture, my beloved Ellen, rather than
persuade you to sacrifice yourself to save me," was Hamilton's language to
his companion in distress. "Life without you would be a burden; and I can
now die with a pleasing hope of reunion beyond the grave."
Durant would not permit a continuation of such interchange of thoughts,
and they were separated.
On the following day Hamilton was fastened to the stake, and an Indian
stood ready with a torch to fire the combustibles so soon as the word of
command was given.
"Behold the fate of him you pretend to love!" said Durant to Ellen, whom he
had dragged to the spot. "His destiny is yet in the balances; say but the
word, and he shall go free!"
Pale as death itself, and scarcely able to stand, Ellen replied:
"The will of God be done! I am prepared for the worst!"
"The worst?" and he hissed in her ear some words of infamy.
"Oh, God! not that! not that!" and she reeled as if struck with a blow.
"Then, in the name of reason, save yourself, save both! It is easily done."
The villain's words calmed her in a moment, and she responded:
"Either fate is more than I can bear; but I will not perjure my soul to
save myself from any fate it pleases God to send upon me."
"And you will not be an honorable bride, then?"
"Yours,--_never_!"
"Fire the fagots!" he commanded in a voice of rage, and the order was
instantly obeyed by the Indian who stood impatiently awaiting the word.