"Must this sweet new-blown rose find such a winter
Before her spring be past?"
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER
The little bark touched the stony point of Long Island. The Indian
lifted his weeping prisoner from the canoe, and motioned to her to
move forward along the narrow path that led to the camp, about twenty
yards higher up the bank, where there was a little grassy spot
enclosed with shrubby trees; the squaws tarried at the lake-shore to
bring up the paddles and secure the canoe.
It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of an enemy, but doubly
so when that enemy is a stranger to the language in which we would
plead for mercy, whose god is not our God, nor his laws those by which
we ourselves are governed. Thus felt the poor captive as she stood
alone, mute with terror, among the half-naked, dusky forms with which
she now found herself surrounded. She cast a hurried glance round that
strange assembly, if by chance her eye might rest upon some dear
familiar face; but she saw not the kind but grave face of Hector, nor
met the bright sparkling eyes of her cousin Louis, nor the soft,
subdued, pensive features of the Indian girl, her adopted sister. She
stood alone among those wild, gloomy-looking men; some turned away
their eyes as if they would not meet her woe-stricken countenance,
lest they should be moved to pity her sad condition. No wonder that,
overcome by the sense of her utter forlornness, she hid her face with
her fettered hands and wept in despair. But the Indian's sympathy is
not moved by tears and sighs; calmness, courage, defiance of danger,
and contempt of death, are what he venerates and admires even in an
enemy.
The Indians beheld her grief unmoved. At length the old man, who
seemed to be a chief among the rest, motioned to one of the women who
leaned against the side of the wigwam to come forward and lead away
the stranger. Catharine, whose senses were beginning to be more
collected, heard the old man give orders that she was to be fed and
cared for. Gladly did she escape from the presence of those pitiless
men, from whose gaze she shrunk with maidenly modesty. And now when
alone with the women she hesitated not to make use of that natural
language which requires not the aid of speech to make itself
understood. Clasping her hands imploringly, she knelt at the feet of
the Indian woman, her conductress, kissed her dark hands, and bathed
them with her fast-flowing tears, while she pointed passionately to
the shore where lay the happy home from which she had been so suddenly
torn.
The squaw, though she evidently comprehended the meaning of her
imploring gestures, shook her head, and in plaintive earnest tone
replied in her own language that she must go with the canoes to the
other shore, and she pointed to the north as she spoke. She then
motioned to the young girl--the same that had been Catharine's
companion in the canoe--to bring a hunting-knife which was thrust into
one of the folds of the birch-bark of the wigwam. Catharine beheld the
deadly weapon in the hands of the Indian woman with a pang of agony as
great as if its sharp edge was already at her throat. So young--so
young, to die by a cruel bloody death! what had been her crime? How
should she find words to soften the heart of her murderess? The power
of utterance seemed denied. She cast herself on her knees and held up
her hands in silent prayer; not to the dreaded Indian woman, but to
Him who heareth the prayer of the poor destitute--who alone can order
the unruly wills and affections of men.
The squaw stretched forth one dark hand and grasped the arm of the
terror-stricken girl, while the other held the weapon of destruction.
With a quick movement she severed the thongs that bound the fettered
wrists of the pleading captive, and with a smile that seemed to light
up her whole face she raised her from her prostrate position, laid her
hand upon her young head and with an expression of good-humoured
surprise lifted the flowing tresses of her sunny hair and spread them
over the back of her own swarthy hand; then, as if amused by the
striking contrast, she shook down her own jetty-black hair and twined
a tress of it with one of the fair-haired girl's, then laughed till
her teeth shone like pearls within her red lips. Many were the
exclamations of childish wonder that broke from the other females as
they compared the snowy arm of the stranger with their own dusky
skins: it was plain that they had no intention of harming her, and by
degrees distrust and dread of her singular companions began in some
measure to subside.
The squaw motioned her to take a seat on a mat beside her, and gave
her a handful of parched rice and some deer's flesh to eat; but
Catharine's heart was too heavy. She was suffering from thirst; and on
pronouncing the Indian word for water, the young girl snatched up a
piece of birch-bark from the floor of the tent, and gathering the
corners together, ran to the lake, and soon returned with water in
this most primitive drinking-vessel, which she held to the lips of her
guest, and she seemed amused by the long, deep draught with which
Catharine slaked her thirst. Something like a gleam of hope came over
Catharine's mind as she marked the look of kindly feeling with which
she caught the young Indian girl regarding her, and she strove to
overcome the choking sensation that would from time to time rise to
her throat as she fluctuated between hope and fear. The position of
the Indian camp was so placed that it was quite hidden from the shore
and Catharine could neither see the mouth of the ravine, nor the steep
side of the mount that her brother and cousin were accustomed to
ascend and descend in their visits to the lake-shore, nor had she any
means of making a signal to them even if she had seen them on the
beach.
The long, anxious, watchful night passed, and soon after sunrise,
while the morning mists still hung over the lake, the canoes of the
Indians were launched, and long before noon they were in the mouth of
the river. Catharine's heart sunk within her as the fast receding
shores of the lake showed each minute fainter in the distance. At
mid-day they halted at a fine bend in the river, and landed on a small
open place where a creek flowing down through the woods afforded them
cool water; here they found several tents put up and a larger party
awaiting their return. The river was here a fine, broad, deep, and
tranquil stream; trees of many kinds fringed the edge, beyond was the
unbroken forest, whose depths had never been pierced by the step of
man--so thick and luxuriant was the vegetation that even the Indian
could hardly have penetrated through its dark, swampy glades: far as
the eye could reach, that impenetrable, interminable wall of verdure
stretched away into the far-off distance.
All the remainder of that sad day Catharine sat on the grass under a
shady tree, her eyes mournfully fixed on the slow-flowing waters, and
wondering at her own hard fate in being thus torn from her home and
its dear inmates. Bad as she had thought her separation from her
father and mother and her brothers, when she first left her home to
become a wanderer on the Rice Lake Plains, how much more dismal now
was her situation, snatched from the dear companions who had upheld
and cheered her on in all her sorrows! Now that she was alone with
none to love or cherish or console her, she felt a desolation of
spirit that almost made her forgetful of the trust that had hitherto
always sustained her in time of trouble or sickness. She looked round,
and her eye fell on the strange, unseemly forms of men and women who
cared not for her, and to whom she was an object of indifference or
aversion; she wept when she thought of the grief her absence would
occasion to Hector and Louis; the thought of their distress increased
her own.
The soothing quiet of the scene, with the low, lulling sound of the
little brook as its tiny wavelets fell tinkling over the mossy roots
and stones that impeded its course to the river, joined with fatigue
and long exposure to the sun and air, caused her at length to fall
asleep. The last rosy light of the setting sun was dyeing the waters
with a glowing tint when she awoke; a soft blue haze hung upon the
trees; the kingfisher and dragon-fly, and a solitary loon, were the
only busy things abroad on the river,--the first darting up and down
from an upturned root, near the water's edge, feeding its younglings;
the dragon-fly hawking with rapid whirring sound for insects; and the
loon, just visible from above the surface of the still stream, sailing
quietly on companionless like her who watched its movements.
The bustle of the hunters returning with game and fish to the
encampment roused many a sleepy brown papoose; the fires were renewed,
the evening was now preparing, and Catharine, chilled by the falling
dew, crept to the enlivening warmth. And here she was pleased at being
recognized by one friendly face; it was the mild, benevolent
countenance of the widow Snowstorm, who, with her three sons, came to
bid her to share their camp fire and food. The kindly grasp of the
hand and the beaming smile that were given by this good creature,
albeit she was ugly and ill-featured, cheered the sad captive's heart.
She had given her a cup of cold water and such food as her log-cabin
afforded; in return the good Indian took her to her wigwam and fed,
warmed, and cherished her with the loving-kindness of a Christian.
During all her sojourn in the Indian camp, the widow Snowstorm was as
a tender mother to her, drying her tears and showing her those little
acts of attention that even the untaught Indians know are grateful to
the sorrowful and destitute. Catharine often forgot her own griefs to
repay this worthy creature's kindness, by attending to her little
babe, and assisting her in her homely cookery or household work. She
knew that a selfish indulgence in sorrow would do her no good, and
after the lapse of some days she so well disciplined her own heart as
to check her tears, at least in the presence of the Indian women, and
to assume an air of comparative cheerfulness. Once she found Indian
words enough to ask the Indian widow to convey her back to the lake,
but she shook her head and bade her not think anything about it; and
added that in autumn, when the ducks came to the rice-beds, they
should all return, and then if she could obtain leave from the chief,
she would restore her to her lodge on the Plains; but signified to her
that patience was her only present remedy, and that submission to the
will of the chief was her wisest plan. Comforted by this vague
promise, Catharine strove to be reconciled to her strange lot and
still stranger companions. She was surprised at the want of curiosity
respecting her evinced by the Indians in the wigwam when she was
brought thither; they appeared to take little notice that a stranger,
and one so dissimilar to themselves, had been introduced into the
camp. Catharine learned, by long acquaintance with this people, that
an outward manifestation of surprise is considered a want of etiquette
and good-breeding, or rather a proof of weakness and childishness. The
women, like other females, are certainly less disposed to repress this
feeling of inquisitiveness than the men; and one of their great
sources of amusement, when Catharine was among them, was examining the
difference of texture and colour of her skin and hair, and holding
long consultations over them. The young girl and her mother, who had
paddled the canoe the day she was carried away to the island, showed
her much kindness in a quiet way. The young squaw was grand-daughter
to the old chief, and seemed to be regarded with considerable respect
by the rest of the women; she was a gay, lively creature, often
laughing, and seemed to enjoy an inexhaustible fund of good humour.
She extended her patronage to the young stranger by making her eat out
of her own bark-dish and sit beside her on her own mat. She wove a
chain for her of the sweet-scented grass with which the Indians
delight in adorning themselves, likewise in perfuming their lodges
with bunches or strewings upon the floor. She took great pains in
teaching her how to acquire the proper attitude of sitting, after the
fashion of the Eastern nations, which position the Indian women assume
when at rest in their wigwams.
The Indian name of this little damsel signified the "snow-bird." She
was, like that lively, restless bird, always flitting from tent to
tent, as garrulous and as cheerful too as that merry little herald of
the spring.
Once she seemed particularly attracted by Catharine's dress, which she
examined with critical minuteness, evincing great surprise at the cut
fringes of dressed doe-skin with which Indiana had ornamented the
border of the short jacket she had manufactured for Catharine. These
fringes she pointed out to the notice of the women, and even the old
chief was called in to examine the dress; nor did the leggings and
moccasins escape their observation. There was something mysterious
about her garments. Catharine was at a loss to imagine what caused
those deep guttural exclamations, somewhat between a grunt and a
groan, that burst from the lips of the Indians, as they one by one
examined her dress with deep attention. These people had recognized in
these things the peculiar fashion and handiwork of the young Mohawk
girl whom they had exposed to perish by hunger and thirst on Bare
Hill; and much their interest was excited to learn by what means
Catharine had become possessed of a dress wrought by the hand of one
whom they had numbered with the dead. Strange and mysterious did it
seem to them, and warily did they watch the unconscious object of
their wonder.
The knowledge she possessed of the language of her friend Indiana
enabled Catharine to comprehend a great deal of what was said; yet she
prudently refrained from speaking in the tongue of one to whose whole
nation she knew these people to be hostile. But she sedulously
endeavoured to learn their own peculiar dialect; and in this she
succeeded in an incredibly short time, so that she was soon able to
express her own wants, and converse a little with the females who were
about her.
She had noticed that among the tents there was one which stood apart
from the rest, and was only visited by the old chief and his
grand-daughter, or by the elder women. At first she imagined it was
some sick person, or a secret tent set apart for the worship of the
Great Spirit; but one day, when the chief of the people had gone up
the river hunting, and the children were asleep, the curtain of skins
was drawn back, and a female of singular and striking beauty appeared
in the open space in front. She was habited in a fine tunic of white
dressed doe-skin, richly embroidered with coloured beads and stained
quills; a full petticoat of dark cloth bound with scarlet descended to
her ankles; leggings fringed with deerskin, knotted with bands of
coloured quills, with richly wrought moccasins on her feet. On her
head she wore a coronet of scarlet and black feathers; her long
shining tresses of raven hair descended to her waist, each thick tress
confined with a braided band of quills, dyed scarlet and blue. She was
tall and well-formed; her large, liquid, dark eyes wore an expression
so proud and mournful that Catharine felt her own involuntarily fill
with tears as she gazed upon this singular being. She would have
approached nearer to her, but a spell seemed on her; she shrunk back
timid and abashed beneath that wild, melancholy glance. It was she,
the Beam of the Morning, the self-made widow of the young Mohawk,
whose hand had wrought so fearful a vengeance on the treacherous
destroyer of her brother. She stood there, at the tent-door, arrayed
in her bridal robes, as on the day when she received her death-doomed
victim. And when she recalled her fearful deed, shuddering with
horror, Catharine drew back and shrouded herself within the tent,
fearing again to fall under the eye of that terrible woman. She
remembered how Indiana had told her that since that fatal
marriage-feast she had been kept apart from the rest of the tribe,--she
was regarded by her people as a sacred character, entitled the
_Great Medicine,_ a female _brave,_ a being whom they regarded
with mysterious reverence. She had made this great sacrifice for the
good of her nation. Indiana said it was believed among her own folk
that she had loved the young Mohawk passionately, as a tender woman
loves the husband of her youth; yet she had not hesitated to sacrifice
him with her own hand. Such was the deed of the Indian heroine--and
such were the virtues of the unregenerated Greeks and Romans!