“Red, red, is my hatchet,The long knives have gone home;Red men, yes red men,The pale face is laid low.Then pass round the scalps,And loud let us yellThe cry which will tell our friendsWe are avenged.They come across the big lake,They say we are friends,They get strong, they rise up,They take away our lands.Then pass round the scalps,And loud let us yellThe cry which will tell our friendsWe are avenged.And never while sun shines,Or river runs here,Will we bury the hatchet,Till the long knives are gone.Then pass round the scalps,And loud let us yellThe cry which will tell our friendsWe are avenged.By the bones of our fathers,We swear to this oath;And die at the stake,Let him who recants.Chorus—Then pass round the scalps,And loud let us yellThe cry which will tell our friendsWe are avenged.”
“Red, red, is my hatchet,The long knives have gone home;Red men, yes red men,The pale face is laid low.Then pass round the scalps,And loud let us yellThe cry which will tell our friendsWe are avenged.They come across the big lake,They say we are friends,They get strong, they rise up,They take away our lands.Then pass round the scalps,And loud let us yellThe cry which will tell our friendsWe are avenged.And never while sun shines,Or river runs here,Will we bury the hatchet,Till the long knives are gone.Then pass round the scalps,And loud let us yellThe cry which will tell our friendsWe are avenged.By the bones of our fathers,We swear to this oath;And die at the stake,Let him who recants.Chorus—Then pass round the scalps,And loud let us yellThe cry which will tell our friendsWe are avenged.”
While this was acting, Rolfe and Earthquake had remained passive spectators, yet so vivid was the scene, that they had already become perfectly acquainted with the extent of the massacre, for the wild dance, the bleeding scalps, and even the condition of Gay Foreman were but too visible. Still pinioned, and gagged, and bruised by being dragged up the rocks, with her hair dishevelled, and eyes streaming with scalding tears, she lay spectatress of the scene before her, unable to speak or move.
Is there a human bosom callous to the appeals of pity? Yes, even in civilized life we meet them every day, then do not wonder that Gay Foreman, though a child whose every thought was innocence, and whose beauty was as variable, yet striking, as the ever changing hues of our own summer sunsets, should in the breasts of the savages, have awakened no feelings of compassion.
Her agony was so intense, that she was nearly insensible, and it seemed that her sufferings were about to be ended, for one of the Indians, tall, thin, and of gaunt visage, excited above his companions, stepped from the ring and tangled his fingers in her long dark hair. She shuddered, and looked imploringly in his face.
At this sight, Rolfe forgetting himself, distance, and every thing else, threw up his rifle, cocked it, and was in the act of firing, when Earthquake rudely caught his arm, crying, “hold, are you mad?”
The fiend now shone in the face of the savage, the tomahawk was raised, but, ere it fell, another warrior rushed to her rescue, and Gay was preserved, whether for a better or worse fate, will be learned in the sequel.
Having witnessed the escape of the captive from immediate death, Earth observed, “now, Rolfe, had you fired, your ball would never have reached those cliffs, and its report would have been a signal for their flight, and her certain destruction.”
“But, my dear Earth,” said Rolfe, “how could I look on unmoved.”
“My good fellow, the best intentions often produce the worst effects, when acted upon in the heat of zeal. Remember, keep cool if you can, and let your judgment act in the hour of danger.” He then pressed his head with his hands, as if suffering under intensity of thought, and continued “it is not an entirely hopeless case; we must go in pursuit of them; so fair and young a creature must not writhe at the stake.”
“With all my heart,” said Rolfe, “let us go; quick, how?”
“It matters not how, we must go,—poor girl, were I to leave her alone in her present situation”—here he could say no more, for the tears flowed in a stream, down his rugged and weather beaten face. Is was a lovely sight to see a rough hunter of the west, whose appearance indicated him a stranger to feeling, thus overcome by sympathy for the distressed.
Rolfe, who had hitherto looked on his companion simply as a hunter, bold, frank, and daring, when he saw him thus affected, knew not what to think; and was about to inquire the cause of his emotion, when Earthquake requested him to be silent. His grief was of too holy a nature to be disturbed. Oh! what a flood of recollections must have called forth that gush of feeling.
Descending the hill, they pursued their way to the river, still keeping an eye upon the Indians. Earthquake wiping the tears from his eyes with the cuff of his jacket, observed, “my conduct must seem strange to you, Rolfe. I have been in these woods a long time, and I have seen more than I ever tell of—I once had a father, and a mother, and sis”—but the tears again started, and he added, “let us drop it; perhaps another time,” and in silence they threaded the woods until they stood on the river bank.
Earthquake was now himself again, and he said, “come, Rolfe, their frolic is nearly over; see, they are loosing their captive, and will soon be moving. We must intercept them when they come down from the cliffs, and follow on, watching our chance. Will you venture?”
“How, swim it?”
“Yes, we can do nothing else; we can lash together a couple of logs to lay our rifles and clothes on; they will keep dry, and we must swim along, resting upon them. This is the only hope, for we might search for a week, and not find a boat.”
“Then let us go to work; I willingly risk my life in such a cause.”
A short time sufficed to prepare the rude raft, and the hunters having stripped, and placed upon it their rifles and clothes, it was seen gliding noiselessly forward to the opposite bank.
“The western borders were with crimson spread,The sun descending looked all flaming red;He thought good manners bound him to inviteThe strange youth to be his guest that night.'Tis true, coarse diet, and a short repast,He said, were weak inducements to the tasteOf one so nicely bred, and so unused to fast:—But what plain fare his cabin could afford,A hearty welcome at a homely board,Was freely his; and, to supply the rest,An honest meaning, and an open breast.”DRYDEN.
“The western borders were with crimson spread,The sun descending looked all flaming red;He thought good manners bound him to inviteThe strange youth to be his guest that night.'Tis true, coarse diet, and a short repast,He said, were weak inducements to the tasteOf one so nicely bred, and so unused to fast:—But what plain fare his cabin could afford,A hearty welcome at a homely board,Was freely his; and, to supply the rest,An honest meaning, and an open breast.”DRYDEN.
Richard Rolfe was a high-toned and chivalrous Virginian, born and reared in Petersburg, a beautiful town lying within the county of Dinwiddie, and stretching along for a mile or more on the southern bank of the river Appomattox. An orphan in early life, he was educated under the guidance of an uncle, and completed a course of studies at William and Mary college, at that time, and, I dare say at the present, the best institution within our country for the sons of Virginia.
The law, as a matter of course, was selected as his future pursuit, for parents thought then, as they do now, that every child who is educated, must be bred to that profession. Scarcely had he commenced this pursuit before his uncle died, leaving him pennyless and alone in the world. Yet, destitute as he seemed, he was of great promise, and his friends, looking far into the future, predicted his advancement to the highest honours of his native state.
There is one requisite, without which, no man in the practice of the law can arrive at any degree of eminence, and this is untiring perseverance. I care not what his talents may be; there is no exception. We sometimes, though rarely, meet with instances which seem to be exceptions, and they indeed are beautifully bright. They dazzle, and we are delighted; yet, likeignes fatui, which charm the beholder, they last not. No—they endure not unto the end, and however brilliant their efforts, they are distanced in the long race of life, by far inferior, yet more laborious competitors.
Yet Rolfe reckoned not on this important, though common-place truth, but endowed with many estimable qualities, commenced his profession, flushed with hope, and sanguine of success. The world said of him that he was good-looking; yet his particular appearance, his mode of dress, the colour of his hair or eyes, with other minutiae generally deemed all-important by novelists, I never knew; so, let them pass; he was of good family, and had received the best education the country could afford. Generous to a fault, ardent in temperament, and glowing with youth, there would at times burst forth feelings and opinions which characterized him as a being of a high order. Yet he was too sensitive, with opinions of principle too refined, for the practical sphere in which he was destined to act; so that he often deemed the world selfish and dishonest, because its views did not coincide with his own; imagined a friend cold and unfeeling, because he was less ardent than himself, and often conceived himself slighted when no offence was intended; with all this, frank in his manner, and ever ready to forgive, he was endowed with many elements of true greatness, but what is a rare occurrence, he possessed them in too great a quantity, for he wanted that power which would enable him to control and regulate them.
Such was Richard Rolfe, when he commenced the practice of the law, and such was he, when fate threw him in the company of a gentle being, who, unwittingly to herself, initiated him into the mysteries of that delicious passion, which, Burns says, “in spite of bookworm philosophy, and acid disappointment, I pronounce to be nature's dearest gift, our greatest blessing here below.” He loved, and what southerner, who has arrived at the age of twenty, has not?
“The cold in clime are cold in blood,Their love can scarce deserve the name;But his was like the lava flood,That boils in Ætna's breast of flame.”
“The cold in clime are cold in blood,Their love can scarce deserve the name;But his was like the lava flood,That boils in Ætna's breast of flame.”
He loved—the expression seems cold when used to characterize a passion deep, ardent, and intense, as was that of Rolfe—and still she was neither a sylph, nor a fairy, nor an angel, but merely flesh and blood, cast in nature's prettiest mould—“a sweet, sonsie, bonnie lass.” Her eyes were hazel, and she was a gentle, quiet little creature, well calculated to rob you of your peace, without your ever dreaming even for a moment that she intended it. Her hair—a poet would have called it auburn—was rich, and glossy, and fell curling and clustering beautifully down her shoulders, forming a rich drapery for the loveliest face my eyes ever beheld. A face, not brilliant, nor splendid, nor even pretty; no, these are not the epithets which would have characterized it; but it was lovely, and gentleness and purity held dominion there, and cheerfulness often came, and still had it been wanting, she would not have been melancholy.
As I said before, she was a quiet, gentle creature, and seemed unfit for the cold and selfish world in which she was destined to play her part. With these qualities, she was intellectual, without being too much book learned, kind without seeming to intend it, and artless without affectation. Not a dog but read her countenance aright, and would follow her until he obtained his dinner; not a servant, but loved her more than any member of her family.
She was not a showy girl, and yet a stranger would have admired her without knowing why, and though placed in a room graced by beauty and fashion alone, and in the most retired part of it, a place she always sought, he could scarcely have passed without inquiring who she was.
Perhaps the charm lay in her retiring and timid manner. Her entrance into the world was like the mountain daisy, “scarce glinting forth amid the storm,” or it was like the first rose of spring, half blown, which comes out blushing at its own appearance, and nestling for concealment among the leaves which surround it. She was sweet fifteen—the spirit of love—whom to see, was to love, and who could not live without loving; playful as a child, with a disposition warm and confiding; and Rolfe loved her; she was, indeed, “the ocean to the river of his thoughts.” And did she love him? “She never told her love.”
Yet they had often walked together upon the rocky bank, which, on either side, bounds the river at the western extremity of the town, and had during their excursions, inhaled the fragrance of the woodbine, wooing with its petals the summer breeze, and beheld it wreathed in festoons, locking its tendrils one within another, and forming for the little islets a rich drapery. Often had they seen the mysterious love-vine creeping over the tops of the shrubs which rose along their path, or weaving itself among their tender twigs; often had they gathered the golden vine, and from it demanded their future fortunes. They had stood upon the towering rocks, which upon either side curbed the rushing river, and listening to the dashing torrent, had remained, charmed by its music, until the last rays of the setting sun warned them of the hour for departure. These, to young hearts, are dangerous things. Now, did she love him? Really, I know not; yet think you she could do otherwise, often meeting with Rolfe, gifted above his fellow men, and aware how much his happiness depended upon herself? He was poor, and on that account she was required not to love him, and that she might not encourage, she affected reserve. Formality now presided over all their meetings, which were less frequent than when first he knew her; yet Rolfe loved deeply, and would sometimes brook her reserve, and the cold glances of her parents, by repeating his visits. Although no smile of welcome greeted his entrance, a gleam of joy sometimes shone for an instant from the dark eyes of her he loved, and then again, it wasyes, sir, andno, sir, to every question; and rigid ceremony prevailed during their meetings. Yet there were moments, when, overcome by the urbanity of his manner, or fascinated by the glowing powers of his conversation, formality made her exit, and sunshine gleamed over the little party. Then sparkled the glad thoughts of youth, then burst forth the untrammelled opinions of his refined nature, bright and dazzling as the gleam of rockets; or, if his thoughts soared from this world into the regions of speculation, they shone forth as beautiful and startling as the forked lightning which sports of a dark night 'mid summer clouds. Or, if he rather chose to tell a tale of tenderness, or of suffering, and thereby touch the chords of the human heart, spell-bound, his hearers followed whither he led, and only ceased to follow when he released them. Although such was his power, and such may have been the impression left, yet it was an equal chance, that at his next visit to the family, he would find them all icy cold.
It may well be conceived that Rolfe's present frame of mind was but ill suited to the study of the law; moreover, he was too restless and impatient to serve that regular apprenticeship through which all must pass who come forward relying for success solely on their own resources; which consists in unceasing attention and apparent devotion to business, when one has nothing to do; which implies incessant labour, without present benefit, for future and contingent good.
Time rolled on, and Rolfe became still poorer; unsuccessful in his profession, and apparently slighted by her he loved, he became gloomy and unhappy. The glow of early life was fast departing; his feelings were withering under the blight of mortification, and the world for him had no joys. To alleviate his sufferings, he courted dissipation, and neglected his studies; became reserved in his manner towards his friends, and consequently conceived them cold and unfeeling; when, being alone in the world, he resolved to leave the scene of his unhappiness, and seek a home in the western wilds.
This resolution was scarcely taken, before he communicated it to many of his companions. They laughed at it as the whim of a man in love, yet he was fixed in his determination, and a few days sufficing to make his little preparations, he set off, having been absent for several weeks, to gaze for the last time, on her he loved. Slowly, and with a full heart, he moved forward, and approaching the house of her father, discovered her in the porch, nursing her flowers, and twining into wreaths the woodbine, which, full blown, hung clustering in rich luxuriance above her. The last rays of the setting sun yet lingered on her form, which was partly concealed by the sweet foliage which surrounded her; and Rolfe thought he had never seen her so beautiful. Then there passed over his mind the reflection that the hues of the dolphin are brightest when it dies, and he added, “she too is loveliest when I leave her;” and, moving on, he was soon at her side. Upon discovering him, she turned, and with great gentleness, though in a slightly upbraiding tone, said, “Oh, Richard! why so long absent? You know not how much I have missed you.”
“A thousand thanks for those kind words,” said Rolfe, pressing her hand affectionately, “tell me truly, have you wished to see me?”
“Certainly,” said she, “for I have been lonely and wanted some body to talk with me.”
“Somebody,” repeated Rolfe, “then you cared not who?”
“No; we have had company enough, and, could numbers interest, I should never be lonely; but it is not every one whose conversation pleases.”
“Come, dearest,” said Rolfe, “you are grave this evening; why so?”
“No,” replied she, “I am not, and if you think so, it is your long absence which has caused it.”
“Pardon me, my love,” said Rolfe, “for though absent, my heart and thoughts have both been with you; not an hour passes but I in thought give half to you, and I would be oftener with you, but that I fear to trust myself.”
“Fear,—what?” said she.
“Why, that I shall love you more than I wish.”
“Then you do not wish to love me?” said she, inquiringly.
“I did not say that,” replied Rolfe, “although I think I should be happier if I had never known you.”
“And would you forget our acquaintance?” said she; “forget that which has been to me the happiest circumstance of my life? Richard, I have never given you cause to be unhappy.”
“My love, I mean not to chide,” said Rolfe, “but you know our attachment is an unfortunate one. Your parents always regard me as an unwelcome visiter.”
“Come, let us walk into the parlour,” said she, “there is no one there;” and in a few moments they were seated on the sofa, when raising her handkerchief, she pressed it to her eyes in silence.
“Come,” said Rolfe, “taking her hand, tell me, why so grave this evening, has any thing farther occurred to make you unhappy?”
“No,” said she, “but you know there are moments in which sadness sometimes steals over us without a cause—it comes like twilight, following the close of a summer day.”
“It is a beautiful comparison, love,” replied Rolfe, “but twilight is always succeeded by night. Do I read aright our fate?” “The present is dark,” said she, sighing, “and we cannot read the future.”
“And is the present dark to thee, love,” said Rolfe, “to thee, embodying within thyself all that is pure and bright, in human nature?”
“Hush, Richard,” said she, “could I be, you would make me vain, for you love me, and therefore think me better than I am. It is that which makes you speak so extravagantly.”
“Never mind that,” said Rolfe—“come, tell me, is there any hope that your parents will consent to our wishes?”
She blushed, and casting her eyes on the floor, was silent.
“So much for being poor,” said Rolfe, as a shade passed over his features, and he pressed his eyes with his hand, as if suffering with thought.
“Come, Richard,” said she, aroused by the attitude he had assumed, “please, don't do so; all may yet be well.”
“Will you marry me without their consent, at some future day?” inquired he.
“No,” said she, “I cannot do that, I should never forgive myself if I did, for they love me, and if they err, it is in doing what they think will advance my happiness.”—
“Then you will not run away with me?”
“No:—and never mention that again unless you wish me to like you less.”
“Then our dreams of happiness are over,” said Rolfe, “and this is our last meeting.”
At this speech, she turned her eyes full upon Rolfe, and gazed searchingly in his face, and when she read in his countenance that his resolution was taken, she became agitated, and said, “please don't say so; why not love me, and visit me as you have always done; I will never love another.”
“My purpose is taken,” he replied, “I shall ever love you dearly as I now do, and, should fortune smile, will at some future day return to claim you as my first, and only love. But in a day or two I shall leave for the west.”
At the mention of that word, a shudder passed over her frame, for in her mind it was associated with many stories of Indian massacre, and she said, “O! something is ever occurring to make me wretched. I had almost as lieve hear of your being tomahawked, as of your going to the west.” When she had made the remark, she turned her eyes on Rolfe, and on meeting his, her countenance was instantly changed, and she eagerly cried, “Oh, pardon me, pardon me, I did not mean it,” then laying her hands caressingly upon his, and looking imploringly in his face, she said, “forgive me that speech; will you, will you forget it? I am ever doing something wrong, though I do not intend it, now promise me, will you forget it?”
“Yes, most certainly,” said Rolfe, who had remained silent, charmed by her mode of atoning for a thoughtless speech. And that speech he had promised to forget. Yet the exaction of that promise had stamped it on his mind never to be effaced. No, never can he forget the slight and girlish form which prayed his forgiveness, never forget that countenance so full of tenderness and regret; no, never forget the thrill which ran over him when her light fingers touched his; never forget how each auburn lock seemed to woo his pardon; never forget how her dark eyes, full of affection, by their every glance expressed her penitence. Thou hast promised to forget, yet often in future years shall that scene rise before thee, whether thou mayest be standing above the roar of some cataract, gazing on some beautiful landscape, beholding the ever varying tints of a golden sunset, or reposing after the fatigues of battle. Yes, often, in the darkest hours of night, whether on the prairie, in the forest, or in a cabin, shall it rise before thee, and in all its loveliness shalt thou hug it to thy soul. Yes, it shall be to thee like an oasis in the desert, like a sail to the wrecked mariner, like hope to the criminal. Yes, time after time in future years shall it rise before thee, as green, as fresh, and as vivid, as though it were but the date of yesterday.
The above scene was little calculated to strengthen Rolfe in his determination, and a continuance of it might effectually have changed his purpose; but a step was heard, and her father, upon entering, found her cold and reserved, and apparently uninterested by the company of Rolfe.
After the common salutations of the day were over, she said, “father, Mr. Rolfe says he is going to move to the West, but I cannot believe it—do you?”
“I think not, my daughter,” was the reply, “for surely no one would venture there, in its present new and unsettled condition.”
“I shall leave in a few days,” said Rolfe. His remark was unnoticed, save by her he loved; she gazed at him for some time with searching eyes; the conversation then took another turn, and soon after he arose, wished them a good evening, and retired. Though struggling to conceal his emotion, his embarrassment was plainly visible, so much so, as to be the subject of remark after his departure.
“Father, I fear Mr. Rolfe is going, he seems so unhappy.”
“I hope not, my daughter, for, with perseverance, he will become an ornament to his profession, and although at present I should not like him as a son-in-law, yet I had rather he would not leave us.”
At the word, “son-in-law,” his daughter's cheeks were suffused with blushes, and running away, she was soon engaged in some household occupation; yet her heart was sad, and often did she detail to her mother Mr. Rolfe's remarks, and wonder if he was going to the West.
Having retired to his lodgings, he threw himself on a bed, where he remained for some time absorbed in thought, when suddenly assuming an energy of character, he arose, strode several times across the room, laughed wildly, and then suddenly curbing himself, his face grew dark as he said, “even she believes it the whim of a boy.” A shudder ran over him, his soul seemed wrung with anguish, and he added, “it is a sad duty to say farewell to friends we love, when we think we shall meet them, O! never.” Then pausing a moment, he continued, “O! poverty! poverty!—how often hast thou been sketched in some humble sphere, as fascinating in the extreme—and lovely art thou in the abstract;—but oh! let him tell who has felt thy gripe, how thy fangs creep into the soul, torturing it, and destroying its powers of action; or how, with thy cold, icy hands, thou freezest up the feelings, making this earth a hell!”
“Educated in a style unsuitable to my fortune; called into a class of society, whose expenses I cannot afford; brought up to a profession, whose profits, for some years at least, will not buy me bread, starvation, with her thin, lean, devouring look, sits gazing at me. My happiness, too, dependent on a girl whose parents slight me because I ampoor!O! mine uncle! why did you not give me a profession suitable to my fortune? Had you but made me a mechanic, though never so humble, my thoughts would not have been exalted, and I should have been happy. But to be tacked on to the fag end of a profession, to spend my days lounging about the doors of a county court, wrangling over petty strifes, while my soul sickens with disgust, these, O! most noble profession, are thy duties. But I will away—I will leave my native land, and become a wanderer in the wide world,—yes, my resolution is taken.”
It is easy to conceive the state of mind, and the bitterness of feeling which gave rise to the above soliloquy, and I deem it not exaggerated, under the circumstances just described. Intense suffering often produces delirium, and that of the wildest kind; and while the mind labours under it, no language can be too strong for the expression of feeling.
Early on the following morning, a servant was holding at Rolfe's door a fine horse; a light pair of saddle-bags were thrown over the saddle, and the master appeared equipped for a journey. So easy and dignified was his deportment, so manly his carriage, that you would never have suspected that he was about to leave the home of his fathers. For there was no wavering of purpose, no flow of feeling to announce his departure; calm and unmoved, he was about to place his foot in the stirrup, when his dog Carlo, running and yelping playfully, jumped up against him, and commenced licking his hands, as if asking permission to go. This silent tribute of affection could not be withstood, patting him on the head, Rolfe wept like a child. “No, Carlo, I will not make thee a partaker of my misfortunes, the fate of an exile shall not be thine;” then shaking his weeping servant by the hand, “take this dog,” said he, “when I am gone, to my former friend Lucerne, and tell him to keep him, as a gift from me, and also tell him that, should all the world prove false, Carlo will remain true to his master.” Then spurring his horse he cantered off, threading street after street, until he found himself on the western highway, where we must leave him to pursue his journey.
His departure created quite a sensation, and for a time shed a gloom over the circle of his acquaintances. All his good qualities were called up and enumerated over and over again; his foibles forgotten. He was frank, manly, and generous. Then came speculations as to the cause of his leaving, and all recollected that he was poor, and that his profession yielded him nothing; and then all regretted his departure, and, were he now here, all would have assisted him.
But of all the crowd which entertained for him so many kind feelings, she who felt most, said least. Not a syllable in reference to him she loved was ever uttered; an indifferent spectator would never have imagined that she knew him. Yet to those who knew her, although she appeared gay and cheerful, her gaiety seemed forced. For so silently did she listen when Rolfe's good qualities were mentioned, that her soul seemed to drink in his praises, and her guitar, which once emitted sounds as light and playful as her own buoyant feelings, was now as sad as the heart of its mistress, for when she touched it, so plaintive were its strains, that they seemed to sound the knell of departing joys.
Several months elapsed, and no tidings were heard of Rolfe, when, at the close of a beautiful summer's day, a solitary and jaded traveller might be seen in the wilds of Kentucky, urging his weary horse along a wide path, which led on to the little village of Bowling Green. He was distant from it several miles, and night was shedding abroad her sombre hues, when, approaching him by the same path, walked a hunter of the west. He was strong and athletic in figure, and on his shoulder, supported by his left arm, was carelessly thrown a heavy rifle. A rough hunting shirt, fastened around his middle by a cincture or girth, from which gleamed forth a large and well sharpened Spanish knife, formed his upper garment, while his lower limbs were encased in leggins, which fitted with great neatness and regularity. His beard was the growth of many moons, and served to impart to him a ferocity of aspect, which accorded but little with his character.
But since this encounter, casual as it may seem, was destined to exert a great influence on Rolfe's after life, it is proper that we should detail the circumstances which accompanied it. The meeting between a traveller and a hunter, on the frontiers, has so much in it characteristic of that peculiar class of persons, who, from the time of earliest settlements, have been the pioneers of our western wilderness, that one who has once witnessed, can never forget it. In manner there is so much apparent familiarity, that you are apt to be displeased. But when you reflect that it is the offspring of the kindest feelings, and springs most generally from the purest fountains of the heart, you are gratified; for myself, of all welcomes, give me the hearty shake of a western hunter; for if you measure his good will towards you by the strength of his gripe, he never leaves you dissatisfied on that point.
The hunter wound his way along the path until he came directly up to Rolfe, when he eyed him for a moment from head to foot, and thus addressed him:—“Stranger, give us your hand, I'm glad to see you; don't see a man every day in these parts.”
Rolfe was at first disconcerted, and disposed to recoil from the rude familiarity of the hunter, but there was so much frankness in his manner, that he extended his hand, and thanked him for his kindness.
“You seem a stranger in thesecapes?” continued the hunter.
“Yes, sir,” replied Rolfe, “but I hope I shall not remain so, inasmuch as I came out with an intention of settling.”
“Give us your hand again for that,” and he grappled it like a vice; “we want men here awful bad; we have seen hard times, but I fear worse are coming. There was a whole family murdered just down here, a few nights ago.”
Rolfe started at the tidings; the scenes in which he seemed destined to act, flitted before him, but suppressing his feelings, he asked, “by whom?” “And who should it be but the Ingens?—I got upon their track right soon, and made a light through one of 'em.”
“Shot him?”
“Yes, look at the bore of that gun,” passing it to him. “Don't you think 'twould make a light through him? And he don't know to this day who it was that did it, but come, it's getting late, where are you going to camp to night?”
“That is more than I can tell,” replied Rolfe, “I did hope to get on as far as Bowling Green.”
“Oh! that will never do! 'tis too far; come, draw in your horns, and take the back track. The trail from here to Bowling Green is a bad one, and I do not think you can follow it; moreover, I have a friend a short mile from here, and what little he has, you are as welcome to as a brother. It is right rough living, but with a hearty welcome, and a good appetite, I should think you might get along, come, you can tell us the news from the old settlements.”
Rolfe, who was fatigued and weary, accepted the stranger's invitation with as much frankness as it was given; and proceeded with him to the cabin of his friend, where he met with much hospitality, and passed the night in telling them of “their kin1in the old country,” or else listening to hunting stories, with the more exciting details of frontier warfare. Several days passed, and still Rolfe remained, charmed by the bold daring, the manly frankness, and lofty independence of his companion. Time wore on, they became inseparable, and the accomplished and talented Rolfe became a hunter of the West.
1See note B.
That he should have become strongly attached to hunting, an occupation so little in unison with his former habits, seems at the first view a strange annunciation, yet such he became, and such, from the nature of his situation, was the pursuit most likely to be followed. Having left home sick at heart, with blighted hopes, and feelings mortified, he arrived in Kentucky at a time when a frontier war was daily apprehended. A hunter's life was the life of a warrior, for he knew not where he might meet an enemy. Rolfe had no plan sketched out for the future, and his sole object was to forget the past.
In this situation, the first person with whom he forms an acquaintance, possesses in an eminent degree some of the nobler virtues of our nature; charms him with tales of border warfare, of lofty daring and bold conception, describes to him as a hunter only can, the high, yet pleasing excitement produced by being alone in the wild woods, where danger is known to be abroad. The effect of these things upon the mind of Rolfe may be conceived, when, rather more than a year after this time, the two hunters who are crossing the Ohio, may be identified with the persons we have been describing.
Rolfe and Earthquake, for so I shall designate the latter, having succeeded in passing the river, hurried on their clothes, and were soon ready for a march. Landing at the base of the limestone cliffs, upon which the Indians were encamped, they lost sight of them, and being unable to ascend the bank at that point, proceeded down the river until a more favourable ascent presented itself. Then seeking the woods, they cautiously crept along until they reached a large tree situated on the edge of a ravine, which commanded a tolerable view of the ledge of rocks, and there they resolved to await the approach of the Indians. They were led to do this chiefly because the tree, being hollow, offered them a hiding place in case it should become necessary.
Scarcely had they taken their position, when a light was seen moving about on the rocks, and soon after, an Indian, bearing aloft a torch, descended, apparently lighting the way to his companions.—Then came another, forcing along, and at the same time assisting, his beautiful and unfortunate captive, and then came the remainder of the gang, each following on in Indian file. Arriving at the base of the rocks, and gathering together, they consulted for a moment as to their route, then starting off, led the way directly towards the hunters.
When this plan was adopted, Rolfe and Earthquake, who had expected them to take a different direction, found themselves so near to the party, that retreat was impossible, and adopting the only alternative which presented itself, they concealed themselves in the cavity of the tree, and there awaited the issue.
As the light shot upwards with a vivid glare, “by heaven, Earth,” said Rolfe, “how the past springs to life at seeing that face; the girl of whom you have heard me so often speak, was very much like her.”
“Hush,” said Earth, “or you will have a tomahawk about you, afore you know it; hush, don't breathe, they are coming.”
The torch which they bore shed abroad a flickering light, showing at one moment every object with distinctness, the next, veiling them in darkness; and their heavy steps as they dragged their feet through the leaves, were heard approaching. The sobs of the captive, with the harsh language of the captors, as they urged her along, caused a shudder to thrill through the frames of the hunters, and Rolfe wrung his hands in agony, saying, “O! Earth! let us try them.”
“Hush,” said Earth, “we are gone if they come to the left of this tree; they come; we are gone! we are gone!”
The Indian who bore the torch was now within a few feet of them—another step, and the light must have shone in the cavity of the tree—another step, and discovery would have been inevitable. His foot was raised, his body advanced, but before the step was taken, the deadly rattle of a snake was heard, proceeding directly from the root of the tree. At the sound of the rattle, Rolfe started and drew up his feet; Earth pinched him into silence, and the Indian, recoiling at the well known sound, jumped back, pronouncing the word “achgook! achgook!” meaning, “snake! snake!” then filing off, he made a circuit to the right. It was a moment of wild and fearful excitement, as the Indians each approached the tree, and filed off. Death seemed already to have encircled the hunters in his icy fetters, yet the last of the band passed on, and all was safe.—“Thank God,” said Earth, “we are still alive.”
“I don't know that,” said Rolfe, shuddering; “where is that snake?”
“There is no snake here.”
“I certainly heard one.”
“No;—don't you recollect my killing a snake yesterday, and cutting off the rattles?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I was the snake just now, I made the noise. There are many of the Ingen tribes who will not disturb a rattle-snake; they say it is as harmless as a lamb, for that it never attacks, and even when about to strike in its own defence, always gives warning that you may get out of its way. On this account, they avoid it, and when found, turn from its path. This was all that saved us just now.”
“My thanks to you, Earth, it was a bright thought. Is there not something noble about the rattle snake. I like the motto, ‘don't tread on me.’”
“Come,” said Earth, stepping out of the tree, and peeping round, “there they go, eight in number; see those hindmost how they are loaded with plunder. Rolfe, I fear we can do nothing.”
“But we must do something, Earth; let us follow on and wait a chance.”
“Recollect,” said Earth, “we are in their country, and must be cautious:—we may follow them through the night, for their torch will be of more service to us, than to them; yet, when morning comes, if we have done nothing, we must return.”
“To spread the tidings?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“But, Earth,” said Rolfe, “they profess to be at peace, and surely would not add another crime to the one just committed.”
“Yes, they will do any thing,” said Earth, “never put any trust in one if you can help it.”
“Well, Earth, tell me where do you think they are going?”
“That is more than I can tell,” said Earth, “you know that large numbers are constantly gathering upon the Wabash to see their new made prophet, and these may be hurrying on there, like a parcel of 'coon dogs on a warm trail. But this looks mightily like some of Tecumseh's work.”
“How? What do you mean by Tecumseh's work?”
“Why, I mean I never knowed any one of his band to leave any thing unfinished. I've known 'Cumseh a long time; I knowed him when he was a mere boy, in the old ‘Black Snake's’ time. I have set for him many a night on his paths, and watched for him like I would for a deer at a lick. That was a good while ago, Rolfe, but he used to make his mark then mightily like this one we've seen to night.”
“Whom do you mean by the old ‘Black Snake?’” inquired Rolfe.
“Who? Mad Anthony to be sure; why, Rolfe, you don't know any thing. The Ingens called him the ‘Black Snake,’ because, although they kept a sharp look out, he would crawl upon their lands before they knowed it.”
“Well, where is Tecumseh?” said Rolfe, “tell me that, for I think it probable they are going to his camp.”
“There is no knowing,” said Earth, “I hear he is always moving about in spots;—but what say you, shall we go or not?”
“Go on certainly,” said Rolfe, “we must follow them, at least for a time.”
“Be it so,” said Earth, at the same time following on. “The way I'll use up one or more of them will be quite alarming.”
“Come, Earth, do not follow their example;—let us have no more cold blooded butchery. If there is the least hope of rescuing the prisoner, I will help you to cut them into mincemeat; but to kill only one, when no possible good can result from it, I will not agree.”
“I used to hate this business, Rolfe, as much as you do, but they would make me git used to it. I've got a grudge agin 'em of mighty long standing. I once had a mother.” There was something in the pronunciation of the last word which precluded reply, not another syllable was uttered, but, darting from tree to tree, they began to move on in pursuit of the Indians.
For some time the pursuit was a silent one. The excitement which had been produced on the Indians in the early part of the evening, had died away, and sullenly they were moving forward to their camp. No sound was heard but the stifled sobs of the captive, and the rustling of the leaves as they marched along.
Rolfe had filed off to some distance, in order to get a side view of their movements, while Earthquake followed immediately on their trail. For some time this was the order of pursuit; then the Indians began to move more lazily, and one of their band, tall and rawboned, fatigued with the weight he was carrying, lagged behind, until he was separated by a considerable interval from his companions. Earthquake was not unmindful of this circumstance, nor of another, that he was the same who had tangled his fingers in the hair of the captive; and he was soon creeping after him, as a setter does, when he is winding birds. The torch gave an irregular light, yet by its dim glare, as it shot upward, Rolfe beheld Earthquake, but a few feet behind his intended victim, who stooping forward to support his burden, was lazily drawing himself along. He saw Earthquake cautiously draw from the cincture which confined his hunting shirt a knife, which glittered as the light fell upon it. Shuddering with emotion he turned his head from the scene. Yet a moment and no noise, still another, and all was quiet; turning to see what had happened, he beheld the Indian moving along at his accustomed gait, while Earthquake was no where to be seen. He searched the woods in every direction, yet nothing could he discover; several minutes elapsed, when looking far ahead of the Indian, between him and his gang, yet directly in his path, he saw a head peep round from a large tree, then quickly draw back. The Indian approached, the light seemed for a moment fainter, Rolfe heard the ripping of a knife, and as the light again glanced forth, he beheld Earthquake with the quivering body of the Indian in his arms, easing it gently to the ground to prevent the noise of a fall. The legs contracted, and kicked several times with the spasms of death, and then not a muscle moved. Earthquake withdrawing his knife, wiped it several times on his hunting shirt, examined its edge, and returned it to its sheath; then taking the bundle which the Indian had been carrying, he secreted it at a short distance, and continued the pursuit.
Though the execution of this plan was as quick as its conception, yet Rolfe, without Earthquake's being aware of it, had been a silent looker on. Paralyzed by the scene, he was for a moment at a loss how to act; it had been so cool, so silent, so effectual, and perpetrated withal in a boundless forest, at the dark hour of night. There was no sudden burst of passion, not a muscle had been distorted, but with the same quiet ease that he would have butchered a bear, did he go through the ceremony. Rolfe was lost in thought while considering how he should act, for his soul revolted at what he had seen, and he continued almost mechanically the pursuit, while Earthquake gliding along, bent his steps towards him, and upon coming up, playfully shook the rattle before mentioned. At the sound, Rolfe started from his reverie.
“What!” said Earthquake, “still afraid of the rattle snake?—You know it always gives warning.”
Rolfe turned upon him with eyes plainly showing his dissatisfaction; for the speech, as he thought, was bitterly sarcastic, while Earthquake, believing him ignorant of what he had done, intended nothing by it. The darkness of the hour prevented Earthquake from seeing the change which had come over Rolfe's countenance, and Rolfe was about to go a step farther and vent his detestation of such an act, when Earth calling his attention, pointed to a gathering of the Indians. “See, Rolfe,” said he, “they are consulting as to where they shall halt, for they believe themselves far enough from the settlements now, to rest in safety for a few hours.”
This luckily changed the direction of Rolfe's thoughts, and he asked, “what can be the hour of the night?” “Hard upon day-break,” said Earth, “you see it is darker than it has been, and you know it is always darkest just before the day dawns.” Leaving the hunters to hover about the temporary camp of the Indians, we must bring forward other parts of our story.